Once I lived in a tree.  It wasn’t for very long.  Maybe a couple months at most.  I’d driven away from Portland and mankind, angry that neither would  hear me out on my impressions of 911 when I realized what actually went down that day.  Wanting to extract myself from society I headed straight into the arms of my sweet auntie and uncle in Cherry Valley.  They allowed me to convalesce while I licked my first wounds resulting from a disagreement with everyone over what constituted truth.  It was very relaxing, although one night the moon did try to eat me. That was unsettling.  During that time I met a women, connected by my cousin’s squeeze.  This red gemstone was grieving her own tragic sisterly loss.  The matchmakers figured we too sad birds would connect.  We connected.  We would write hopeful letters but alas, for us both, the universe had other plans.  But in the few bittersweet moments we did connect, when I would drive the many hours to her rugged off the grid tiny house in the land of living free or dying, we would chat, pick vegetables and share impressions of a world gone mad.  She was a dancer.  I played guitar. When she heard me playing she asked if I would make music for her dancing.  I did.  5 songs in total with my seagull guitar and boss looper.