Wes is making eggs, which he probably won’t eat. We are in (-----) British Colombia on the beautiful Vancouver Island. We are not actually on the island but in an inlet, anchored on a boat. The jubilation, the “jubby” of which was “commandeered”. Wes is making eggs on some weird hibachi over the rail hook up. I think he just wanted to show everyone how he can crack eggs one handed.

The ocean, if that is what you call it, is glass reflecting everything we do. It is sunny, and it is warm and I am trying to figure out how Wesley produced the avocadoes of which he limes, salts, peppers and drizzles olive oil over, where did he get the olive oil? I look at chris and chris doesn’t look at me, just scratches his sort of splotchy beard and hops up in his flip flops to the rail and pisses overboard. There is another boat in the inlet, and rather than going to the port side, chris is aiming his steam directly at it, arching his piss high into the air, again the ocean is flat, that his piss droplets create thousands of cascading ripples that move through each other effortlessly. I now understand quantum mechanics. I think about saying something but don’t, I don’t want to say anything, I realize I don’t want to talk anymore, just be.

Wes swivels around and hands me an orchestrated plate of deliciousness, he is our cook, we are explorers. He is Captain Cook on the first voyage. On his second voyage he will go the New Zealand, on his third voyage he will go to Hawaii and be hit in the head with club, then stabbed collapsing into the surf, then his bones will be boiled by idiots and he will be celebrated by the very same killers, in the meantime we have eggs and avocados.

Wes and chris are without a doubt the most interesting people I know, not because they are interesting in general, they are just interesting to my relative position. Here is how so.

Wes is completely his own person and you really know nothing about what is going on with him. He asks a lot of questions, always observing, looking, understanding, calibrating with little or no feedback on his true thoughts, even when he tells you his true thoughts, his actions are without pattern. I mean they have pattern; it is just not game theory.

Chris is a different beast. Hang out with him, it is the opposite, it is easy in away because you just get to sit back and watch the show. He will show you too, it is like hanging out with a 5-year-old, he will drag out every single toy he has and walk around the room with it, show it to you and then go to retrieve the next. It is very calming, just sit back, there are no philosophical questions. Chris is good TV. He is madmen, just watch Don Draper do his thing. Please don’t wake me.
The best is when we are all together.

I don’t know what I am, the middle… mostly a creature of instinct, an animal really, with a fucking brain. Like a Neanderthal. Sometimes the only thing I hear in life is the air pushing past my nostrils, in, out, in out, over and over again. My whole biology and nervous system are in conflict with my father’s brain, this sensitive instrument that is constantly over examining things, over feeling things, mapping out all the possibilities. I know all the stars in the sky, visible and past the naked eye to 15X… what do you do with this. How do you fuck it?

Wes creates takes the knife out, where did he get a knife? And slices the next avocado in half, takes the knife and slams it into the pit, twists it, pops it out, makes multiple groves that turn themselves in to squares… pepper, salt, lime, olive oil, holding it out to me and chris.

Chris farts.

I squeeze my half of the avocado into my mouth. It’s good to be a us.

we have started our journey.