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Sitting here with a blank notepad at 2 AM... and the monitor's assaulting my eyeballs. But here's Thursday. Twenty-four hours ago, on the last leg of my return through the heart of darkness, I came upon stationary taillights, and the obscured headlights of big rigs. Across a lonely stretch of 522, an oak had expired strategically across the highway. After coming to a halt and remaining motionless long enough to plan a double-back, I saw the moving silhouettes of men with chainsaws... and decided to switch the car off and help fling branches off the road. Not the usual Thursday morning modus operandi. The daylight hours was another matter. August arrived like opening the door to a blast furnace. Near a hundred degrees, humidity to the point where your skin became an instant oil slick. Another day to move in the Sahara mode... slowly, deliberately, finding any way to keep the air moving. Which meant a drive to the base of the Blue Ridge to find a packing plant to inquire about bottling the hot sauce. Come to think of it, "hot sauce" is a good way to describe how it felt under my shirt. The personal atmosphere? All of the unpleasantness of the past weekend ignored as if it never happened. Sure, that'll make everything OK. Since this was Miss Jane's birthday, I decided to keep cool... for now. Those who I needed to talk to were nowhere about, but the payoff was the scenery... hazy alpine, and stunning. And only a half-hour from home. Fold upon fold of mountain ranges rising from the floodplain and riverbottom. The lodge, where I got some basic info, was a heavily-lacquered wood delight... very Swiss-feeling, if Switzerland was on the equator, that is. On the return leg, Miss Jane finally agreed to stop by the animal shelter to look for a cat... the first positive response in months. So, we spent an hour amongst the poor foundlings, with no decision. To be continued. Back in January, just after my birthday (which passed without notice), we lost our Siamese of fourteen years. She was originally my brother's, inherited after his suicide. As she was the last living thing in his presence when the shot rang out... you could say that I bonded with this animal. The early morning when she passed, after the vet would do nothing, I slept with her on the floor until she breathed her last. Ironic, maybe, that this would affect me more than losing my brother or grandmother... though their long illnesses made their releases (violent and passive) seem like blessings for their sufferings. Though, I suppose there is no easy way to shake off this mortal coil. As the sun went down, I called some friends to meet up at the park in town, where the Hackensaw's were supposed to play. But had cancelled, as we found when the show began. Really, I don't think that the audience could have coped with the barrage of music. As the sticker of choice on many cars here is Calvin (from the comic strip) kneeling in front of the Cross, dancing won't happen unless they're bitten on the ass... by an asp. But, the Celtic and Old Time was pleasant enough... though a far cry from the Clash and Gang Of Four on the radio, earlier. We continue the birthday festivities, tomorrow, at a Brazilian restaurant in C'Ville. But now, my eyes say... "rest... rest." |
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