Saying Goodbye to Wyoming — IFSF PUBLISHING

Saying goodbye to our place in Wyoming, silently.

(No playlist, don’t need the music.)

It’s the right time to leave; the wind rings the bell; the rocks, no doubt, are listening.

I’m sad. I know I’m sad, as sad as Ralph Stanley, Patsy Cline, Al Green.

The Word-of-the-Day is fuckle. I say the word fuckle out loud for some reason, without needing to hear my voice. ( I made the word up all by myself, knowing there’s no word comparable to it).

There’s no one around, not one human being, thus no one can hear me say the word, fuckle.

(It’s as if I’m saying goodbye to Wyoming without wanting to hear my voice. Silence without silence, and silence within the silence: wind, sandstone, rock, river, creek, cloud).

Nostalgia is a strange transaction. Nostalgia likes to pretend it’s being happy, but it really isn’t being happy, it’s being Wyoming, exactly like no other place in the world. 25 years here, more or less.

Very Wyoming. And it’s still Wyoming after millions of years of being right where it is: as old as time and as young as the minute that just disappeared a minute or two ago. Unsad, not nostalgic unless maudlin, occasionally drunk, often misled by its leaders, a kind of dinosaur on which a jet contrail can be seen in the sky and ridden all the way to California.

From Wyoming, at exactly the right time to say goodbye.

Goodbye.