I am a dead man walking—er, actually I
am currently sitting and sipping a highly honey-sweetened cup of
Wyoming-roasted coffee with cream on the back patio of a coffeehouse in
downtown Laramie. The pale-brown liquid
within my cup has grown quite cold over several hours sitting and exposed to
the elements of a high-country afternoon, though ice has yet to form around the
rim. I sometimes gaze into the swirls of
milk fat floating on the surface and the patterns of variously mixed solutions
of bean juice and water and honey and half-and-half to scry with what shapes
might emerge to tell of things present, past or possible.
I don’t mean that someone has me as
their mark, necessarily, or that I am keeping a wide-eye open for fear of
potential assassins, necessarily. My
point with these words is in fact rather more stark. What I actually mean by this opening
statement, these first words in print after flyleaf and front matter, is that I
have already been murdered, and perhaps on as many as five
occasions. The most poignant and certain
instance of experiencing my own homicide occurred one ordinary summer’s day at
dusk in Golden Gate Park, when two bullets were rather randomly and
undeservedly introduced to the inside of my skull after an otherwise pleasant
and uneventful day on Hippie Hill.
In addition to such homicidal intrigues,
I have encountered sasquatch, a skinwalker, holes in space-time, and a
shape-shifter who did her turn whilst astride my lap. In pursuit of romance and the hidden secrets
to life and history, guided by instinct, intuition, chance, and sometimes
helpful deities, I have been granted many such glimpses behind the veils of
normalcy—at moments to my delight, and at others to my terror.
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