Butch

The fire was struggling. Lapping lower and lower into the elevated fire pit. The shadows of those milling around the collective camp site waving back and forth.

                I had a chameleon. Named him Butch, he was cool as shit.

Laughter…from most but not all. The audacity of people to laugh at the name chosen for a pet when they know damn well at home is a poodle, Boogerbutt. Maine Coon cat, Furby McTusslemut. Parrot, Templeton.

The fire painted shadows across her soft white cheeks, dancing dark ghosts sliding back and forth on her dimpled visage. The porcelain like tone of her skin such a stark contrast to the dark, dank, dreary night air that hung over the festival with a humid foreboding feeling of dread. We partied on none the less, no turning back now, might as well enjoy the cold beer and warm converstion before those two switched places. The first thing that struck me was plaid. I enjoy plaid. She wore it well. Properly sized shirt hanging off properly sized feminine shoulders. Huggable. Her hair, a curly mess. Only appropriate after a 10 hour trip crammed into an estrogen packed SUV. We're here to camp, paddle and party, not parle with beauty queens and princesses. Although, so far as survivors of a 10 hour car ride go, she's wearing a smile brighter than any tiara or royal jewel. Her dark framed glasses accent her cheek bones, but hide the eyes. Expressive, pleading and brilliant her peepers peer perillously through her lenses.

                I had to go away and left Butch with my cousin, and when I came home he was dead.

More laughter. Most but not all. The audacity of people to laugh at a pet dying. My hamster, Molly lived 4 years. That's a long time for a critter so small. I had to have her put down when I was 22. Twenty two towering years, Six feet and 2 Inches. Cradling in one hand a small, almost perfectly still, Molly, black and white. Panda Bear Hamster. She would move her feet. I could feel her little nails through my callusses. The Doctor delicately delivered devastating news. I chose mercy and sent My Molly off to sleep. All six foot 2 inches of me heaved and shooked as I left the Drs office with Molly in her purple plump palatial eggplant sleeping spot. I buried her myself next to my cat Mittens. I cried the whole time. Hands dirty with red Virginia clay, making clown make up streaks on my forehead and cheeks. Help was offered and duly refused. She was mine, this was my chore. She rests under a big oak tree. Tucked tightly into her eggplant, wrapped in a towel and in a nike shoebox.

 

I didn't laugh about Butch. Butch and Molly and Mittens wouldn't appreciate it from their side of the looking glass.

A letter to Loneliness.

Dear Loneliness,

I am writing you because I have tried to communicate my feelings in a multitude of other ways. You seem to be hard to reach. Have you checked your voice mail? What about your email? Have you looked inside your mailbox? Did you get the memo? It is obvious you did not.

You are my unwanted friend, and I say “friend” because nothing else would be so persistently and willingly available for companionship . There are spaniels that would grow weary of the way I persistently walk away from you. Reporters working a story that would give up pursuing my answers to breaking news questions where as you have continued to follow me. My shadow, my unrelenting, even at high noon, shadow. The rain cloud that follows a cartoon character. My unwanted friend, you have become the most devoted partner I have. I fear there is nothing I can do to separate you from me. Nothing so terrible could I formulate that would force you to break this bond. When will you tire? When will you waver?

You crept between us. Sliding in where there was no room for anything else before . A devastating wedge of unhappiness. Who let you in? How did you know the combination to the lock that was our marriage? What gives you the right to decide it wasn’t valid? How did you come to encapsulate me when I was never alone? Are there other victims? Do their heads line the wall above your mantle? On cold winter nights do you stoke the fire in your hearth and reminisce while viewing the trail of destruction that is your trophy room?

I have so many questions, hours and hours of inquiries. I could interrogate you for days. Yet when you appear my mind is muddled. Cloudy with insecurity. Hazy and foggy with self loathing and regret. How nimbly you avoid my query. A skilled politician dancing around questions about a nasty scandal.

I hate you. I hate you. I HATE you. To hell with you. Be you side affect or cause, your purpose is none but misery. There is no purpose in you. There is no divinity about you. Reason has no answer for you. To simply be the opposite of something good for no reason other than to exaggerate the juxtaposition is a worthless cause.

When will you no longer take every advantage to diminish me? How long before you, Loneliness, no longer can anticipate my every move? Will you soon tire of swooping in at the first available second to overwhelm my soul and immediately make me assume the worst? Is there an eternity of unrequited torture in my future? Must you always turn my thoughts from the simple and innocent to the dark and angry and cynical? Is there no end to the depths which you will dig to find the pain you soak my ragged heart in?

Will you ruin what comes next?

Will you allow what comes next?

Will there be an end to you?

Will you ever answer for your actions? Will you be held accountable?

Sincerely,
_____________

The ME

The canoe is red. It is fifteen feet long. Weighing 65 pounds as it is outfitted. It is outfitted with a plastic saddle that has rounded wings that hug the thighs and a seat that is most similar to a dirt bike seat. Just wide enough to make kneeling and sitting on it with a slightly open stance comfortable. Knees spread and on padded squares for long term comfort. Toes pointed towards the stern of the boat, ankles laying nearly flat. This is not a painless position, but the gains are worth the pains.  There are two thwarts installed that are directly mounted to the pedestal. Three more thwarts cross from rail to rail at varying distance from the centerline of the canoe providing rigidity and shape for the nearly 30 year old hull that has aged incredibly well. When sitting on solid ground the front and rear ends of the canoe hang nearly four and one half inch above the terra, when in the water both ends just barely kiss the surface. This shape gives the boat an ability to spin on its center axis that is not common in most. The boat looks like a banana, and is just as slippery in the water as the aforementioned peel is on solid ground.

The paddle transmits what the water is saying. The water says it is thick, the boat responding to each stroke more profoundly than before, as if the paddle is being dipped into heavy cream instead of thin water. The waves of the rapids smack against the hull, the sound is hollow but thunderous. The vibrations of each impact travel through the layers of the canoe, through the padding on the knees, through the tops of the shoes. The knees tickled by the sounds, the toes rattled. The whitecaps of the standing waves send sprays of cold water into the pilot’s face, onto the pilots chest, hands, and arms. Sunburned chest, sunburned arms scream out in joy, the cooling effect of the freshwater spray is magnificent. The gloved hands are jealous.

Mountains, beautiful, vivacious, teeming with life. Rising on both sides of the gorge are luscious green forests. The curvaceous ridgelines riding up and down against the blue sky like the canoeist down below riding the waves of the rapids. The trees seemingly trimmed into a perfectly smooth line, certainly an arborist must have made those adjustments.

A gentle breeze blows across the water, the surface ripples and millions of tiny reflections shine light in millions more directions. The gentle white noise roar of water crashing over rocks fills the empty quiet of the remote locale. A subtle hush from Mother pleading with us to listen for what she has to offer. Leaves rustle, birds of prey call out a war cry as they dive towards an aquatic buffet. Fish leap from the water and splash back down as they chase damsel flies across the surface.

The paddle reaches the end of its stroke, blade turned vertical and pried off the side of the canoe to adjust the direction slightly. Ahead a large boulder protrudes boldly from the depths, the water giving way and parting to either side. Breadth of six foot or so, the rock has behind it an eddy, water that is filling the void behind an obstruction and is not being moved downstream as part of the current. Aquatic animals hide here in wait for some unsuspecting passerby to float near the edge of the eddy, striking out for a quick meal, then scurrying back in for safety and easy swimming.

The canoeist directs his paddle to direct the canoe towards the eddy. Waves smack and thunder against the hull. On the approach the canoe is angled slightly towards the target. As the tip of the front of the canoe and the lead of the rock pass one another, it begins.

Leaning forward slightly, rotating the shoulders away from the target so as to get maximum reach the paddle is dipped into the heavy cream. The shoulders and torso rotate back to perpendicular with the boat. The hull slides forward, waves booming against the bow.  As the front of the canoe passes into the flat boiling water of the eddy, the rear is still in current being pushed downstream. The paddle is jabbed into the flat water and pulled upon, the boat responds by beginning to spin. The outside knee lifts, the inside knee pushes down and as the boat leans it rotates faster, the current pushing against the rear of the hull, the front of the canoe pulled further into the eddy by the paddle.

All that was behind, is now in front. One hundred and eighty degrees has passed.


Time, however, has stood still.

Big Water.

All was not lost, yet.

The sun was hot, not warm. Burning the skin and evaporating the sweat and occasional cool spray that rose from the river. Slick perspiring hands slipping on slick wet paddles. Fingers aching from fighting the current’s grip on the blade. Each stroke inducing popping and crackling in the left shoulder. Pain with nearly every movement of the paddle. The knees sitting comfortably atop foam one and one half inches tall by six inches square. Thighs snugly pushed forward into the bulkhead of the saddle. Pointed directly aft are the toes, the tops of them laying against the hull of the boat. The tendons and muscles connecting the tops of the feet and the shins are screaming out in agony. Pins and needles in the soles of the feet and toes, soon to move up and encompass the whole foot. There is but one relief afforded, the numbing adrenaline that comes with big water.

Don’s booming voice could barely be heard above the roar of the flooded river valley. While loading gear and preparing boats he asks a question.

Can you handle yourself?

It has become obvious now, far past that point of no return, as this question echoes off the canyon walls of the mind, perhaps oneself cannot be handled as well as previously boasted.

Can you handle yourself out here son?

All around the scenery is different. Rocks and boulders are not where they should be. Wave after wave occupies the surface where mirror flat water once was. Time is different, as bend and ledge and ledge and bend are passed long before enough time and effort has expired. This is not usual.

This is big water. Big fucking water.

The small ripples are gone, smooth fast water carries over them. The ledges are exaggerated, extremely so. What was once a simple two foot drop in elevation with a small splash and tiny wave train is now a rolling hydraulic monster. Wave train extending from the drop like the tail of an angry Japanese dragon’s tail. Flailing and waving in the air, wanting to fight. The smooth watered mouth of the drop is deceiving, it is not until the bow of the canoe starts to lean forward that the depth of the waves are revealed. The bow of the boat drops and drops and drops, sliding forward on the water and gaining speed. Will it start to rise? Will it plow into the wall of water traveling back up? A small pierce by the tip of the boat into that wall of water defying gravity, it grows, smalls white curls of water peel off to the sides of the canoes forward most point. The bow begins to lift, the stern soon to be buried in the trough. Looking forward one can only see that mystical magic water flowing towards the sky. The boats attitude changes, riding the wave skyward now. The bow crests the frothy whitecap, breaking the liquid horizon. Leveling as the canoe’s center mass reaches the crest the bow settles swiftly with a resounding smacking thud onto the next wave in line, smashing the smooth surface of the water, sending pleasing cooling spray backwards to the pilot. Thwack thud thud smack. Water is crashing into the canoe, collecting and collecting, becoming sluggish with the added weight.

Can you handle yourself…..self……self……….self………..elf…….lf…..f

The sloshing ballast is growing, each movement the river forces upon the canoe causing an echoed response by the water contained within it. Destabilized, the craft begins to roll side to side. Countering by lifting one knee and pushing with the other helps. No time to empty the sloppy stowaway. The next drop is approaching and it is approaching quickly. Time is different now.