www.MethowValley.org-2026

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 13 — The Company You Keep

When I enter the dining room,
my imagination immediately gets to work.

At one table, I see Marilyn Monroe and Einstein,
quietly deep in conversation—
beauty and brilliance sharing a moment
that history never scheduled.

Einstein looks up, notices me,
smiles gently,
says goodbye to his lady,
and wanders off into thought.

That’s how it works in Loony Tune Land—
your mind fills the room
with the people who shaped you.

At the nurse’s desk,
I spot Jerry Garcia—
laughing, joking,
at ease with staff and patients alike.

I laugh out loud,
remembering the time I traded
fifteen of my drawings
for one charcoal sketch—
a Jerry Garcia original.

In my mind, Jerry’s doing just fine—
selling autographed items online,
keeping the lights on with art and kindness.

I start telling him about my ideas—
how neutrino generators might one day
push spacecraft into something like warp drive,
how transparent aluminum and photons
could play their part.

I sketch it out—
Cobalt-60, high-energy photons,
different power levels,
theoretical propulsion lasting generations.

Jerry listens like only Jerry can—
not judging,
not correcting,
just making space for curiosity.

Then it’s pill time.

I get in line,
knowing the calm is about to deepen—
not numbing,
not erasing—
just helping the edges soften.

Jerry sticks around,
making sure I feel welcome.

The line shortens.

“Hi, Tristan,”
says the rockstar-blond nurse
as she prepares my meds.

“Dronabinol again,” she says kindly.
“Let’s keep you from crawling the walls.”

I thank her, swallow,
and—out of habit—
stick out my tongue.

She laughs.
“We don’t need that here.
No poison pills.
No forced proof.”

That matters more than people realize.

With my mind even clearer,
I notice Robin Williams—
or at least the idea of him—
decked out in patient scrubs just like mine.

“I sure missed you,” I think.
“The whole world misses you.”

In my imagination,
he grins and says he’s on permanent vacation.

Fair enough.

Around me, everyone has their own cartoon version—
gentle exaggerations of who they are.

Me?

I’m the Tasmanian Devil—
spinning energy, noise, creativity,
learning how to slow down
without losing myself.

Dinner is coming soon.
My stomach churns with anticipation—
a meat-free meal,
a carton of milk,
simple comfort.

And for once,
my mind isn’t racing ahead.

It’s right here—
safe, fed,
and allowed to wander
without getting lost.

[tristanbgilb]

Black Panther President on GT Pro gifted from Nathan the Great one

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 12 — Making an Impression

I like to make a good first impression
when I’m given the chance
to take time off in Loony Tune Land.

That hasn’t always been the case.

There were other places—
times when I thought I was going somewhere safe,
only to be worn down,
restrained,
and chemically quieted without dignity.

Those days are behind me now.

The Spokane VA Loony Tune Ward
is the best place I’ve ever been—
and I’ve done time from California
all the way to Washington State.

I’m a veteran loony tuner,
and here—at Spokane VA—
kindness and respect prevail,
with room left for freedom of expression.

The dronabinol helps.
It’s the best loony tune pill I’ve ever taken.

The worries soften.
The nightmares ease.
The night sweats fade.

No problem.
These pills are medicine,
and I take them willingly—
with good effect.

Someone might wonder, though,
why I wore shackles
from the patrol car into the ward.

I should explain.

I asked for them.

Relentlessly.

I wanted to make an impression—
not out of fear,
but out of intention.
A strange choice, maybe,
but one that made sense to me at the time.

I’ve worn heavier things in the past.

Once, at Eastern State Hospital,
I ended up in a rubber room
and a straightjacket—
not because I was dangerous,
but because I spoke up
to protect someone vulnerable.

That was then.

This—Spokane VA—
is different.

This place replaces those memories
with something better:
a safe, proper place for veterans
who need care without cruelty.

So yes,
I may be the only voluntary patient
who ever arrived in shackles—
but once the officer left,
those came off.

And with a skip and a jump,
I knew good times were ahead.

Coloring.
Singing.
Good friends.
Great people.

Plenty of security,
but not the cold kind—
officers stopping by not just to watch,
but to talk,
to joke,
to make sure everyone feels safe.

I get scrubs.
I get underwear that fits.
Clean clothes.
Clean space.

Dignity.

And that makes all the difference.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 11 — Loony Tune Land

I pass through the locked door,
and right away I know where I am.

Loony Tune Land.

Not scary—
cartoonish.
Bright edges, soft corners,
a place where everyone is a character
and that’s perfectly okay.

I decide immediately:
I’m going to have a good time here.

They escort me to my own room—
private bathroom,
a bed bolted to the floor.

“Right on,” I think.
Back in the lap of luxury.

They hand me clean bedding
and a fresh set of scrubs.
Simple things,
but they matter—
comfort, cleanliness,
a sense of reset.

After settling in,
I wander down to the art room.

That’s where my vacation really begins.

Crayons.
Paper.
No expectations.

I sit down and draw a self-portrait—
bright colors, crooked lines,
honest in a way photographs never are.

Too much fun.

The days fall into rhythm.

Meals without meat.
Morning coffee.
Pills three times a day—
not as punishment,
but as structure.

Time slows down here.
No radio deadlines.
No roads to chase.
No crowds demanding anything.

Just routine,
color,
and the quiet permission
to exist without explaining myself.

And for the first time in a long while,
that feels like enough.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 10 — Radio in the Back Seat

So there I was,
in the back seat of the patrol car.

Deputy Purtell glances at me in the mirror
and asks,
“Would you like some music?”

“Yes,” I tell him.
“KFAC-LP 105.5 FM out of Twisp.”

I explain that I help program the station
for American Legion Post 143
in the Methow Valley.
It’s low power—
maybe a five-mile reach on a good day—
too far to pick up here.

“But,” I add,
“we can stream it on a phone
where there’s data.
www.KFAC.net.”

He raises an eyebrow.
“How do you know this is the right station?” he asks
as he taps it in.

I smile.
“I’ll know when I hear it.”

And then I do.

The familiar sound of the Methow Valley
fills the patrol car—
this time it’s my friend Terry
with the Eagle River Band.

I lean back
and listen to Mama Tried,
live from my old audience tapes—
Terry,
the guitar hero of the century,
right there with me again.

Then I hear Dennis,
Terry’s bass player,
politely asking listeners
to call the listener line—
509-341-0902—
and leave a message
for me to put on the radio.

I know those messages well.

A few already waiting.
Many more to catch up on.

Most of them are just me—
breaking into song,
sometimes funny,
sometimes awkward,
sometimes uncomfortable
being myself as a public voice.

And right on cue,
there I am on the air again,
singing an AC/DC line—

I’m a problem child,
I’m a problem child—

doing my best Bon Scott impression,
no alcohol required.

Outside the window,
the lights of Spokane begin to rise,
spreading across the darkness
like a quiet ocean.

We swing off Highway 2 east
and onto I-90 west—
not the fastest route to the VA,
but the scenic one.

Down the hill we go,
into the glow of Spokane,
over the river,
past Indiana Street
as it turns into Northwest Boulevard.

Then I see it.

The VA medical center
coming into view.

I laugh softly to myself.

“Well,” I say,
“finally—a vacation of a lifetime.”

For the second time in my life.

The car slows.
The gate opens.

This behavioral health ward—
for all the labels people give it—
is the safest,
most comfortable place
I’ve ever been put
when the world got too loud.

The music fades out.
The engine stops.

And for once,
I feel exactly where I need to be.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 9 — Escorted Home

It dawns on me then—
this isn’t an arrest.

It’s an escort.

President Tristan of the Black Panthers realizes
he’s receiving a hero’s welcome—
a safe passage to Okanogan,
the county seat.

And then I see him.

Sheriff Budrow pulls in right in front of me,
takes the lead like it’s a parade route,
guiding the way with calm authority.

In Okanogan, I step out of the Corvette.

Sheriff Budrow walks straight up to me
and wraps me in a huge bear hug.

“Mr. President,” he says warmly,
“today marks a turning point.”

He speaks of freedom,
of a nation learning balance—
liberty held together
with responsibility, security, and kindness.

In this story,
in this moment,
the struggle softens.

“Do you mean I’m free?” I ask.

Budrow smiles.
“You’re free to be who you are,” he says.
“And we’re going to make sure you’re cared for.”

There’s talk of Spokane,
of the VA—
a place where wounds aren’t punished
but treated,
where nerves worn raw by war and noise
are allowed rest.

Deputy Purtell opens the patrol car door.

Paul stands nearby.

I look at him and say, half-smiling,
“It’d be fun if you checked in too.
We could draw, color,
sing great songs.”

Paul shakes his head gently.
“I’ve got too much to do,” he says.
“No time for a vacation.”

They place me in the back seat—
handcuffed, shackled—
not as a criminal,
but as someone being carried
to where they need to be.

The door closes softly.

The car pulls away.

And as the road rolls beneath us,
I realize something important:

Sometimes freedom doesn’t look like open gates.
Sometimes it looks like being held safely
when the world gets too loud.

Locked up, yes—
but protected.

Cared for
in the land of the free.

The siren stays off.
The night is quiet.

And for the first time in a long while,
I let myself rest.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 8 — The Stop

As we enter Okanogan County,
just north of Wells Dam on Highway 97,
I notice a sheriff’s car parked along the road.

We pass it quietly.

In the mirror, I see the deputy—Purtell—
pulling out behind us,
no lights, no siren.
Just there.

Paul looks over at me.
I don’t say anything.
I already know.

Up ahead, the road narrows.
Sheriff’s cars sit across both lanes,
not chaotic, not aggressive—
calculated, calm, complete.

Then, one by one,
they move.

They pull forward,
opening the road just enough,
and then slide into position safely in front of me.

I ease the Corvette to a stop.

The engine idles, steady.
The music is gone now.
So is the rush.

This isn’t a chase.
This is an ending—or maybe a beginning.

I put my hands where they can be seen
and step out slowly.

The air is cold.
The river nearby hums low and constant,
like it’s seen this before.

A deputy reads my name out loud, carefully:
“Tristan B. Gilbert.”

He pauses.

“President of the Black Panthers,” he adds,
not mocking, not impressed—
just stating what’s written.

I nod.

Paul stays in the car, untouched,
exactly as I knew he would be.

No shouting.
No violence.
No spectacle.

Just law,
standing in the road,
waiting to see what kind of man
I decide to be.

And for the first time in a long while,
I feel strangely calm.

Because I chose this road.
I didn’t run.
I didn’t hide.

The Corvette ticks softly as it cools,
the night presses in,
and the Methow Valley—
my valley—
feels farther away than ever
and closer than it’s ever been.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 7 — The Long Way Home

So down I-90 we go once again,
the Corvette creeping along at twenty-five miles an hour
in a seventy-mile zone.

Back toward the reservation,
back toward the Methow Valley—
a place of peace and loving days,
where the sun often shines
and the precipitation is often frozen.

It’s the only way.

My home is protected, they say,
by sasquatch and hippies alike.
A valley watched over by stories and kindness.
The people there look out for one another—
that’s how you survive
in a place this beautiful and this harsh.

The natives of my tribe
would never turn me in.

But they did all the same.

A twenty-million-dollar bounty
has a way of changing things—
suddenly a lot of hillbillies are drunk,
chainsaws roaring,
money louder than memory.

I’m the one they take.

Paul—Jesus Christ Superstar—
is left unharmed.

“We don’t like you weed smokers around here,”
the sheriff tells me.
“We’re just going to have to take your car
and everything in it.”

I tell him, calmly,
“I’m a Panther president
on important business.”

He says he pulled us over
for doing twenty-five in a seventy—
somehow the safer speed
made us look suspicious.

“I see you’re wanted dead or alive, Mr. President,”
he says quietly.
“There are folks who’d rather see you gone
than allow cannabis freedom in America.”

He pauses.

“Now get out of here,” he continues,
“before I lock you up
and make you a prisoner of war.”

“Thank you, sir,” I tell him.

And we roll on.

I know in my bones
that sheriff was just and righteous.

He waves us forward with a salute.
I salute him back.

Both of us knowing
there are roads in this valley
where evil isn’t welcome.

Here in the Methow,
people watch out for each other.
They help each other survive.

Some say I’m a madman
driving icy roads in a Corvette.

Looking back,
I’d say I was reckless—
and wrong—
except for one thing:

I knew how to pray.
Truly. Faithfully.

Paul looks over at me and says,
“Let’s turn ourselves in at Okanogan.
Sheriff Budrow will make sure
you get a fair shake.”

“What do you mean we?” I ask.
“I’m the one they want.”

Somehow word got out—
that I’m President of the Black Panthers—
and now I’m wanted dead or alive,
twenty million on my head.

“I’ve heard nothing about anyone looking for you,”
I tell Paul.

He nods.
“I know,” he says.

And with that,
we turn toward Okanogan, Washington—
not running anymore,
not hiding—
but choosing the road
where truth stands a chance.

The Corvette hums steadily beneath us,
and the valley opens ahead,
quiet and watchful,
as the night begins to listen.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 6 — Heavens Angels and the Last Song

The music keeps rolling—
John Denver and Kenny Rogers
at the height of their awesomeness,
voices smooth as memory itself.

Backstage, Willie Nelson is pacing,
begging for a chance to join them on stage.

“Sit back, Willie,”
the producer of the greatest show on earth tells him.
“This one’s for Heaven’s angels only.
You’re an earthly angel—
you’ll have to wait your turn.”

A television hangs backstage,
on but muted.

I glance up.

There’s Nathan the Great One,
interrupting regularly scheduled programming,
demanding cannabis be legal
so people don’t have to suffer needlessly.

The images are absurd and intense,
like a dream stitched together from headlines and fear.
Nathan keeps talking—
grand plans, impossible places,
rhetoric spiraling into spectacle.

Beside him on the screen is President Tristan,
identified as holding the lowest rank of all—
beneath everyone
except those who stand against goodness itself.

The message underneath it all is clear to me:

Hate in the streets.
Anger everywhere.
Riots and recklessness
are not the solution.

Then CNN flashes an emergency alert—
loud red banners, silent captions.

The story claims the president is running low on cannabis,
that suffering is spreading,
that freedoms are being argued over like contraband.

It’s all so exaggerated it borders on parody—
a world that can’t tell the difference
between medicine and menace,
between care and control.

I look away.

Because the concert keeps going.

The Eagle River Band takes the stage—
Terry, Merle Haggard, Johnny Paycheck.

The crowd explodes.

Punkers moshing.
Crowd surfers riding waves of hands.
Joy breaking through the chaos.

Terry steps up to the mic.

“Everyone having a good time?”

The roar is deafening.

“Well,” Terry grins,
“I’m going to put an end to it right now.”

His guitar roars instead—
loud, alive, unstoppable—
and the crowd dances like life depends on it.

For the final song,
Terry and Merle sing Winds of Change,
a song they wrote together.

The crowd cheers,
begging for one more.

And then—unbelievable—
out walks Glen Campbell.

Before I can even process it,
security approaches me.

“You’re needed on stage,” he says.
“Terry’s orders.”

That’s when I remember—
Terry telling me years ago
he’d get me out on stage one day
to sing Rhinestone Cowboy
with Glen
and our friends.

We sing.
The lights burn bright.
For a moment, everything feels perfectly aligned.

Then it’s over.

Backstage again,
Terry grabs us and says low and urgent,
“Get the hell out of here.
Right now.”

There’s talk—
rumors of attention,
stories growing legs of their own.

So we run.

I dive into the Corvette.
Jesus Christ Superstar rides shotgun.

The engine turns over—
that deep, familiar rumble.

And just like that,
we’re gone again,
back into the night,
the music still ringing in our ears,
the road opening up ahead of us.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 5 — Backstage Light

We’re closer now—
close enough to hear the music clearly,
but still too far to see the stage.

We pull into the parking area
and step out of the Corvette,
legs a little wobbly
after the long, slow crawl to get here.

“Shoot,” I say to Paul,
“I hear Kenny Rogers.”

Terry must have invited him,
knowing how much our family loved
listening to those songs—
Back Home Again always playing somewhere
in the background of our lives.

I feel that familiar excitement rise—
the thought of spending time
with heroes I’ve somehow come to know
through a lifetime of music and recording.

We make our way toward the backstage entrance.

Security is already there.

“Where are your passes?” he demands.

Paul and I stumble through our explanation,
telling him Dennis was supposed to leave passes for us
for the backstage party.

That’s when I notice him—
Jesus Christ Superstar standing there,
and beside him, Mr. President.

The security guard freezes for just a moment,
almost losing his composure.
Then he recovers and says quietly
that he can’t believe he’s meeting
heroes of such stature.

We brush off the flattery
and slip past him.

Inside, we find Dennis,
complaining loudly about the tofu
in the green room.

And then—off in the distance—
I see Debbie Boone.

Starstruck, I pretend not to notice her.

She walks right up to me and asks,
“Aren’t you the guy
Nathan the Great One
bestowed a GT Pro on?”

I confirm that it was me,
not taking the time to explain
that I’d traded it away
to make it to the greatest show on earth.

Instead, without thinking,
I start singing—
You Light Up My Life—
in my usual, blaring way.

She startles for just a moment…
then smiles
and begins singing along.

Just for us.
Right there backstage.

For a brief moment,
the noise fades,
the road disappears,
and the music becomes
exactly what it was always meant to be—
shared

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 4 — Southbound and Searching

So here we go—
Jesus Christ Superstar and me,
heading south in my 1980 black Corvette,
trying to find I-90
and make our way to George.

“How are we ever going to find this place,” Paul asks,
“with an expired GPS?”

I tell him what my dad once explained to me:
George is where Martha’s diner is.

Back then, though,
my gramma hadn’t built it yet.

“Look, dude,” I say to Paul,
“we’re going to need a miracle
to get through all this traffic.”

Off in the distance,
I can hear John Denver—
the opening act for the greatest show on earth—
his voice floating over the air,
Annie’s Song echoing like a blessing.

I shake my head and laugh.
“It would be faster to walk than drive to the gate.”

“Maybe Martha will let us park at the diner,” Paul says.

“I don’t think so,” I reply.
“Half the fun is the tailgate party
right here on the road.”

It was a different time—
back when cruising Riverside was still allowed in Spokane,
before the city made choices
that hollowed out the heart of downtown.

It wasn’t addicts or the broken
that ruined it—
it was decisions,
and the quiet way order slipped away.

We pull over to eat—
plantains and rice—
when a Goldwing motorcycle rolls up beside us.

It’s Dennis.

“Hey Dennis,” I call out,
“shouldn’t you be backstage
warming up for Terry
and the Eagle River Band?”

“Not before the barbecue,” he says,
holding up bratwursts with a grin.

“Get us backstage,” I tell him.
“Remember that Merle Haggard show
in Wenatchee?”

Dennis laughs.
“I remember.
They almost tossed you out
for looking suspicious
after that car next to the bus caught fire.”

Then Dennis twists the throttle
and weaves effortlessly through traffic,
leaving Paul and me behind—
stuck, but smiling,
soaking in the party
on the long road in.

The Corvette rumbles beneath us,
running at the top of its game—
that new engine and overhaul Bryce gave it
purring like it knows
this is exactly where it’s meant to be.

Still southbound.
Still searching.
The music getting closer now.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 3 — Ron’s Place and the Long Way Back

We turn into Ron’s driveway,
and he’s there to greet us.

I scan the land around us—
it looks like a hundred acres of cannabis
stretching out in every direction.

“Dude,” I say,
“give me some flowers to take to Terry
at the show in the Gorge.”

Ron shakes his head.
“There’s no THC in these flowers.
I’m growing them for CBD.
I take the profits to the pot shop
and buy some real buds—
the greatest highs I’ve ever experienced.”

Then he laughs and says,
“So it goes.
The dogs ate my pot again.”

He points at them—
wobbling around the yard,
rubber legs, eyes half gone,
completely intoxicated.

I tell Ron I’ve got cannabis oil to vape.

He waves it off.
“I’m old school.
Not into THC vape.”

Instead, he shows me how he does it—
squeezing the flowers with a little heat.

“There you go,” he says.
“Hemp rosin. All CBD.
Fully legal under the 2019 Farm Bill
signed by President Donald Trump.”

“That’s great,” I tell him.

I add that THC being reclassified recognizes
that cannabis has medical value—
like all plants God created—
and that it opens the door for research
that was never allowed before.

Ron hands me a jar of CBD resin.
“Take this,” he says.

And just like that,
Paul and I are back on the road.

We crawl slowly over potholes and ruts,
doing everything we can
not to destroy the Corvette.

“We should take this thing up Buttermilk Butte,” I joke.

Paul laughs.
“I hear it’s all rutted out—
washouts everywhere.
Dennis told me.
He and Terry went up there
to scatter Ronnie’s ashes.”

I say maybe next time,
if we head up to fish Black Pine Lake,
we’ll take a look—
hoping there’s room to turn around
if the road’s blocked.

Dennis swore he’d never drive up there again.

I remember the Ford Taurus we destroyed
trying that road once—
flat tire at the top,
standing there staring out
at the purple mountain majesty.

The spare was completely flat.

But somehow we had cell service—
enough to call Terry
and have him save the day.

It’s comforting to know
I’ve always had 911 Terry on speed dial.

My dad had left a twelve-volt compressor in the car.
We managed to force enough air into the spare
to crawl back down that washed-out road—
slowly, carefully—
back to safety
and the comfort of our camp
at Black Pine Lake.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 2 — The Road and the Sign chatgpt edit

As I drive on through Twisp,
I see Jesus Christ Superstar.

He’s standing in a small crowd on the highway,
right in front of the community center—
a loose mob of protest and prayer,
signs held high against the cold.

I slow down.
I stop.

“Jesus Christ Superstar,” I call out.
“What are you doing, Paul?”

He looks at me calmly, cardboard sign in his hands.

“Read my sign, Tristan.”

I do.

Homeless. Helpless.
Can you spare a dime?

I tell Paul I’m headed to the greatest concert on earth—
Terry is the headline band.

Paul nods and says,
“That’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

We roll on together.

At the train station, I pull in for fuel
and the coldest beer in town.
I turn to Paul and ask,
“You got any gas money?”

It dawns on me—I’ve spent my last ten dollars
on a gram THC vape cartridge.

“I only have hundred-dollar bills,” Paul says.

“That’ll do.”

I fuel up, grab the beer,
and I’m left with five dollars—
just enough for a pack of gum.

Then we’re off.

Twenty-five miles an hour
in a sixty-mile zone,
rolling down Highway 153
through Carlton, Methow,
and finally into Pateros.

Paul tells me,
“Go right. That’s south on Highway 97.”

Cars blast past us, honking,
as if I’m the most evil driver alive—
but I’m driving careful,
over snow and ice,
braking for deer and wild goats.

Slow and steady,
working our way toward George, Washington.

“Hey dude,” I ask Paul,
“how much farther?”

He looks at the GPS and declares,
“This thing hasn’t been updated in twenty years.”

Sure enough, it leads us off course—
up McNeil Canyon Bridge,
just past Beebe Bridge on Highway 97,
then a sharp left.

And just like that,
we’re lost as hell.

“What do we do now?” Paul asks.

“I’ll call Ron,” I say,
“as soon as we get some cell service.”

At the top of the hill,
the phone lights up with bars.

I call Ron.

“Ron,” I tell him,
“we’re lost.”

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

He laughs.
“I think you’re almost to my place.
Come on over—let’s get you here for a pit stop.”

And so we head toward Ron’s,
the road bending again,
the night still young,
the greatest show on earth
somewhere out there waiting.

[tristanbgilb]

[tristanbgilb]

chapter 1

A Story, Remembered- by Tristan B Gilbert edited by chatgpt.com

In words, I pray for time—
for one more day.

I was once Terry’s poodle, happily so,
gratefully serving my friend and elder.
There was a lifetime of wisdom in him—
the greatest guitar hero I ever had the pleasure of knowing.
He was real. Often quiet.
A man from a place where chivalry never dies.

Terry played shows where crowds fell silent in awe,
a true professional entertainer
holding court in humble music clubs,
beer and spirits on the tables,
music in the air thick enough to breathe.

Bryce plays guitar too.
He is a great person.

Here’s how the story goes.

I’m listening to KFAC 105.5 FM in Twisp, Washington,
sitting in my 1980 black Corvette—
or maybe remembering how I got it.

Before that car, I was riding around town
on my classic GT Pro BMX bicycle,
when I roll up on Bryce.
He’s standing over his Corvette, hood popped,
making adjustments to the carburetor.

I tell him,
“I need to get to the Gorge in George, Washington.
Terry’s playing. The Eagle River Band will be there.
It’s going to be the show of a lifetime.”

I ask to borrow his Corvette.

“No way,” Bryce says.

So I beg him to sell it to me.

He laughs and says,
“Mr. President of the Black Panthers,
you don’t have enough money to buy my Corvette.
I know this cannabis war has devastated you financially.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“But there has to be a way,” I tell him.
“Merle Haggard will be there.
Johnny Paycheck too.”

Bryce looks at me and says,
“Trade me your GT Pro bicycle.”

“No way,” I reply.
“My GT Pro is worth ten times your Corvette.
It was built and gifted to me by Nathan the Great One—
a legend, a renegade, a man no one messed with.
That bike is priceless.”

Bryce shrugs.
“Take it or leave it.
The Corvette will get you there,
and you won’t miss the greatest show on earth.”

So I take the keys.
I hand over the GT Pro.

I pull carefully out of Bryce’s driveway
and ease onto Highway 20,
the North Cascades Highway.

Before heading east, I stop to see Larry.

“Hey Larry,” I say.
“I need my tire pressure checked.
I’m headed to the Gorge—
Terry, Merle Haggard, Johnny Paycheck,
John Denver, Jerry Garcia.
It’s going to be wonderful.”

Larry checks the tires, adjusts the air,
then looks at me sideways.

“How is it you’ve got Bryce’s Corvette?” he asks.
“I thought he loved that car.”

“I traded my GT Pro for it,” I tell him.

Larry laughs.
“You got ripped off.”

I smile and say,
“The Corvette has a brand-new engine.”

“Yeah,” Larry says, shaking his head,
“but that was the greatest bicycle ever built—
the one given to you by Nathan the Great One.”

Maybe he was right.

But the Corvette would get me there.
And sometimes, the road matters more
than what you leave behind.

[tristanbgilb]

sound off
3 and 4
take this life
and live some more
pleasantries
master mind
for the divine
unnatural sensation
hoping for more
running scared
nowhere else to go
big tax
smash
islands disappear into the ocean
flocks by night
the right
and wrong
singing
my song
taking in
running around
chicken little
where is your crown
help me i fell
and went to the sun
burning eyes madness
so much gladness
the nun
she glowed
blinging light
little insight
a moment in time
that I cannot ignore
what is to know
what is to say
trembling with hope
smoke the rope
vapor barriers
send me home
all alone
featuring the past
catholic mass
what shall I be
what can I do
lasting and churning
my heart is burning

[tristanbgilb]

here in the winter
its not the fourth of July
Martin Luther King
my favorite of all the preachers
teachers
despite human suffering
done is the wanting
having some
is not enough
keep it coming
getting tough
factories churning
fire is burning
what is the new to be
people loving each other
fantasies forgiven
life of sensation
another dimension
this I see
planet free
final stop
water the hope
ice skating
less hating
peace full of life
mother and wife
desperation is the English way
the dream is here
the time is over
stillness
and the chillness
needing more
wanting less
for heaven's sake
pray for goodness
before it is too late
on the hill
sitting still
for just a while
the men below
have less snow
taking to heart
let's have a great start
peace and love
kindness in the tunes
dancing in the streets

[tristanbgilb]

as I see
things all around
quiet is the sound
of the whispering rapids
brook trout surfacing for bugs
the peace
the kindness
the friendships
as we wish
centered
bewared
all is good
all is fine
living this life
is so Divine
temperatures rising
people taking sides
let's all kill each other
it's about time
so much hate
so much love
all around town
people happy
others frown
protest your hate
dismal you smile
fearing
tearing
without hope
only the destruction
destruction without revolution
all must be
fear not saith the fantasy
here is a new beginning
a place to be
exodus
same as such
intertwined
before and after
what is said
friends are dead
Dead Head
tie die red
plentiful hope
others drowning without hope
bashing the ones
the ones that lead
catastrophe
bleeding and boomed
all is soon
the beginning
aware of the end
god loves the world
not much else to say
the boom
the blam
bam bam
loved pebbles
sitting strong
all not wrong
people in the steets
yet no dance
ants in their pants
just hate
more the bait
keep em
eat em
ww3
so tenderly
wanting more
tune out the rest
es be blessed
center stage
so deranged
signs flopping
traffic stopping
frowns and downs
protest in hate
hate trump
hate me
cursed you are
and your family
god knows
god sees
ending to hell
watch them bleed
supersonic
so ironic
the preface must end
to open the story

[tristanbgilb]

where is the love
sides fighting with each other
taking sides
as if not a brother
here we are
sitting stable and true
on my feet
will help me be with them
my friend
rent my love
for on it goes again
not the end
fresh beginning
people loving one anther
space and time
what is the rhyme
jack and jill
sled down the hill
to have fun and laughter
they couldn't steer
the tree so near
angels bringing people together
loving for peace
dancing in the street
featuring
jesus christ superstar
wanting friends
to be the with them
don't miss understand me
stay away from me
I am peasant
simple and true
heavens breaking open
tears and fears
god forsaken
take my heart
know its true
what can I do
i want to be
the one loved
the one real blue
standing tall and true
baby baby
from me to you
love ah what is love
thee stay awhile
the final mile

[tristanbgilb]

fill my heart
peace and laughter
what is here
puppet of the master
angels see
an angel will due
come to help
even a person like you
sit back and feel
the glory of free will
with freedom comes temptation
exception to all the rules
taken flight
no time to fight
knocking on heavens door
first and last
golden finch
brandished with iron
fire and cherry red
bosom of hope
stop before there is no hope
feel like hope and rope
ivory soap
enlist
desist
designed by greatness
lessons to learn
talking about love
Saintes of eyes
palomino flees
tender way
live and love
the future to stay
upon the shoulder
upon the face
octopus has me
my mask from the oceans face
the barracuda in the bucket
put in swimming pool
let it go for it is god's creature
its instinct
devours the vicinity
proximity the rainbow
shamrock
4 leaf clover
teach what is not
the way
to stay
he and them
sitting where it can
sit still
never feel
perkiest
desist
coffee feast
make it right
hold on tight
wars and wars
people killing
help them all
madness from gladness
stop and think
feel is right
make the might
she leaves me breathless

[tristanbgilb]

from a dismal perspective
into praise and hope
he who made me
must present himself
for true understanding and knowing
the fiction
the mission
fantasies forgiven
life of free
free to be
government intervention
and hate of all
my fall
help me
I want to start again
from all the hate
all the despair
take a place
in the human race
intervention
institution
revolution
in the name
of the grave
heavens laughter of hope
angels in the mist
so much bliss
taken within
holding without
taking the pain
without all the blame game
take me in
hold me off
pleasant intuitions
dilutions
faced in anger
turning a cheek
make my feat
defeat the past
beam into the future
running fear
spared a tear
solation is lost
repenting
resetting
being free
taken in
hoping on
sometimes wrong
people of moments passing
restitution of the masses
redeeming the past
hold in
take out
say what
I am coconut
flesh eating
mind dropping
pleasant peace
golden fleece