If there's no record of my birth and no record of my death, does that mean I've never existed? Is it like a tree falling in the forest? Must I be seen and heard if I’m to exist?  Do I exist only once?
    My spirit leaves tracks in time but I have no idea how or why. Genius separates from idiocy by a few degrees. Intelligence, existence, life  and death; all are circular. Circles within circles, like rings a magician uses so masterfully.  Now it is I who's become the unwitting magician. I've set in motion an algebraic emotion that will eventually become the sum of my past lives, present life and what is yet to come.
    I am substance and I am mass. I am light and I am dark. I move with slow velocity. I leave bits and pieces of me wherever I go. Pieces of me germinate and memories are born, living on in timeless fashion. Some memories die before their time. A celestial balance of fire and ice.
    All served on a plate made of quicksilver by a simple artisan living life in 5/4 time . . . .
and whistling a tune that has no discernable melody. 

There’s a high desert drifter riding on the ridge
A place desolate and dry
Unsure whether to run or try to fly
A high desert drifter running from the past
Moments long since come and gone
Memories flying high in a new morning sky.

A high desert drifter
Second cousin to the wind
Brother to the stars.
Born of the sun
And the desolate cold of a hoodoo moon
A future arriving way too soon.

A high desert drifter, solemn and sad
Lonesome eyes staring deep into the night.
A high desert drifter, stuck way too tight
In an endless voyage of time and space and flight.

The plight of the high desert drifter
Circumstances that could have been mine
Hope and fear drawn in a magical cosmic line.
If not for the magic of the talking trees
And the infinite magic of the seven seas.

The life of the high desert drifter
Could have swallowed my soul
Broken dream shattered and no longer whole
For all that could have been and wasn’t
I am forever grateful.

And so the high desert drifter rides
Cantering slowly through the canyons
Of adversity and sadness
A strange sense of nocturnal madness.

The high desert drifter...
Unaware of what is yet to come.
A long, lonesome train whistle
Not knowing where it’s been or where it’s from.
Sounds of salvation so very far away
Cloaked in shades of brown and silver and gray.

Angels quietly come calling
Stars from the sky slowly falling
Here to take the high desert drifter home
Free at last to forever roam.

     Most of us old roadhands have a batch of odd memories stashed somewhere in the back of our heads. I’m no exception. There’s lot's of stuff I’ve found fascinating during my years working on the road.
      Chemical toilets are high on my list of odd memories. I worked on all kinds of projects over the years and some locations were a bit remote. About the time we’d arrrive and begin unloading tools and equipment, a truck would pull into view loaded with chemical toilets. I always wondered why most of them came in the color green. Some sort of environmental statement, I suppose. And the chemicals always smelled so pungent and after a few days baking in the sun, a chemical toilet smelled more than just pungent. In the winter months there was the simple joy of chipping ice off the toilet seat before you sat down. I’ve suffered frostbite to parts of my body that most medical manuals don’t discuss.
    Port-A-Potties stimulate the mischief in most any roadhand. I can’t count the number of times someone got trapped inside one while the crew gleefully wrapped duct tape around the entire exterior of the toilet. The experience that to this day makes me grin, happened one warm sunny day on a project in southern California.
      A powerhouse was under construction and there were chemical toilets on every floor, twelve in all. The toilets were hoisted up and down from the upper floors using a crane and a cable sling. The toilet on the top floor (120 feet in the air) was due to be serviced. The crane operator radioed the rigger to tie a sling around the toilet so he could put it on the ground.
    This particular crane operator was one of those flamboyant individuals who loved to do everything with a lot of pinache. Operating the crane was no exception. He pulled the throttle back, lifted the toilet, swung the boom over and tapped the swing brake a little extra hard. This caused the toilet to swing wildly back and forth. Pleased with the results, he decided to duplicate the manuever. Then as an encore of sorts,  he released the hoist brake and let the toilet freefall, bringing it to a stop just a few feet from the ground. Then he carefully lowered it on down and another rigger pulled the sling free.
    Much to everyone’s surprise, the toilet door burst open and a thoroughly unnerved millwright crawled out, trousers down and an expression of sheer terror on his face. Rumor has it he was in the front row at church the following Sunday.
  

    Today is the unofficial end of summer and another Blue Monday. It's also the day I celebrate another year of living. Each year that slides on by reminds me once again how life's mostly just a bunch of learning experiences. I've had some spectacular failures in my life and some amazing successes. It's all part of a learning curve that won't stop until I move on to that big mill in the sky and start the living process all over again.
    Seemed like Tuition Blues might be just the tune to tell the story that's been my life, so . . . have a wang dang doodle of a fine holiday, be safe, be happy and enjoy!

    I've been a tradesman all my life. Over the years I've built, installed and repaired all manner of machinery. I've spent countless hours learning about the rapidly advancing technology that has gradually displaced manual laborers by the thousands. I've railed long and loud, insisting that learning is the most important endeavour we'll undertake during our time in this life.
    Along the way I've met all manner of workin' folks. I once worked with a brick layer who spent six years earning a masters degree in history. He wanted to be a teacher and became one. Two years of teaching and he walked away. He had his reasons I suppose. During my high school years I figured history was a complete waste of time. When I met Ken, the brick layer and we became friends, he shared with me his vast collection of history books and I began a long and enduring love of history that I never knew existed.
    Today I work at the foundry with a brilliant millwright who studied philosophy for years and earned a doctorate degree in the subject. For reasons unknown to me, he chose to abandon his studies and become a tradesman.
    I've known brilliant people who were driven to pursue their dreams and eventually went on to start their own businesses. I was one of those. Some of them are still in business today and doing well. Some chose to leave the world of self-employment. I'm one who did. Through it all I've always admired those who perservered and eventually hit the mother lode of success.
    I've also known those who are nothing more than corporate parasites. They derive their income off the backs of those who actually innovate and sweat and toil day after day and week after week to make something happen.
    There is another level of parasite, even lower on the human chain of evolution in my humble opinion. One of these pathetic parasites is Tony Snow, press secretary to President Bush. Here is a man who's paid $168,000 annually to communicate propaganda generated by those in the Bush Administration. He is, I must admit, an accomplished prevaracator.
    A couple've days ago I read a news article stating that Tony Snow is joining the parade of others who are fleeing the Bush Administration. The reason he gave for leaving? Well! It seems poor Tony just can't seem to manage on his paltry $168,000 salary. Now ain't that a damn shame!