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...and the weekend disappears in a puff of smoke. I got swallowed up by the woods, today. Four-and-a-half hours hacking underbrush... a wall of nature's barbed-wire. Some pliable and whiplike in its ferocity to a blade, the older, rust-colored vines stiff and sinister with barbs aged like old men's teeth. And no bite marks on my flesh, this day. I guess I should call it "flailing therapy." As much fecking off as has gone on this weekend, energy expense on the hill sweeps the mind clean of the guilt of letting three days go by until actually doing something... besides squinting through a lens. Which has been grabbing me furiously over the past few days. Sometime soon, I want to be able to stand at the top of the north corner, and freeze a frame of the hills falling away to the horizon... where it looks like the sea. The money shot, which I haven't witnessed for much too long. A busy week looms. The exile to sniper-free yuppieland. Maybe an early-out for Wednesday... Window replacement and crown-fastening on Thursday. Phone-in interview before the show on Friday, promo afterwards? Plus, Junior Brown that evening, the Races on Saturday. Which I'm considering asking Ellie to consider... Miss Jane never wants to take advantage of getting lit during the day, and hates the scene. But has a gravitational pull on me, this year. The pageantry is stuffy and disorderly at the same time. Blue bloods and bikers. Great skirts and coctails. The trees colored like a bowl of TRIX. A Bloody Mary buzz in the early November sun. Yes, Ellie. The tension is palpable, but my "virtue" remains. And I ask myself, "why?" Because the move starts with me... and to even consider means it can all get out-of-hand. Like everything else. Strangeness for the past few days: opening the front door, yesterday evening, and hearing cat bells... like the (siamese) Boogahead used to do when we got home. Sitting on the futon, TV on, and smelling the distinct fragrance of baby powder... not for the first time. What signals, these? So I'm up an hour later than usual...thanks to the dreaded Eastern Standard Time. Surely not for the second-shift, dammitall. The endless night approaches. Curse this Finnish blood! Where's that French DNA when I need it?
A window to this world. |
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