No word of Friday for five days. Those who saw him last, on the 4th, say he was in bad shape, tweaking, grasping, twitching, begging. I think I fear he's dead. Tonight at City Gate is to be a "memorial service" for Melanie, followed by a meal. And this with the screams of Doug Dawson, doused with gasoline in his wheelchair, by a couple of worthless punks seeking further diversion after having just committed armed robbery upon a woman, and set fire to, a couple of weeks ago, still echoing in our heads. Meantime, Kristen and I've been savouring excellent Humboldt County hashish, as good in its way as our Cascadian wines and coffee, and playing Handel and Mozart, discussing the barbecue/garden-party she's having in conjunction with the young gentlemen next door on Phil's birthday, the 12th of August. Other people's horrific tragedy is not going to prevent our having a good time.

Yesterday was a beautiful day. I went to the community center for the free-food giveaway, spent most of the time talking with Herb, who as it happens, was apparently the last to see Friday alive: about Friday, and about his (Herb's) near-death experience from hypo-thermia--going up the tunnel to the light--and how he has never since feared death. Then I walked to the end of the grounds of the center, on the bluff overlooking the river, and shared my soup with some very nice and tame marmots; feeling, fearing, that I had just heard the last of Friday.