Tupac

There are times, when doves cry, and angels get their wings, that all majestic things in this world align: when moonbeams and daffodils coalesce to form the perfect amalgam of heavenly light and shrubbery. These times are best spent with a grandfather, and a glass of lemonade or peppermint schnapps. You look lovingly at one another, knowing what has happened and what will happen. You are world wary, and weary, and you’ve seen wooden machinations and swords made of mint. You and your grandfather can do anything together. You can climb rainstorms and taunt milquetoast passersby. A hayride through Satan’s pit is merely a galoshes romp to you and granddad. He’s seen the birch and you’ve seen the quail perch. But the quail was flying!! It was really flying. And the perch was empty, and there was no quail. You cried to your elder, “where is the godforsaken quail,” to which he replied, “the quail is in you, my son.”

It becomes clear to you then that your grandfather is an American Indian, and you are his grandson, “Running Quail,” so you smile knowingly at your grandfather, recognizing the beauty of your heritage, one of land mastery, and harmonious earth ties. Your grandfather scowls at you, and remarks, “wipe that smile off your face, you miserable little runt. You ate the last of our lunch quail, and I’m still darn hungry.” It dawns on you then that your grandfather is not an American Indian, nor are you a descendent thereof, but instead what you thought was a delicious chicken lunch was actually quail, and to make matters worse, it was the only quail in North America that possessed the gift of flight.

Weeping, your grandfather lies in a hedge, ashamed and desperate, swatting aimlessly at an imaginary bicyclist named Pierre. You know you must escape, but to where? A discotec? Spain? Montreal? No, you must go to the place where you have been called since your youth. The place that sing songs your soul, past the wind tousled cotton crops, through thunderclap cavern, and beyond the green ocean’s edge. You’re going back to Cali, Cali, Cali. You’re going back to Cali, rising, surprising, advising, realizing…