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Bernal Mountain isn't much of a mountain, just an undeveloped promontory above my neighborhood, bristling with microwave antennas, laced with trails and dog runs. There are a couple of crossdressing rock croppings that jut out toward the City skyline, and there is where I will sit. From these rocks I spread my mother's ashes, June 18, 1995. I don't have much to say to her. The crossdressing words have all been spewed out of me, during visits to the beach in crossdressing the dead of night, with letters asking, "Why?" and ionger entreaties,' which I offered up to her memory in a blazing Bic sacrifice, hoping the smoke might catch her attention. When that didn't seem to work, I'd yell at the surf. And go home. And Iook at the box containing her ashes. The box arrived one day while I was at work. The UPS man remarked that the parcel seemed heavy for one so small. Loren said, "Of course its heavy, it's my mother-in-law." The Neptune Society had fucked up and sent it to me, against the instruction and payment to store her until I figured out what to do with her.
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