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...and I said that I was going to get my hands dirty. With barbecue, maybe. In a way, I feel like I'm spinning my wheels, by making them roll so much. Case in point, Today's impulse ride to Forest, VA. I could have been flinging more dirt in the garden, re-creating the bumpersticker design (again, as the station manager now knows what size he wants) or any of a million projects, heaped like Everest on the drawing table and everywhere else. No chance. There's new places to go. Since Art History 101, architecture has been an itch that needs scratching. Living in central Virginia makes it tough to resist... Big Brother Thomas Jefferson is constantly lurking. Really, it seems like most of those in my very loose circle were bred to follow the example of Big Ideas, unreasonable expectations (yeah, again with that), flinging (nonexsistent) money into silly schemes, constant writing, and pushing the envelope. Minus the slavery and scrumping with the help. Guilty as Charged. My first seven years at WTJU were within sight of the Rotunda and Monticello... Miss Jane tended the flower gardens in the shadow of the "Residence" at Woodberry Forest... Christ, throw a rock an it'll hit something Jeffersonian. Add to that a few remote Frank Lloyd Wright experiments and loads of swoopy-roofed bungalows everywhere, and I find that prehistoric fold in my grey matter that says, "cave, must find cave" squeezed forcefully. And yet, I rent a house. No matter. I was ready to burn some more film today, grey skies or not. Poplar Forest is an octagonal "retreat" on big farmland outside of Lynchburg. Imagine owning Monticello, and needing a place to get away. Seems to me, it was like TJ's doghouse. Nice doghouse, though.
Considering everything else built in the early 1800's was square or rectangular, they must have thought him insane at the time. More insane was living in a geodesic dome in the 70's. A leaky MoFo. Roommates that left dishes in the sink 'til there were spiderwebs. But not so different, maybe. All of this adventuring undamaged by the lengthy tour of scenery on the way. Bordered on both sides of the highway by ragged blue peaks, some collapsed by hurricanes decades past. Barbecue huts. The sign on the right that just said, "Tom Jones Drugs." The better to toss your underpants, I suppose. Miss Jane silently content to imagine herself riding in a Winnebago. That girl... grrrrrrr. Is not a navigator. I'd toyed with the idea, some years ago, of entering in some road rallying, with her as navvy. Wake up call... she can spend an evening reading maps (her idea), but when we get in the car, she panics. With map in lap, in the passenger seat. Well, I do try to share experiences. Oy. Ve. Remind me why I got married, again? Turned into a worn-out little barbecue spot to settle the nerves and stomach. Hicory-smoked with hot sauce. Hush puppies. Coleslaw in apple cider vinegar. Grease heals all wounds. _______________________________________________________________ Before heading out, I stopped to top up the petrol, and met a schoolmate that I hadn't seen since graduation. Truly, real the catch of the class... spoken for at the time. Doe-eyed and willowy. A Gymnast. Artistic. Part Native American. Just divorced, and impatient to free herself of this smothering area, and get on with her life. Kindred spirits. |
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