Home, in Montana

Flamenco, flamingos, and fantasy

Steven Bridenbaugh

Location: Eureka, California, US
Birthday: May 18

Title: Commerical Maintenance
Company: NCCS Inc.

Bio: As a child, I decided that I would become a nuclear physicist. I dreamed that the prettiest girl in third grade was my secretary, as we rode around in a spaceship. I read all the Hardy Boys mysteries. About that time, my parents started saying that I talked too much. I was sent to a prep school on the East Coast. For me, it was a lonely and sometimes cruel place. It didn't bother me that often. As Barney has said, "Our Imagination is a very good place to be!" In 1985, I remodeled a kitchen, and used the money to buy a bicycle. I trekked to Sun Valley, Idaho, and became a ski bum. I now am somewhat arthritic, and I read a lot of theology books. My soul is decidedly triangular.

MY RECENT POSTS

Maya
May 10, 2013 05:26PM
Letter to my father
May 07, 2013 11:26AM
Flying into the Sun
April 27, 2013 02:16AM
Pictures from the Rainbow Room
April 24, 2013 01:49PM
April
April 12, 2013 10:08AM

MY RECENT COMMENTS

“The people with colored hair are "eggheads." I wonder why my hair does…”
2:12AM
“It is bad to deal with injuries, especially ones that persist. I've done a lot of…”
May 18, 2013 11:15AM
“I feel that much could be done to revitalize Christianity by trying to find as mu…”
May 17, 2013 10:06AM
“A chef was once inquired as to what he found distasteful about American cuisine. H…”
May 16, 2013 02:15AM
“I subscribe to the New Yorker, but I don't always "get" what they have…”
May 16, 2013 02:02AM

Steven Bridenbaugh's Links

My Links: Neighborhood Day; Marilyn Monroe's Library List; Brain Pickings; An American Poet's State of the Union; Redwood ACLU; Justice Steven's Dissenting Opinion to Citizens United; Coffee with Jesus; Ulysses, with images; Berfrois; Les songes drolatiques de Pantagruel; Jew's Harp Audio Vault; The Uncensored History of the Blues; Montana Rambler; Shorn Believer

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JULY 19, 2012 1:48AM

Rate: 0 Flag

There are a lot of places in Montana
I would not call home.
Icy, windswept peaks that you leave as quickly as you can.
Bars where you aren't welcome.
Rivers that drag you over the rocks.

Driving into Billings one summer night
The sky suddenly implausible, a maze of stars
I was overwhelmed by the fragrance of trees
I passed an avenue of gigantic ruined cottonwoods
Over a canal full of carp and catfish
And the wishes, the whimsy and regrets
Came back, full force.
That was home.

Home: Just where is that, today?
I sit at my desk, typing.
There is an imaginary window, which looks out
Over the lake, to Mt. Shepard, still glacial,
Mountain goats nimble on the rocks.
I sip my tea.

But this time, I'm with you.
You talk on and on about your family in San Francisco.
I can tell you miss those things a lot.
I've been through all that, too.
I feel at home now, I really do.