In the early years we knew Bob and his brother as California imports that made custom sheepskin jackets. In those days young folks who wanted and could afford such jackets required the secret little pocket inside, by the armpit, to hold a few joints for the day’s hiking, skiing or whatever. Shortly the brother returned to California and Bob picked up some additional skills; metal sculpture and building with stones.

Bob drank a lot of bourbon and smelled of it. Women, beyond the occasional bar pickup, didn’t find him charming, nor did he try. His talk gradually withdrew from the wider world into his own world of stones and the mojo that he found within himself when he built with them and lived within them – alone, now always alone. He lives here; no, don’t go through the second door, turn right just past the first door and you’ll find him in the dark corner mumbling and reworking some stones. Squat and listen for a while, don’t talk, and leave a bottle of Black Jack, then return to the daylight.

What is fate but the density of childhood?   Rilke

George's selection of 66 Phlogs is available in print from People's Press.

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