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The way the Temptations sang it, it wasn't a desirable place to be. Escapism of the chemical kind. Spaced, brutha. Considering the tension buildup and the atmosphere it breathes, a little blurring of the edges makes the madness tolerable, and survivable. Family history and excesses remind me that this is not where I want to be, for too long. No extra crutches,necessary. Take last night at work, for instance. The Surfing Chef proffered, I ingested, The night eased through. EnglishJohn had made a trip to the grocery, and made a special trip through the bottled water aisle... which was barren. I imagine the same held true in the H0me Dep0t... nary a scrap of plastic, nor a strip of duct tape to be found. As if that would be the means to escape fate. Now that's Cloud 9, for real. More like a personal bodybag, folks. Thanks to the constant repetition on the telly, giving the people what they want (which in this case is panic), it's like a bad episode of P** W**'s Playhouse. Bedlam. Get over it. We're not supposed to be here forever... with luck it may not be the time. Perspective seems to be lacking. There's truth in living each day as your last... and basis for apreciation in just having that moment to just--exist. Isn't that enough? Jeezie, peezie. And they ask me why I prefer altered states. Better, I think, to expend the energy on ragging off Dubyuh before the rest of the world tells us to piss off. Who would have expected protests to rise... not the majority that didn't vote for him, would they? I'm thinking his Right Hand Dick probably has interests in building supplies, as well as oil. We already seem to have forgotten about Enr0n, conveniently. And Korea. Irked, I am. Despite the wagon sucking gas like a sponge on the ride home, overnight, and struggling to crest the roller coasters of hills, I arrived intact, again. The better part of the afternoon spent picking the brains of mechanics (and accepting a cold one), and sluicing the fuel injection with various potions, inside and out. Scouring the funk out of the Volvo's throat... expressing itself with bilious clouds from the doody chute. Fuel pump's gonna have to go, but it can't hurt to try a little antibiotic. Later, reviving the projector from it's slumber, I came across my GrandDad's slides. Florida, circa 1950-1964. Beauties. That old ex-pat Finn loved him some bridges. And flowers. And stormclouds. And eccentricities. Some of which, will appear here, at some point. He made it through WWII. I can at least try to get through this. ....................................................................... Hostel Environment Day Nineteen: Copperfield to Council, Idaho The soundtrack for the previous night's camping was an all night rave of river against rock. The "E" stood for elevation. Once breakfast was made and gone, panniers rearranged, tents and sleeping bags bungied to the frames of skinny-tired bikes, that river was crossed... Idaho was the location. Watches rotated up an hour. The trees disappeared from the roadside imperceptably. At once, we were on the banks of the Snake River, and beginning the climb through Hell's Canyon.
Either side of the river, the walls of the canyon appeared to have been gouged out by some gargantuan plowshare, revealing alternating bands of baked red and tan. This was the same place that Knievel jumped with his jet-powered motorcycle. Not all the way, though. Hot... bereft of moisture... not a breath of air in motion, save for the artificial wind manufactured by pumping on pedals. Is there no wind, in Hell? Past Oxbow Dam... more like a monstrous bank of rubble arched across the breadth of the Snake. Then, further and across the Brownlee Dam... fighting the adrenaline rush from peering over the steeply sloping edge to the river below, to one side... the huge lake, on the other. Climbing across the spine of the east slope, pumping constantly at 60 RPM... spinning the chain, moving slowly... the sum of the morning's effort. Eventually, the terrain moderated, the temperature and the undulations of the horizon did not. Spent, we entered the town of Council. Fourth of July. We had our own fireworks. There was beer involved, as we made camp in the town park. Goood combination.
Luke and Brian: Well-Oiled Ballistics Experts What we hadn't considered was the great view we had of the town... or that the rest of the population might find this a great vantage point for the evening's celebration. Hundreds of locals materialized, and the barrage began... close enough for pieces of spent shells to fall around us like carbonized rain. Them people went nuts. I don't even remember going to sleep... though I woke in the tent, the next morning. Lord, what a mess. Inside, and outside. |
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