The title of this post ain’t got much to do with what I’m about to talk about, but is a question I asked the gas station lady in Republic, Washington, and as soon as it was out of my mouth I went ah-ha, sweet!

I love that question. Brings up philosophical musings for me. Plus it’s poetical and kinda humorous. Just how far is it to Wilbur?

If I ever get my own planet I think I’ll call it Wilbur. Friendly name for a planet, Wilbur. I love Uranus, but I like Wilbur better. Besides, Uranus is already taken. As is Earth, O holy sphere.

Sorry about the missed days, but the tenuous wireless connection at the crystalline forest of the mind-seekers crapped out finally. Our last night amongst the godlings was way beyond superb, much better than fabulous, more than mind-blowing, even better than supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. I would call it sacred mystic communion with yearning itself. Decaphonic music of the spheres, played by Jesus and his band on the catgut of the universal soul.

It’s taken some time for my astral brain to return from its vibrational sojourn around the moon and back. (Actually it was considerably farther than that, but don’t want to brag.) I have no idea how I got so lucky as to get to have such an experience, but feel it leaves me with no small responsibility. I have to pay back somebody, not sure who. You, maybe. Positive thankage, you-wise.

A brief thirteen-hour drive tomorrow, and I’ll return to the bat-cave, so more on this amazing amazathon later. Right now I need to sleep like an insane dog.

Sixty-two miles, fyi.

Your traveling ambulator (on wheels),

LWIII