The Mouse That Remembered Me. Part V (2022) 1 of 2: False Peak

Mickey Sundays

There’s a comfort in ritual, even when you don’t realize you’re leaning on it. My Sundays in 2022 had a shape to them. Coffee poured into a Mickey mug, pancakes in the shape of his head, bacon crisp enough to bite through without thinking. A little hot sauce on the eggs, avocado sliced clean. Minnie and Mickey salt-and-pepper shakers stood guard on the table like old friends.

It looked like indulgence, but it was really proof. Proof that I still had control over the details, that I could make something worth sitting down for. These breakfasts weren’t about food. They were about identity.

Laying Bricks — Ghostalt Begins

The tattoos that year felt like the easiest they’d ever been. Something had clicked in my hand — the patina layer, the controlled chaos, the Ghostalt touch. The seeds were cracking open and I didn’t even know it.

Clients saw polish. I felt momentum. In my head, I was treading on new ground, building something permanent. What I didn’t know was that these bricks were being laid while something else — something quieter — was eroding underneath.

False Peak

That summer I started taking myself on dates. Restaurants, parks, solo drives in the Bronco. I’d swim in the afternoons, sit in the sun with a whiskey, Speedo tan lines forming like a badge.

From the outside, I was thriving. From the inside, I thought I was too. The bleeding didn’t seem like a red flag — it was just part of my normal. The bags under my eyes? A tired week, nothing more.

Totems and Tangents

Before a camping trip to Goblin Valley, I got a M1CKY license plate. One of those small things that’s really a marker for a whole era. It wasn’t just a souvenir, it was a timestamp. I’d line up these little moments without knowing how much I’d need them later.

Warm Light, Long Shadows

If you’d asked me then, I would’ve said life was open and bright. I couldn’t see the shadows growing. My reflection looked familiar enough.

I thought I’d found a rhythm. The truth was, I was dancing at the edge of a cliff.

June 17, 2022

The “Summer of the Speedo” was the last page before it turned on its own. The last time I believed the ground beneath me was solid.

The next week, I’d learn how thin that line really was.