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"Apr�s-moi, le d�luge...." "After me, the flood." Egotistical Louis quatorze. Something about the quote is sticking in my head. Probably has something to do with happening upon the Marquis Road, so many times today. In these parts, Marquis de Layfayette engaged in much activity during the Revolution... his legacy, having obscure country roads carry his name. That "flood" thing, though... figuring in a dream during an uncharacteristic nappytime, late in the afternoon. As has been the norm, it's been another scorcher. Again, just nicked by huge thunderheads that bloomed like explosions on the radar map. Well before the afternoon non-event, nursing an airy head from last night's indulgence, I grabbed the camera bag and took a circuitous route to the Steam & Gas Pasture Party. Perfect name for a southern political machine... but no, it's much simpler than that. Celebration of the internal combustion engine, farm-style. White people's hullabaloo. Nary a furriner is sight. Yet, the fascination with wheels and motion drew me there... as well as the design of grillework on vintage vehicles of all types. "There be monsters"... lumbering, acrid coalsmoke-enwreathed, nearly silent iron elephants of impossible mass. Amazing, how many in the crowd were cossetted in thick-assed bluejeans in the stifling heat of the sun and coal fires. Must've stilled their tongues, too... nobody very talkative, today. Maybe the ear stud and dreadlock are off-putting. Appearance is everything, after all, here in the land where dancing is a sin. Great shot, to be developed (I need a digital camera!): huge placard on top of a 60's Pontiac, bellowing "Heaven Or Hell: It's Your Choice". Heaven must be partial to loud distorted gospel music, if the owner sees it right. Eventually, home and a nap. Complete with bad dreams*. Woke to the sound of a radial engine doing aerobatics. Manouvering over the aiport was a WWI-era biplane, practicing stalls, loops, snap rolls... finally flying upside-down high above the tarmac, and dropping a diver. All to be witnessed from the front porch. I'll miss that kind of thing, when the time comes. Miss Jane's vacation concludes, tomorrow. Three calls exchanged in eight days. Undelwhelming, isn't it? As of this moment, I've no idea when she returns. Sadly, sleeping alone for the past week hasn't been so different than the past few years. Where she stops, nobody knows. Le D�luge. *...and another one, this afternoon (8/24): Becoming aware of driving through twisty mountain single-lane, rising... come upon a ranch style house in a glen. Wide, open yard, flat... a rocky creek across the back of the property, with a ridge rising directly behind. I remember thinking, "this place's going to flood when a big rain comes along." I enter, because it is my house. Clean and uncluttered inside, except for a broken egg carton with wire wrapped around it. After a while, Dianne returns from vacation (?), raising bloody hell because I've not done something she'd asked me to do with this thing. I ask what it was I was supposed to do... she doesn't answer. I repeat and repeat, my voice rising. She Runs to the bedroom, covers herself up over the head, refusing to reply.' Time for a checkup from the neck up. |
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