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Ghetto To Boondocks
In Virginia I don't do this but in New Orleans I used to respond to violent crime trends that seemed especially local by propping a loaded shotgun near one of the doors in my house. The illogical nature of that decision was not lost on me. I mean I knew that people killing each other in close proximity to where I lived did not actually mean I was all that more likely to be killed, but the gun, for me, simulated the idea of appropriate response. It made me feel proactive. It made me feel--community-minded. I don't feel the threat of that anymore though, which is not to say that I don't experience fear out here in this affluent and bucolic Virginia boondocks.
There are no stop lights in this town of 200 people. There is a diner next to a post office across the street from a five star restaurant to which some dignitaries fly from surrounding areas by helicopter, or are driven to by limousine.
There are a handful of large 19th century homes and all but the one I look after (and the one other ramshackle mansion I would like to look after, across town) are Bed and Breakfast establishments. The other structures of note are churches, or smaller homes converted into shops which sell--jewelry, knick-knacks, antiques, art. One of the art galleries also rents movies and has a larger VHS than DVD collection.
There is a gas station/grocery but the saltines are stale.
In the middle of town there is a ye olde fashioned grocery where you can get what either are or appear to be, organic products, and wine and beer, and steak for 20 dollars a pound, and candy out of jars just like when I was a...well...just like a hundred years before I was born.
Behind that grocery which simulates the childhood I experienced via TV Westerns there is a newly constructed and never used plaza with beau coup comfortable outdoor chairs and a fountain and a free standing rock fireplace and a wistera covered gazebo-like thing. There is a cute little house with a cushioned wicker love seat glider out front, and it, the house, tried to be a pet supply store for awhile but failed. You can sit on the glider anytime you want and act like you live there. I would live there but Lorina says I wouldn't have the privacy to walk out my front door naked and even though I don't really do that I said, why wouldn't I? and she said, because of the people, and I, like a New Orleans domino player bent to intimidate, slapped my hand down hard onto the table surrounded by comfortable outdoor furniture, and said--What People?
The reason we are sitting in those comfortable outdoor chairs is because they are comfortable, and nearby, and on a good Friday or Saturday night we might be able to see five or six couples walking by on their way to the 5star, while we sip contraband from plastic go-cups. The men wear suits and the women wear what they are told to wear, which this year is a skirt cut like those worn by that sexy dynamic duo--Betty and Wilma, from the Flintstones. And of course, presumably, pink is the new black, unless you live in New York, and then we can safely guess that whatever is happening elsewhere, is already passe' there. You know, that low constant rumble you can sometimes hear on New York streets is actually people mumbling to themselves--been there, done that.
A couple of mornings in a row I would notice on my rounds of the property here a puddle of water on the pool deck right where the stairs lead out so that it appeared someone was pool hopping early in the morning.
The suspects were: a friend, a bear, a groundhog, a homeless person/traveler/itinerant worker, or, somebody I would like to chase around the property with a baseball bat. After the second morning I decided to camp out in the bighouse, which overlooks the pool, and see what I could see, which turned out to be nothing. For now I have decided the culprit to be the pool monster, which is an automated sweeping device set to run from seven to ten in the morning. Sometimes it gets stuck in a corner and will shoot water from a spout.
But with the heightened awareness caused by the real or imagined pool interloper I have set out to keep a closer eye on the bighouse.
And so it was just the other night that instead of watching Witness for the Prosecution down here in the cottage, I suggested to Lorina that we go on up and watch on that little TV in the bighouse study.
Thirty minutes into the movie and slumped we both were on the leather couch as the sun set and I don't know if you've seen that crop circle, extraterrestrial-invasion movie, Signs, but it was really just like that, both of us seeing out of our drowsy, movie-hypnotized eyes, two nearly human silhouettes moving across the front porch, back lit by the dusky night. There had been neither the headlights nor gravel crunching of tires to alert us of human invasion, and the house sits a good three hundred yards up the hill from main street, and it is pretty much hidden by dense foliage except in winter. It is not the type of property to invite casual tresspassing. Intentional tresspassing then. Sub-humans. Freaky stuff happens all the time to other people and apocryphal or not, in New Orleans, ghost stories by many are accepted as matter of fact. I accepted them, and experienced them as such, when living there.
So momentarily, for both Lorina and I, it was dreamlike in the worst way. The forces of fear both exciting us and immobilizing us. Neither one of us were able to get up from the couch in one swift movement. That the shadows had seen us inside seemed evident. That they moved off hurriedly like a scared wild animal made them no less threatening. We both ran to the front door and I fumbled with the lock just like a character from a B-movie who is always stupidly moving towards danger rather than away from it. But dammit, to face fear in the course of maintaining and protecting this property is part of my job. Could this tresspass be any worse than the many I experienced in the New Orleans ghetto? Is there something more frightening than a disaffected 15-year-old with a TEK-9 he's not afraid to use?
I finally got the door open and came face to face with my worst fear. Out on the lawn, moving in a retreating fashion from right to left, was that which is the seed of pure terror--it is the thing you least suspect, the thing all your experience has not prepared you for. It was two tourists from Easy Street, probably from a neighboring B& B, a man, who was way out front leading the retreat, and a woman, wearing a dress sort of like Wilma Flintstone. The woman spoke rapidly in profuse apologetic tone. We're sorry, we're sorry, you have a nice house she uttered while squinting to see if a shotgun was pointed at her head. I felt sorry for her. I said simply--you're ok. She apologized again while retreating. I said again, you're ok, and shut the door.
Afterwards, we heard inexplicable noises in the house and were afraid.
Eat, Deer
The people down the hill got some Adirondack chairs facing up this way which gives me a small sense of grandiosity, on site caretaker and single most occupier of this land that I am. I heard them speak once, at a local public forum, and they expressed their feelings of reverence for this hill and the low rising mountains behind it and I had to wonder were there people who get out less than I do. Not that the scenery is not nice but for mountain scenery in this area there is nicer. Or I may just be used to it. Two years ago after leaving New Orleans and driving 19 hours to get here I was myself somewhat overwhelmed by the scene of this place, and shortly after pulling through the gates and past the hand painted sign which implied this property to be something like that plantation in Gone with the Wind, I burst out laughing. Not in the funny, ha-ha sort of way but in the hysterical no one is stopping me and throwing me up against the police car sort of way. Because people like me don't occupy places like this.
In addition to feeling grandiose I feel annoyed, although you can call it paranoid, or some other common psychological problem, because the chairs make me feel onstage when I move about the place doing my chores. This feeling is much the same as my early-on problem with the 19th century bell tower (of what is now a baptist church) that rises high enough to be not only a very pretty site for me to look at but also gives the person up in there with binoculars full view of me and my rather skeletal morphology while I work or laze about the pool. Even though every time I use my own binoculars to look up into the bell tower, there is no one there with binoculars looking back at me. I think I am at a stage close to having worked through this problem of self- consciousness regarding people in bell towers with binoculars.
Yesterday I was down by the pond shoveling hardwood mulch into the back of a small four-wheel drive vehicle and everybody that passed by on the road waved at me. I have never before been waved at by attractive women in BMW's. And then I looked up and a church lady in a beater Chevy waves and smiles and I can only assume there is occurring some sort of celestial aligning that has people of all different socioeconomic persuasions being nice to each other.
Deer are eating my sunflowers and maybe too my young string bean plants but the deer were here first and I knew that place I put the garden was one of their main hangouts so whatever happens I will just try to be happy about, or, if I can't make lemonade out of lemons perhaps I will make deer sausage.
I am becoming a little smarter about poison ivy but still get regular attacks of it.
One of the women at the local art gallery/video store lets me spew ridiculous and perhaps in her subtle way encourages it and so I was being sort of full of myself and two more locals in the store said "who are you?" and then I told them, so I met two more people and am becoming quite the social butterfly. One woman was getting Meet the Fockers for her husband and I said oh my god that was the worst movie I have seen this year and she put it back and got something else. But then after she left I was shown some of the husband's artwork (sort of Bosch meets the California Raisins), there be beau coup artists hiding out here, and I felt that someone who can create such work as he should be allowed to watch whatever he damn well pleases, so I hope he gets to watch that movie, soon, and bears me no ill will for my temporary preventing of him seeing it when he wanted to. I myself got Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou and consider it now my favorite Wes Anderson flick.
By the way, for my ten or twelve regular readers, if you don't want to check the site and be pissed off that I haven't posted for awhile you can thanks to the genius of our webmaster be alerted by email when I post something new. I will leave it to you to figure out how to do that. I'm going to copy this to a small device and take it up to the bighouse and post it now. I had high hopes for those sunflowers but deer gotta eat too.
Burgers And Beer
Lorina and I not having anything thawed and at least pretending budgetary constraints, belabored over what to eat for dinner. We have this 20 dollar for two rule we are trying out but beyond fast food that is a pretty tough constraint and on top of that the nearest fast food is almost twenty miles away, which could easily be considered a good thing, except when you are really hungry and tired and don't want the extra labor of cooking and cleaning up added to your day.
It was going to be my birthday soon so I said hey its going to be my birthday soon, we can go to that quaint little place with the outdoor seating and occasional septic overflow and have a hopefully juicy burger and two pints of stout a piece for about 20 dollars for each of us and even though that's twice over the budget, let's just live.
So we agreed on that and Lorina takes the scenic route up Fodderstack Rd. and I collar the first waitress I see in the bar and say, we can sit outside? and she says sure, but it's a little cold. We brought jackets, I say self-assuredly and with some pride, even though my jacket is a wreck, and I'm in dirty work clothes. "It's a little cold" turned out to be a euphemism for there is occasional septic overflow and depending on prevailing winds you might spend part of your meal thinking about dogshit.
It's hard getting me out sometimes because of my questionable feelings about larger congregations of humanity and I know in this tiny area the chances of running into someone we know is large and even though I haven't really met a bucketful of people I enjoy sharing Lorina with I accept the necessity of occasionally relating to people and being personable, which is a thing I am capable of and not all that shitty at, if not exactly drawn towards. So, I know we are going to run into somebody before we even go and I have factored that in to my wholehearted decision to go out and spend money we don't have on burgers that are adequate but not great and draft pints of Guinness (not that goddamned 11.2 ounce bottle) which are great, always great, just great. Where would any of us be without Guinness (although I have started drinking budweiser again as a mainstay of the budget.)
I know budgetary talk is less preferable than walking barefoot on rusty nails. You won't hear another word about it from me.
I was 24 hours recovered from my back pain medication abuse and had a hazy feeling affecting me not so distinctly that you would see a difference, if already you knew me. I hungrily devoured (Guinness qualifies as food) my first pint, only slowing down for the last few sips because I saw that Lorina was barely one sip into hers. She was facing the prevailing breeze and so was for the first few minutes distracted by a smell she thought was dogshit, and that apparently kept her thirst at bay.
We have, her and I, on a few occasions, driven to this town forty miles away, for Mexican food. We like it better than the 16 mile choice or the 22 mile choice, and the six mile choice went belly up, twice, because it sucked, both times. The last time we drove the forty miles, someone Lorina knew from our area was there, used to date the waitress he did, but on that day was content to plop down and regale us with his totally not uninteresting pursuits which nonetheless suffered from the overeagerness of his delivery, and that one unfortunate image seemingly derivative of a very popular yet somewhat shallow Leonardo di Caprio flick. We get plenty plenty of time alone Lorina and I do but still I can't seem to be sated by it and so I was a little put out by the intrusion but not overly so. Afterall, no man is an island, and equally possible is that no two people are a peninsula. We had a nice day together.
Back at the quaint place with occasional septic overflow it's the same guy who shows up and sits himself down summarily without an invite, although of course he was welcome. I mean that sincerely. But he appeared to be a few pints of lager ahead of my stout consumption, and, don't forget my residual drug hangover. And he went on and on and on, with equal or greater enthusiasm than he had showed interrupting our Mexican date. After he left, Lorina said I was dismissive of him, and I agreed with her about that, because that is exactly how I did feel after realizing his intention was not to have an interesting and lively three way discussion but rather to bogart my girlfriend with a version of himself that sounded pleasing, with occasional glances in my direction. The irony of "a version of himself that sounded pleasing..." is not lost on me, selective chronicler that I am.
He did get up and leave though, and so abruptly, that I was momentarily ashamed of my lack of embrace.
But shame, I think, is a thing of questionable value. If it spurs you on to greater performance then let's call it a good thing, but if, for example, you are a person who already helps many people, and you are visiting relatives who are economically less fortunate, and for no reason, let's just say I am with you, a last minute addition to your plans, and you are flying us around on a private jet, changing and arranging flights as your whim dictates, on a Blackberry, while being chauffeured, even if only by me, and you start feeling the weight of a trailer home juxtaposed against that jet meeting us late on a small strip miles from nowhere, rest assured that the reason I'm telling you not to dwell in guilt is not because I am the current benefactor of your graciousness but because I study that on an off day you do more for more people than any of the complainers who would have the leisure of time to suggest that your affluence is somehow wrong, or bad, or unnecessary.
At the outside table the wind blew fortuitously, Lorina's eyes gleamed, the yuppie man talking loudly about his wife's bowel movements was testament to the imperfection just under the surface of even the best moments.
Jetlag
I got another little crappy detail delivered to me by mail and it went a pretty good way towards harshing the mellow I had arrived at by a day of sustained manual labor and three budweisers. Put in its proper perspective it is a harmless detail and I will try to treat it is as such. And even though Lorina warned me of frost I chose to accept Weatherbug’s incorrect version of the morning temp and got light frost on my baby plants and so today am also expecting some disappointed news from Mother Nature in an enveloped marked “attrition,” with the body of the contents beginning—“Dear Sir, due to your abject carelessness with prescience, your flower account is being reduced by twenty percent.” I hope my surviving plants don’t hold against me my occasional ignorance and negligence towards them.
I still check up on New Orleans crime news and let me tell you people still living there that if you fear your sense of what it really looks like is being dulled by the relentless repetition of bad then I am here to tell you that from afar it looks really bad still and with no hint of cessation. And, as always, I only bring this up, I think, so as to offer a little contrast to the concept of New Orleans as an affected cutout called N’awlins, a happy happy party town. As for the children I used to know in those New Orleans killing fields, I don’t hear of them specifically anymore. I only hear of, through news reports, the continuing murders happening around them while they play in the streets (I feel certain the recent outlawing of street hoops in New Orleans will not be enough to make all the children disappear from those streets). I still aspire to and at the same time suffer from the desire to create in words a moderately accurate portrayal of a New Orleans youth from, for example, the Sixth Ward.
And this while I live as caretaker in relative opulence on 40 acres on the edge of a quaint and historic Virginia village populated by 186 people, where crime is only on TV, and not even there if you got a proper handle on your child rearin’.
Next thing you know I’ll be jumping on private jets to bop down to Texas to visit my mom for a day. How can anyone ever know what’s going to happen? And how do you keep from being perpetually dumbfounded?
Medication Road
I have always cautiously bragged that my back has held up pretty well to the strains put upon it so when recently I made an ordinary maneuver and my back went code red, which means it only hurts when I move, I was not so worried because I figured it would go away in short time. After a day, which is what I consider short time, and the pain was still there, I entered into the fortuitous convergence of my needing meds and actually coming upon them. A big man said, here, take these, only one knocked me out cold, so I took the whole bottle with me and drove back home. It can only be maturity that has me not popping them on the road as a late night driver.
When I got home I waited for a friend to come over but the friend had conflicting interests and so after a reasonable time of waiting I popped one. After more time I figured the friend's interest in coming over was more theoretical than actual so I popped a second one, deciding that consciousness is an overrated state, especially when you are alone and the night is well advanced. The two little pills made my back pain seem like something I had read about but never actually experienced.
In the morning I felt so stupid with pill haze yet still had pain in the lower back so I decided to write the whole day off to pill popping and bed rest. And anyway, it was raining a little so work on a metal roof seemed inadvisable. I dreamed about missles flying over America. I got out of bed in the evening and had a drink or two and that made me feel better than I could have imagined, because the prescription warned against alcohol mixing and the pills were stronger than other prescriptions with the same warning which I have summarily ignored. I then smoked a type of cigarette and arrived at a place that, although pleasant, seemed infused with too much knowledge of the artificiality of my agreeable state. I realized I only felt as good as I should feel, without meds.
So that's where I am now, on the road to wellness without meds. Of course, the road is long and the meds are many and although my back pain seems well removed I have received this morning a crick in my neck that makes me move stiff-looking, like I'm in a brace, so I'm not making comforting promises of abstinence to myself or any other fool.
Flowers
So the forsythia has stopped blooming that yellow if it were red would be fire engine and the lush greening up the mountains is less shocking to the system and also your body is getting more used to the daylight you yearned for during dark winter but then when it came it made the days seem longer than you knew what to do with.
One person's wanting things to stay the way they are is conflicting with another group of person's wanting things to stay the way they are and so there may be a conflict out here in these parts and it may turn out that my skills of curmudgeon will come into play in the coming months. This morning, not getting what I needed from my dreams, I lay in bed daydreaming about chasing a particular citizen down the driveway while I waved a stick and gurgled gutturally threatening themes.
As a hobby this year I am growing flowers. I don't know if I've mentioned that before but its what I'm doing so if you got something to get off your chest about it then go on ahead with it. What? Oh I got about a thousand little plants in flats right now soaking up the early morning sun and some of them I have never seen outside of pictures, but the usual, you know, marigolds, cosmos, gallardia, rudbeckia, maroon coreopsis, painted tongue, balloon flower, agrostemma, shasta daisy, zulu prince daisy, south african pearl daisies, some moon flowers, petunia, gazanias, dianthus, coleus, a few morning glories for the pool fence and some sunflowers. I got some zinnias and other stuff still in seed packets which I may direct seed out here somewhere but truly I don't have anywhere near enough prepared ground to even take care of those aforementioned already started plants.
I was talking to a big burly man I contracted to dig up and move out of here some rather impressive concrete slabs and he comes and goes at will with his heavy machinery and one day he stopped and said whatchu growing and I said flowers. His wife likes flowers. On another day we were again talking about my flowers and he said are you gonna sell some of them and I said maybe but maybe just give some away and he said his wife said I am a man after her own heart because most men don't like flowers, and I said, oh yeah?, and he waved his hands like he was cleaning the plate glass window which may or may not exist between us and said hey hey hey, I'm not saying nothing.
I got beau coup chores so I'm a get on with some thing, probably up on the roof for a few hours, maybe drive in later, to RFK, for an afternoon game.
The Death Of Herman
Everyone is awkward around death. The veterinarians this morning were stalling with the inevitable news which had been implied in yesterday's phone messages. The bad news could only be death. Living patients were dealt with while Lorina and I waited for the attending doctor to doctor up her we don't know what happen he just died speech. Herman's reign at the top of the hill ended with two weeks worth of painful prodding and incising, the removal of a pebble from his bladder, more exploratory prodding and incising, more sickness, death, cold storage, and a sneaky exit out the back door of the veterinarians office, in the parking lot of which he was delivered to my outstretched hands. As a blue paper wrapped frozen package he reminded me of nothing, the lifting and transporting just a task. The shape not at all cat-like.
Herman was the bastard step-child of cats. Hoisted from one almost loving family to the next, leaving a trail of eye spooge and chewed up shoes from Brooklyn to Upstate to the DC suburbs and finally, a palatial 40 acre estate nestled in the foothills of the Shenandoah mountains, Herman was at the same time loveable, and, just a bit of an aggravating son-of-a-bitch. I will nonetheless have fond memories of our almost two years together and can say with the utmost sincerity that he was a good enough pal for that time even though I wouldn't let no human pal of mine wake me up yowling at five in the morning for no good reason.
As a Kung Fu sparring partner he was second to none.
Lorina shed a couple of tears at the office but I think as much as any reason out of politeness to the doctor, who seemed really upset and not sure of how to handle the proceedings. I tried to communicate that I held in my heart no enmity nor blame of wrong-doing and yet we were held captive for an amount of time which seemed longer than optimum, in a room the size of a broom closet. The doctor wielded her sorrow like a blunt object, not sure if she wanted to attack or just remain defensive. I think she was understandably unsure how to phrase the last part and so was dragging out the I'm sorry, we did everything we could, part. The last part was do you want his body and uh I'm sorry but its frozen.
Behind me over there, with its cloth covered foam burnt orange seat, is the last piece of furniture Herman ever shredded, and he did that during his last two day hurrah of feeling over the top perky, between his two nearly back to back multiple day stays at the vet.
When I think back to our first summer together when he jumped up onto my naked back by the pool, with his seventeen pounds of weight behind the claws dug into my flesh, and how he slid a few inches down my back like that, and how I screamed and turned around and shook my fist at him and swatted in his direction with my nearby shirt and how he just stared blankly back with nary a flinch in reaction to my movements, it is that reaction or lack thereof which makes me realize he did have that one essential characteristic of all the cool cats before him. He was inscrutable.
It turned a little cool and drizzly today. A grey day as good as any to bury Herman under that dogwood tree over yonder. Herman RIP.
Poison Ivy Etc.
I have poison ivy blisters the size of lady bugs on my fingers. Some that face each other between the fingers are like lady bug lovers, doing God only knows what all while I sleep trying not to scratch them. Or I try not to scratch them while I don't sleep. I haven't slept through a night in months and that may only be part of getting old(er). Locals tell me they have seen worse but I have never in my life seen something under any name erupt so grotesquely on my or any other body.
The blisters are in the red ripened stage, almost done being themselves and will soon either burst by some casual contact of my work day, and bleed a mixture of blood and viscous poison ivy puss, or just recede, leaving perhaps mild scaring. Those could scar J said looking at my fingers. I looked at my hands and thought I bet you won't be able to tell a difference.
I got these blisters from Morton, Lorina's ex, whom I got to see this week so soon after voicing the desire to kill him that the possibility of it for one tiny second became in my mind real enough in all the inherent unpleasantness of such a deed that I immediately lost the desire to do it. Lorina said she didn't set up the potential train wreck of our meeting but if she didn't it was either God or the Devil so you pick. Morton's act of innocence was sufficiently convincing and I had to at least give him the credit I would give a street hustler or lie n' deny artist with an equally convincing pitch.
I got the dose, on my fingers and both sides of my face, from cleaning vine off the tiller that both Morton and I had borrowed from Lorina. But Morton say hey, he just don't know, which is probably true and either way is fine with me. Live and learn is what I say. And killing is so permanent. I was mad for awhile though, which of course is no reason to kill somebody.
That Lorina is friends with her most immediate ex is something I write off to the occasionally annoying inconvenience of living in a community the size of a small desert island, where every public gathering is guaranteed to have a hodge podge of ex-lovers intermingled in the mix. As for the witnessing of the ex-spat, where former lovers relive the past negative energies that made them so loveable, well, I'd just as soon have a dull needle inserted in one of my testicles.
My mom in Dallas with Alzheimers is getting a little more used to the idea that her children are going to be messing in her affairs and called my sister in California to leave a message on her machine that apologized for being rude to her earlier in the week. My sister handles some of mom's banking. We got somebody in the house with her, coming by a few hours five days a week but while my mom is somewhat polite to the person, the person is just too young to have any experience in common with her, or so she thinks. Another woman has been introduced recently and my mom is apparently taking to her better.
I was starting to panic about the cumulative disarray of my affairs so attempting proactivity I sent a pointed email to my New Orleans property manager and said what up? I expressed the concern that I felt my luck was running out regarding having a house left unoccupied in that neighborhood for this long. I applauded them for the high standards with which they qualified perspective tenants but that maybe now was the time to lower those standards, and maybe the rent too. I received a response telling me, oh sorry to have worried you, we leased out your place earlier in the month, (and for fifty dollars more than what was already questionably high rent for the size of the place.) In a neighborhood pretty constantly on the edge of destruction. So if improving a ghetto property without contributing to gentrification is a good thing then this is me stroking myself for accomplishing that (or just thinking that I have*).
I still have the business of convincing my insurance underwriter not to cancel my policy on the house, which they think is over-insured by almost a factor of two. I believe an appraisal delivered to the desk of the underwriting agent 90 miles away will take care of that. I've been given a deadline and that may be construed as a good thing.
So like a tree frog burrowed underground for the winter but without the ice crystals around his heart I have started to emerge from my less than active winter work schedule and the work is emerging faster than I care to think about and the same goes for Lorina who has several thousand vegetable and flower plants outgrowing their individual planting cells, at least two weeks before potential last frost.
I have too many projects started and a few I have contracted out. Firstly I need to scrape and paint the metal roof of the bighouse (while not completely ignoring the back porch which I sanded down after fixing the few rotten areas.). I got the ladders set up and a rope tied around one of the chimneys and I made a little plywood platform to hold my paint buckets level on a slanted roof. I have started scraping with a six inch mud knife taped to a stick and am about ready to start spot priming the first section and the goal will be to finish this before it gets too hot and also not to slide down one of the 10 or 12 gables to the detriment of my burgeoning well being.
Their is rumor of a future beach house needing the attention of one skinny caretaker so my territory may expand. Curmudgeon International, Slim speaking, what the hell you want?
(*my nephew sends me an email yesterday, from which I excerpt: "... but should see [your former neighbor, Melba]
maybe tonight at a meeting or something, and will be
sure to inquire on what should be her latest gripe
towards you: the increased chance that the tax
assessor for your district, under steadying pressure
from state tax commission to stop the tax breaks to
under-assessed uptown mansions, undertakes a
comprehensive reassessment of the entire district,
thus driving up her/your/everyone's insurance rates.
what are you some sort of bougeoise (I don't even know how to spell your kind) gentrifier?"
If Thou Be Near
This past weekend, with the truck's head gasket all but blown, I chuggged up a mountain road near Asheville, NC, following a friend with one broken lug on his rear right tire and the nuts of two more near the end of their thread, when an 80 year old woman with one eye and blue hair began to pull into the blind spot to her right, which I occupied.
For that brief moment in which I could watch this happening like the uninvolved spectator I wasn't, I thought, interesting, and, why is she trying to occupy a space that is currently occupied by me? Was this the moment that marked the end of time for one of us? Your time is up sir, you will relinquish your space to the blue haired woman. I could see in through her passenger side window the glove box and the latch of it was the last thing I remember before I started honking my horn and veering to the right onto that strip of pavement that is reserved for emergencies, and from which I used to hitchhike years ago, before various highway patrolmen threatened me with equally various degrees of success. Some patrolmen just politely explained how I needed to be hitchhiking from the on ramps and a couple even took me there themselves.
I remember unfriendly highway patrolmen in Virginia, Arizona, Montana, and a ChiP in Los Angeles and the thing all these guys had in common was their disdain for my occupation of state property. The trooper in Montana hit the bottom of my feet with his baton but in fairness to him he was trying to ascertain whether I was dead or alive,which was in question because I looked dead, in my serenely supine state across the front seat of the Ford Maverick, with my feet hanging out the open drivers side door, parked in a rest stop.
I continued to veer onto that little strip of asphalt, which in some states is more justifiably named as an "emergency lane" and in other states would be more aptly named "a waste of state money," and I realized I could, if need be, just occupy this lane for the emergency now occurring. I did not even consider at that time my previous trespasses of state property across America. Though as I straddled the white line separating the right lane proper from the emergency lane to its right, I did think of a joke from childhood. Your friend asks you would you rather slide down a razor blade naked or kiss a rabbit between the ears and at the time, probably not having developed any pleasurable use for pain, you say, kiss the rabbit, and he pulls inside out the whites of his front pockets and says, well come on then.
While I reminisced about tired jokes from childhood the eighty year old one eyed blue haired woman decided that she for one, wanted to live, that her time, was not up, and she began to veer back into the left lane, but a little wildly. She swerved back and forth a couple of times like something out of a tire commercial for tires you could imagine yourself buying.
And then I thought how I almost killed that woman, with the shotgun blast of my horn, just because she wanted to occupy space I felt was mine. But the space didn't belong to me. It belonged to the state of NC. The state flag of which is similar to that of Texas. I stayed at the Renaissance in Asheville, with Lorina. It was elegant. Very nice breakfast buffet. I carried her trumpet. She played Bach instead of jazz infused ska-punk. In a chapel in Waynesville. The things you do for love would include getting caught inside the groom's car with three women, placing origami cranes about the interior. It was embarrassing, but better than giving up for good your space to a one eyed blue haired elderly woman. Marginally better. I know of a local guy who makes hats from roadkill. I wonder what kind of hat I would have made, and if anybody would wear me?
Before Raking Leaves
I was sketching out in words this scene centered around a New Orleans youngster pulling a gun out of his sock during a three on three street basketball game. Those portable hoops with the black plastic bases are not exactly a ubiquitous New Orleans prop but they were pretty damn common to the neighborhoods in which I lived and traveled, during my ten year stay. And then just a few days later I hear from my nephew, who still lives in NO, that the city has outlawed those types of hoops in the street.
So like overnight what I was writing became history instead of what I was intending, which was a scene, although based on past experience, meant to reflect an ongoing metaphor-laden reality specifically tied to street basketball. This change in temporality is not crucial to any point I would ever intend to make seeing as how I am unclear myself on what the point is I would ever be trying to make.
Probably the street games restrict traffic flow to some degree and also I guess the gun being pulled from socks is not as uncommon as you would want it to be. And often the players will have some connection to the drug world. And there is violence and death in the drug world. No more newsworthy are the street deaths than the deaths caused every year by respectable drug companies but one might argue that the ratio of death versus benefit is more positively balanced in the world of super pharmaceutical companies. Or I should say unbalanced with the benefit side of the scale measuring much heavier in favor of the good provided by big drug companies. I mean I'm only guessing that pharmaceutical companies help more people than they kill, whereas the street dealers might be perceived, rightly or wrongly, to kill more people than they help. And so the city fathers by outlawing street basketball are again taking baby steps to curb a city problem with systemic roots of disease deeper than anyone has yet to effectively imagine a cure for. Even the drug companies are baffled because surely if they could figure a way to enter the lucrative street drug trade and rake into their coffers some of that sweet ghetto cake, they would have by now done so. The donation of Glaxo Kline Squibb Merck Beechum emblazoned backboards to the hood, as entry point to the market, is now out.
I have tons of ideas for New Orleans but they are all ridiculous and require massive hands on city-wide mentoring and out of personal pocket expense and deep personal heartache. And risk of death and lawsuits (you can invert those two in order of importance I guess) and failure. All my ideas carry with them a seemingly unacceptable failure rate, the beauty of which is--this is a thing they have in common with current practices and policies. Still, in a future world gone whack, where profit could be imagined or realized from the lifting up of our "lesser" citizens, I think I could see myself cutting off my hair, putting on a suit and sitting on some board, spewing ridiculous. "So you see, the benefit of populating floats of the (2,500 rich person only) Endymion parade, entirely with area youth from the ghettoes, and having the rich people populating the predominately poorer sections of the parade route and then the mixing afterwards at the big Superdome party, would be that of a first step towards turning the existing, and failing, system asunder..." And then the rich person says but my system is not failing and I would turn to that person and raise my left eyebrow.
Melba Got My Goat
Oh yeah nephew, well you tell that Melba I went through quite a bit of agony for her that night but if I had known what her reaction was going to be I would have done what the rest of her neighbors did--watched and done nothing and said nothing.
As to her suggestion that it didn't matter if I had a phone or not, that I should have confronted the guy stealing her washing machine on a well lit early evening, as he grinded the sides of it up against the metal fence posts trying to extricate it from the too small opening, and yelled out--"I'm calling the police now"--let me just now say that the reason I gave at the time, not having a phone, was not the real reason I never even considered such a ridiculous common sense solution to crime in that rather diluted version of the hood.
I know what you're thinking, jeez uncle, that Melba really got your goat on this one and yes you are right. Melba got my goat. Midwestern poseur. At least I never pretended I fit in that neighborhood, even though in a way I did. And I similarly drape like a flamboyant cape the drama of those New Orleans neighborhoods over the bony shoulders of my existence. So maybe I should ease up on those accusations, except in small doses I like it and its fun, so maybe I won't.
I tried to follow the guy and see where he went, and failed instantly. In the time it took me to sit down and put on my shoes and go out and start the truck, he was gone. A man pushing a washing machine on a handcart down the middle of the street just vanished in the span of thirty seconds. Did that mean he was a neighbor? Maybe, not necessarily, maybe.
It was sort of surreal nephew, because it took the guy a while to get the machine out into the street. And people were passing him on the sidewalk, and ignoring him. Some went into the residence next door and others just moseyed on up to the corner. I had been broken into three times the previous year and the previous week all five of my neighbors to the side had been burgled in one night, backyard sheds ransacked. I didn't really give a good goddamn about her washing machine, I wanted a sacrificial lamb in jail, and I thought the best way to accomplish that was to follow the guy.
Her idea was that I would call out to him that I was calling the police, he would drop the machine and run away, with his handcart. But if he had to take the handcart anyway, why would he give up the washing machine? I woke up five times that night to keep an eye on her and her talented husband's house to make sure a general ransacking was not going on. Did the bitch even begrudgingly thank me for my efforts? No nephew, she did not.
Did I mention that I went around the corner to that grocery store to call the cops from a pay phone? I had to wait to make the call though because there was a cop on the pay phone, his car idling at the curb. Another cop in a different car was ooh-ing and awe-ing over this gangster's CD collection who was handing through the driver's side window all the very latest hot shit from the Rap world. I waited patiently near the cop on the pay phone, once nodding at him with a look of inquiry and solicitation. He didn't seem all that disappointed to deal with me but he did seem like he had other things to be doing. He followed me around the corner and after a brief consult said he might know who did the burglary, and drove off towards the river. I went inside and twenty minutes later I hear a honk in the street and look out and there he is, the cop. I go out to the street and he's got some criminal in his backseat that he caught while looking for my criminal. He says he's gotta go. And that's the last I saw of the cops regarding that incident.
And anyway, what was I supposed to do if the guy did drop the washing machine? I still would have had to run after him to borrow his handcart to move the damn thing to safety. Yeah, that Melba's got my goat all right.
You know nephew, I've already told this story once somewhere on this site but your recent emailed mention of Melba just got my blood boiling all over again.
But the real reason nephew? The real reason I didn't confront the guy and scare him away as Melba implies she has done to characters malingering around my place in my absence? The real reason is I was scared. The dude I was watching out my window was scary in a way that was different from the way I may have been frightened after telling a murderer to get off my motherfucking porch, at that other house I used to live at around the corner. The combination of determination and desperation that emanated from the robber's movements and the nonchalance of the passerby, all of this in more or less early evening broad daylight, well, it sort of freaked me. I did not want to make contact of any kind with this guy. To me, he was that scary. And you know, for a couple of years, at that other house, I was stepping over on my way to and from work the heavyweights of scary local crime, as they played dominoes and cards on the porch.
Well nephew, none of that old business is germane to my current morning so I better get on with it. Just needed to vent a little, no, no, I'm not blaming you.
Anyway, technically, the truth can be how Melba remembers it. I did, afterall, watch from beginning to end, a guy steal her washing machine, and push it down the middle of the street on a handcart, in broad daylight. In retrospect I guess my only regret is that I didn't sleep through the night thereafter.
Love In The 21st
So in the end, or up to this point anyway, Lorina and I (have) decided that while the preconceived idea to break up one day prior to Valentines day was a good one, an idea of such stellar proportion that it perhaps implied the backing of extra-terrestrial intelligence, we would, much to our mutual and occasionally ecstasy laden agony, carry on this love fest with--what we now are mature (ha) enough to realize is the only reasonable and sustainable course--a day to day lease of careful and loving consideration.
It has been eight months since we initiated this relationship in that sort of secret and sly way that shy people go about things, and, despite the fact of my sometimes debilitating verbal reticence, it seems I have already conveyed to Lorina each and every fact of the forty-plus years of my moderately interesting but let's face it, dull existence. And although I know it is not true that I have conveyed all the idiotic tidbits of my previous and ongoing actuality, I have though already started repeating some of the more mundane bits.
You know, the belt I lost, I got at one of those superstores a couple of years ago, and I had to stand in front of the belt rack for twenty minutes before making what was essentially the same impulse buy I could have made in 90 seconds. And I had to alter it by slicing one of the loops off because it had two loops side by side and esthetically that became a thing unusually, I think it was unusual anyway, displeasing to me.
Lorina nods behind the wheel of her Ford entering Front Royal and politely says yes she remembers me mentioning that. And all of a sudden I have this mini-explosive awareness of all the other crap I have already told her, and how much of it I have retold her, some of it more than twice, and in just eight months(?).
She's been in Dallas with me a couple of times while I visit my aging mother so understands some aspects of my genetic potential.
But maybe it is true that there aren't that many interesting note-worthy factoids in a day, a month, a year, a life. And what explains how some things get stuck in your memory bank and how other things don't? I'm trying to think of something unique I could tell Lorina when I next see her.
Lorina, hey Lorina!
What?
The oatmeal? It was, uh, hot!
Really?
Yeah! And the bowl the oatmeal was in?
Hmm hmm.
When it came in contact with the buckle of my new belt?, which was on the bed beside me so that I can study it for displeasing imperfections? Well, there was a sort of clinking noise!
You don't say.
Yeah, and then I looked out the window? And it was windy looking? So I had to postpone tearing down that dog pen for awhile longer because of windchill factor...Lorina?...Lorina?... LowRINuh!? (She probably just had to go put her contacts in or something).
Running in New Orleans
Anonymous and not necessarily a man wrote in yesterday to say he ( I'm saying man) packed two .44 Magnum hand guns to feel safe while driving around Mobile, Alabama and that he was happy that Louisiana accepted without hassle the Alabama gun permits because he visited New Orleans on a regular basis and by implication of two .44 Magnums he felt he may need to shoot somebody dead on one of his visits. He meant in self-defense.
I just wanted to say that if memory serves me it is also copacetic (and legal) to carry your permitted weapon in a concealed fashion in New Orleans, which for the purposes of feeling safe might come in handy and that perhaps the man should consider a .38 snub nose or even one of the smaller, almost feminine handguns, for comfortable concealment during those many sultry summer days in the sub-tropical New Orleans climate, when one is inclined to wear the least amount of concealing clothing possible.
Of course, for just driving around in an air-conditioned vehicle, and if you are driving one of the popular choices of the car jacker (I believe you can find the top ten list for popular cars to steal in your area, on the Internet), that .44 Magnum on the passenger seat under a towel is pretty sweet for the defending of your life and property. In New Orleans, and I may just be making this up, I am pretty sure that the rules concerning the use of lethal response to potential car jacking are somewhat relaxed. If you are parked at a light and a person with a weapon in their hand approaches your vehicle, and they are not flashing a badge or otherwise making themselves known as cops, you may, at your discretion, shoot dead the approaching person. You need not wait for the person to actually threaten you verbally or point their weapon at you. You may dispose of this person who is coming for your Toyota Camry.
Again, my knowledge on these matters is so completely anecdotal as to be almost irrelevant, and one who intends to pursue avenues of legal killing in New Orleans would be well advised to consult the proper authorities before actually killing someone.
And I'm honestly not all that hip to what the best hand gun would be for every situation and I know the various versions of the 9mm are widely popular but I think for the purpose of occasional killing I would prefer the revolver to the semi-automatic because of that annoying possibility of the semi-automatic to jam up, or go click because you forgot to jack a shell into the chamber, when what you are intending is ka-blam, which is the proper noise to hear preceding the death of another human by hand gun.
Some people I think tend to feel limited by the six shots of the average revolver versus the eleven to thirteen possible chances with the semi-automatic but let's face it, if you can't kill someone with six shots at close range (remember, this is self-defense killing, your range is going to be between a few feet and point blank), then you probably should not have a gun in the first place.
The need to kill our fellow humans with available weaponry is not a thing new to our times. It would be most excellent if it were because there would then be the implication that it is something within an evolutionary process that we could hope to outgrow. Instead, I think it is more likely that if we haven't outgrown it by now, we will not ever out grow it. With this in mind I will offer a last little piece of throw away advice--try not to kill people, try to avoid it. But if you really can't avoid it then I believe the conventional wisdom is--aim for the largest part of your target, also known as the human torso, and pull the trigger until your weapon is empty. If your target, also known as the human being, is not then dead, you should run. Running as a first option is also highly desirable. Of course, here, due to a New Orleans incident or two of which I am aware, in good conscience I have to add--run away from the person with the gun, not towards them.
Constructing Spring
One minute I'm outside practically naked digging up a flower bed and the next minute I'm shivering inside looking out at the horizontally blowing snow and being all herky-jerky like the delirious-tremens poster boy every time the wind opens and slam-shuts the multiple screen doors on this dwelling.
It is the next day now and looking out there are only a few trace reminders of the snow and the wind is asserting only its merest influence on the pine boughs. I could venture out but only fools rush in..., I don't know? If that's about love I'm not going there. I cannot lasso an idea that depends on ephemerality to exist. I am not allowed. I was denied credentials. Two other things I cannot do is fly, and, make sparks shoot out from my fingers.
I am quite a little sleeper, able to drown in cessation, but sometimes I stay up all night composing not one cogent thought as I bathe myself in self-doubt, which I only mention to attempt the deconstruction of happiness.
I am this year trying to remember that some bats are birds and some birds are, in actuality, tree frogs.
Devil Stairs
You actually have to descend after the ascension but I'll say it like this anyway--I went up to Big Devil's Stairs this week. There was a Lexus SUV with Maryland plates in what is the only parking space and so I had to park in what turned out to be an illegal spot. Coming back to the spot later I would think briefly about becoming an outlaw again or depending on your definition, for the first time, and going on the lam to avoid any dealings with that lawman with initials for a first name who had left his card in the bottom right hand corner of my driver's side window, tightly inserted behind the weather-stripping. The card had a hand written message that said--Please Contact Today! Had it not been for the Please and the exclamation point I would have jumped the nearest boxcar out of here. I hope it is a sign of maturity and not weakness that now makes me give the law its due credit and consideration for politeness.
I was trying to do nine miles before sunset and I was getting a late start, a slurpable go-cup full of black-eyed peas my lunch in transit, and four one-slice peanut butter sandwiches my hiking fuel. And a bottle of water. No drugs, but if that's true, why even mention it? Because you couldn't get 'em lit is why, you punk ass, ill-prepared sissy. No drugs is better though and I am for one brief instant being completely straight with you. Even though it's only an opinion and therefore debatable. Or because it's an opinion it's not debatable, I get mixed up, but I don't want to linger on this point, I'd like to get back with minimal delay to this obliquely sincere version of my view on the moments that make up my day.
I took the horse trail shortcut because I wanted to by-pass the camping shelter with the log book I can't resist reading but that makes me sad because of the predictability of the human emotion it contains. The happy scribblings make me think of that animated short that ends with the big claw foot of Godzilla squashing flat on the forest floor the short lived Bambi.
Snow from last week is still on the trail and unlike previous snow hikes this time it's only me leaving human tracks, parallel to or on top of the deer and cat and crow feet. The snow is good, not too soft and not too crunchy. I have waterproof hiking boots this year and five dollar socks so I'm really well equipped from the ankles down. I still wear jeans though and a brown leather work jacket that was left behind at M's house in New Orleans. She did not know who's it was or what was the history behind the jacket before it ended up stashed at her house but the details behind the origins of it are perhaps inauspicious. I will here just have to leave it to the scholars of modern juvenile hijinks what these details might include. You can have it if you need it she said to me.
I took it and all its undeclared history with me when I left New Orleans.
A couple of weeks ago I was on this same trail (which is in Virginia, not New Orleans) when a surprise rain storm caught me clueless without a poncho and I had to use the jacket like an umbrella. After it dried out it looked really good, even better than before, so I don't know about this idea that water is bad for leather. It has plenty of pockets and in the pockets I have stashed a water bottle, four cellophane wrapped single slice peanut butter sandwiches, a very small 2mega pixel digital camera, a 5gig Mp3 player, and curiously, because I have no film camera, an old plastic film container. I wear a knit cap and brown cotton work gloves that keep me warm enough to leave the jacket open to expose my thrift store outer shirt which is open to expose my faded navy, paint speckled under shirt. The zipper is busted on the jacket.
I passed the Maryland couple on the way up (they hadn't hiked far enough to mess up any of the snow) and they were dressed more appropriately than I. Hiking is a ga-billion dollar a year industry and there does exist a wide array of proper hiking clothing and gear. We exchanged hearty hellos, which is optional, and I admired the fabric, buttons, functionality, and style of their garb, which they wore as they should, unselfconsciously.
I got to the cliff over the chasm which is the payoff of the Big Devil's Stairs hike and it is a good one if you are into all that depth of field beauty inherent to foregrounds that drop a thousand feet and multilayered, undulating, blue-green, black-shadowed, snow-dusted mountains as background.
With all that majesty before me and certain death a misstep away I thought about my doctor's appointment the next day, the first in ten years, which at this writing has already happened--and proven my procrastination fueled but understandable fears to be baseless, (and given bolder credence to the words of that gypsy at last year's Christmas party: that I'm going to live long, in fact longer than some will appreciate)--but hadn't happened then and so was still a weighty thought, heavier than the lofty and dizzying sense of freedom and flight one might ordinarily feel at cliff's edge. I waited, but perhaps not long enough, for an epiphany that did not come.
Back at my truck after the hike, the card from the cop stuck in my widow as a reminder that a nine mile hike intended to ease one's mind can sometimes be followed by a sharp stick in your eye. I debated about calling the cop but not too long did I kid myself about not calling the initialed officer. Back home I tarried a bit by checking my email and then I practiced my gender neutral phrasing, and made the call. It was a man who answered and I identified myself as the missing hiker. The officer sternly but politely gave me some advice about parking and I assured him (was I too obsequious?) that in the future his advice would be that which I followed. But I think I'm done with that hike for awhile and will look around for trails that lead elsewhere.
Cat Vomit
I was following behind a manager at the Lowes in Culpeper as he led me to an opposite end of the store to show me a kitchen timer. I had hoped he would just point but the store is new and some people want to appear useful or actually be it for all I know. There were more employees than customers in the store and I got stuck behind one who had veered out of the manager's way because the manager looked all purposeful and this employee was clearly making good money for doing absolutely nothing. I remember a past work life when I was purposeful and I used to tell less ambitious co-workers that I did not care if they worked or jerked off but to stay out of my way when I was working. Which is what I felt like telling the employee who had veered in front of me to get out of the ambitious manager's way, because I was in a hurry to keep up with the manager. I did not want to lose him after all this effort he was putting forth. I pretty much knew that the manager had misunderstood what I was asking for and that this journey would end fruitlessly, and I was right about that.
I stood looking at a 20 dollar kitchen timer while he said he would ask about cheaper ones and I then waited until I could see him take a phone call and I disappeared back to the area where I had begun. I brushed lightly up against a woman's sleeve who was standing with her boyfriend, husband, or brother and she said after I passed, excuse me. She said it in the way that meant she was offended by my sleeve brushing against hers. She said it like a woman who is easily offended. I said sincerely but offhandedly, oh yes I'm very sorry, and I wandered up the aisle a bit. Then I came back and stood by her and her man friend and her girlfriend who was of a different skin color than the other two and fifty pounds heavier and much taller and wore a type of shoe that neither of the other two would even think about wearing. I wanted the offended woman to engage me or just continue to be offended by me. I wanted to say to the man, sir, please take no offense but your girlfriend is sort of a bitch and yet if she would give me a hug I would feel better about life. You see, I have been out in public longer than is my custom and I am coming a bit unraveled due to the fact that I can't really find anything and the longer I am out in public the more uncomfortable I get about being in public because if I can't find anything I could have just stayed at home. Although I do enjoy the drive, yes I do. I could really use a hug, ma'am? How 'bout it? Hug me?
None of this imaginary after the fact reconstruction of reality has any bearing on the here and then so, moving on, in another aisle, I found an employee who looked as uncomfortable in public as I say I am and I asked him about timers and he walked me four feet and showed me an array of timers of the type that turn plug-in devices on and off throughout a day. I was happy and expressed my thanks happily and the awkward feeling man appeared to feel happy, if only conditionally. I could tell he wouldn't take well to being hugged so I just moseyed on.
Things got worse before they got better--if in fact they have gotten better, which is in question-- when I ventured to the SuperWalmart where I got a neat array of items, from a colander to a knitting hoop to dish rags and a basketball and some bleeding heart tubers to bread and peanut butter and talapia (but I didn't really get enough food and now the next day I'm hungry, 20 miles from the nearest full sized grocery store). A couple of different people acted like I was in their way and they wanted to kick my ass for it and if only they weren't in such a hurry they would have. There was clearly nobody in this store who would give me a hug but that guy in the mismatched camouflage outfit did look like he wanted to slit my throat. I made a note to keep an eye out for him. I turned away once and he disappeared, but was probably right in front of me. I may have underestimated the efficacy of his camouflage. The camo-bandana hanging like a mullet hair extension under his gimme cap I had actually sort of smirked at before the underestimation. Hell, maybe it is better to withhold judgment or to never even form an opinion about something. The guy could have been a secret government agent protecting my candy ass with his skills of stealth and may have been at that moment on the trail of a wanted international terrorist and all the while I'm making fun of him for the implied lesser status of his breeding versus mine when let's face it--the both of us are milling around the same Walmart. It would serve me right if he did slit my throat in housewares, me bleeding out near the toaster ovens.
I got up at two this morning and it felt like wake up time so I made coffee and toast and oatmeal and had breakfast and then read for awhile. I treaded lightly through the house because the cat had thrown up in five different places last night before I went to bed and where there are five piles of cat vomit there may be a sixth. I forgave him the creamy biege lumps of bile laden puke but afterwards the incessant crying to be fed earned him a one way trip to the cold outdoors. I let him back in later, and fed him, the spoogey-eyed cat bastard.
Forget all that Greenwich Mean Time asserting that its only two in the afternoon, I've been up for ages and I'm having a cocktail. Cheers. And I'm sorry for making fun of bitches and warriors and sick cats.
The Valentine
Today is Valentines Day and I just finished having breakfast with Lorina followed by a bout of speechlessness and then I bid her adieu out into the icy cold and grey wet unknown of the Virginia countryside.
Some months ago we decided to break up on Feb. 13th and so for the special occasion last night I baked some Salmon and she baked this medley of vegetables cut into cubes and doused with olive oil and salt and pepper. The vegetables were beets, parsnips, potatoes, garlic, and carrots. She made a spinach salad with cranberry raisins and goat cheese and some of that raspberry dressing you can't escape even if you wanted to, which I don't. She brought a bottle of white and a loaf of homemade bread and wouldn't I have to be crazy to break up with a beautiful, loving, intelligent woman laden so heavily with delicious fruits? The scale certainly dips heavily towards yes.
This idea of sharing your life with someone is kind of tricky and I don't want to pretend that I know anything about it, not that I would be very convincing even if I were pretending a knowledge about it, and surely not convincing enough to fool Lorina or earn entry into the Book of Right.
I just now fell into a sort of narcotic cat nap and when I opened my eyes the screen was full of letter S's.
I was going to write my mom a letter today but I haven't even sent her the three I wrote last week so who am I kidding writing letters and not sending them off in the mail?
I did call her a minute ago and she sounded tired so maybe she is having nightmares again; the doorbell rings but nobody is there. My sister is visiting her this week and that might be making her nervous too because she probably knows the plot to upset her autonomy is forward moving. She probably doesn't remember that I was there for the month of January, haphazardly pushing the buttons of the machine that would bring a stranger into her life, to live with her, but part of her remembers it and that part might be coming back to conspire with the part of her that is anxious because my sister is there introducing the same kind of crap I was introducing, although likely with more finesse is my sister introducing it.
I can hear geese honking out the window to my left at night now because I put this aside for a few days so its not right after breakfast anymore, or for that matter, Valentines Day. Lorina is in another state entirely, attending a bachelorette party, which makes me a little nervous in that hey what happens at the bachelorette party stays at the bachelorette party sort of way. Ultimately what saves me is that I don't have the strength or willful endurance to be as insecure as I sample at being, and uh, ok dammit, I trust Lorina, even if only in equal measure to my insecurity regarding all things her, which occasionally is a very fucked up way to be but for now will just have to be good enough. Besides, if you removed all my petty insecurities I would be so excruciatingly incredible that no mortal woman would be able to be with me, without bursting into flames, anyway. But mostly what I think about when I hear bachelorette is who was that chick on that show a couple of years ago about a single gal looking for a groovy hubby? Its as if the name is on the tip of my tongue.
You can't always be autonomous is what I had knowingly explained to my mother in January.
Sometimes you have to let people help you is what I had said.
I drove 22 hours straight with only a 30 minute catnap to arrive back here from Texas on the 3rd of this month. For the home stretch I came through mountain passes on both sides of Luray with dusted snow on the black pavement at 2 a.m. As is often the case around here, even when its not 2 in the morning or snowing, I was the only one on the road. I was lonely as I considered that everything and everyone on the other side of the mountain had been wiped out by an apocalyptic event. It being so cold and sparsely populated here you wouldn't even smell the demise of humanity for quite some time. It would be as if the apocalypse never happened or as if the humanity never existed. You might see people sitting mannequin-still in their cars obliquely angled to normality but you wouldn't think much about it if you minded your own business like you're supposed to. I was driving very carefully, winding downward now, as I imagined black ice under the thin layer of snow. It felt sort of pointless all the previous day's road rushing. Though it was a driving record for me, over 1200 miles in a single stretch of driving, with only over the counter energy drinks to fuel me, so I could pin that medal on my bony chest if I did indeed make it down the mountain instead of off the mountain in a fiery crash of sparks and smoke and flying metal ending upside down in a frozen creek bed with only the predictable desolate flickering meanderings of my last few cognitive moments to keep me company before the final darkness.
I arrived back here and crunched over snow and onto the breezeway and then into my shiny clean abode scrubbed by Lorina and there was the rhododendron cutting on the table that won't stop blooming. And some love messaging written on paper and a cat that only briefly considered had I been gone at all who rolled over on the wood floor and sprawled belly open to the latent potential of my kung fu warrior death blow.
Lorina slept elsewhere and I was too wired/tired and crazy to my core to go over there and wake her up and say baby baby I'm home. I'm crazy. What? Yes, yes about you, but if I could only keep my mouth shut I wouldn't add some less romantic self-absorption which would cause us to sit together in a quiet and awkward silence while you debated with yourself my merits or lack thereof and I not to be out done would do the same right back at you, until I switched sides to join you--just who the fuck do I think I am?
Instead of that I had a glass of whisky and searched the spidery corners of secret places until I found a dead roach, which I crumbled up and laid lengthwise along a section of a feathery page torn from a bible and then I sealed it with a lick and set fire to it.
I did not drift off and then abruptly wake up just as my truck rolled off the side of a mountain. Nor did I leave my body and float purposelessly near the ceiling. I slept in a dreamless void and woke up later in the afternoon to a world that would, despite its abundant allures, take some getting used to. And that's as far as I've gotten. But I will keep you posted as events unfurl in the wind making the flag look like all its stripes are not connected even though through other sources we are led to believe that they are not only connected, but parallel.