River Log Entry 1

New Years Day float in Franklin County with the Creek Freaks.
Shirley paddled the Mad River ME, I was in the Mohawk Probe 12.
Water on the Blackwater River was crystal clear, no wind and gorgeous skies.
Great crowd of people to spend a pretty day with. Amazing way to start the New Year and I hope it continues.
I still find so much solace and peacefulness on the water, even when in a big group of people I feel alone and independent. A paddle in my hand and boat beneath me and I am centered and relaxed and clear minded. I am thankful every day to have such a wonderful retreat from the real world available to me.

Purposely Untitled

The shadows across her porcelain cheeks created a contrast so sharp. Slightly rosy cheeks. Soft on the eyes, no doubt soft to the touch. Pink ears, each holding back their own lock of curly brown hair. Parted just off center, tucked behind those pink ears, perfectly sized pink ears. Wavy curls of sepia strands swept behind those cute, coral colored listeners. Round nose, reddened at the tip from the slight chill in the air. She shivers. Slender form shaking slightly. Her smile warms me, her eyes radiate heat like a hearth. She accepts a cold beer. Hand outstretched, her small palm only an inch from the cuff of her azure plaid. Tiny fingers, barely touching her thumb around the cold bottle. Sweet voice, soft, inviting, warm and comforting. Thank you, she sings at me. The syllables spoken to music I can hear in my mind, my imagination. Her arm still extended, covered in blue plaid with lines of red and gold and black. The bottle travels to her lips. Time stops.

 

Her lips. They form a small O. Kissing the opening of the bottle gently. They do not wrinkle. The soft white skin on her face gives way to a slightly darker shade. Corners of her mouth drawn together in perfect angles.  Her sip complete, the bottle falls back toward the earth. Her mouth flattens from O into a smile, her pearl white teeth show, a gorgeous smile. Dimples to get lost in. Dimples to dive in.

Thanks again.
 I melt. She shivers again, how does the radiation she exudes not warm her on its way to me? I offer my flannel shirt. She accepts. Something like static electricity climbs from my heels to my back. I drape my red flannel across her shoulders. Petite, feminine, smooth shoulders. Swimming in my shirt. It's huge on her tiny frame. Dwarfed by a luxurious lap of excess fabric. Thank you so much. Lyrical as it hits my ears. Her accent is huggable. Her voice adorable.  

Time passes. Glances given, some returned. Smiles and waves. Coffee exchanges hands. Fingers touch. More static electricity. The pads of her finger tips are velvet.

 

The final day. Rain and cold and misery. The weather breaks and the party starts. Confidence rising with blood alcohol ratio. We walk alone towards one end of the fair grounds. We stop for a moment. Her hair tucked behind those ears. My flannel wrapped around her shoulders. My hands reach to her hips. They are curved perfectly. between my thumb and forefinger her hip bone. My thumb pointed downward and inward. I lean over. My neck craned so my forehead meets hers. I purse my lips. She doesn’t. I push my chin forward. She turns her head away and leans back.

I melt. My face is hot. My ears are red. I hurt. She diffuses the tension by scurrying away giggling. Her hips swinging gently back and forth and barely grazing either side of my flannel as it hangs below her waist on covers her wonderfully proportioned butt. The party around me rages. The party inside dies.

Shaken off, determined to relax and enjoy all around me. Our eyes keep meeting. Its magnetism. Bumping into one another, close calls and chance encounters. She smells like a woman ought to. Aroma flickering and tickling my nose.

This night shouldn't end. It does.

Youth

You're young

                She kept saying that. Why? I feel old, age is just a number it’s the feeling you have when you wake up in the moring and your back hurts and your knee aches and your shoulders are sore and your hand that you nearly lost in a machine at a job you hated but worked anyway because that's what adults do, that hand hurts like a mother fucker. That's how I feel. I feel old. I do you young things. I paddle. I take chances. I drink. I dance….after I've drank. I drive fast, sometimes…to be honest this one is a lie. I got all my speeding done when I was young…..

See…I told you so.. I'm old.

You have you whole life ahead of you!

                I don't know that she believes that. What does it mean? We can't have our whole life in front of us. Unless we are 1 minutes from utero. I doubt we are conscious enough at that age (10 months? or 1 day old???) Only then is your whole life ahead of you, because you have only just begun to live. At 30 it’s a fair assumption that at least .3333 of your life is behind you. If my life where pizza….I have already eaten 2.5 slices at the very least.

I'm old. Not because I've lived this many years,but because this many years has passed while I wasn't living.

October 20, 2012

Seven. 7. Number 7.

We would throw it around like the Stanley Cup, everyone getting a kiss as if we had won a prize.

Our town, our little city with its little problems and little parking deck. During the Cold War, our little speck on the map was seventh on the Russian’s nuclear hit list. We never once asked: Who would get hit after us? Who would watch a golden red dome rise over our small town? Who would feel the heat, and the concussion and live to tell about “The Time I Saw a Bomb Dropped”
Who was on that list after us?
Who was on that list ahead of us?


6 or 8?

I accept responsibility, I didn’t drop it, I didn’t set it, I didn’t turn it on or even fucking arm it. However, I accept responsibility. I awoke at 5:30am October 20, 2012 from a nightmare, a bad dream, a horrible vision in my head that my imagination concocted , from what, I do not know.

My dream was this:

Halloween, near sunset. The warm glow of the fall sunshine filtered through leaves that were hanging on a lot later than usual for the area. Trees lit aflame by the shortening days, leaves turning to flagrant fluorescents, protesting the earth’s decision to rotate its axis again. What gall the earth has. What pure brutality present in Nature.

Then nature’s real, raw, ravenous, power is revealed. I did not hear the blast in my dream. I did wake up with beads of sweat on my forehead and damp bed sheets underneath me. The heat….the incalculable heat.
To the east the dome of fire rose, I couldn’t bring myself to stare long enough to see the Portabellan plume rise from the land that we knew as our state Capitol. I knew it would, I did not know what would happen to us, here, in our small town. Number 7 on the list.

Wakey wakey

No person has ever “sat straight up in bed”, no person I could ever believe anyway. Eyes opened, breathing heavy, wet with sweat. I grabbed my phone, 5:27am. Fuck. I can’t sleep after that.

Silence

Growing up I would experience déjà vu quite often. Always some mundane idiotic irrelevant scene. Eating spaghetti and spilling the sauce on my shirt. So on, so forth and so what. I never once experienced déjà vu after discussing a dream. It became a rule of mine. Have a nightmare? Talk it over to keep it away. Perhaps a mantra my parents would tell me to help me talk about my nightmares and get me back to bed. I. Do. Not. Know.

I do know this….

I never told anyone. Nobody.  Not A Soul. Ever. About “the dream”
Days passed, time passed, thoughts passed, all into the ether. Clock In. Clock Out. Eat. Sleep.

Repeat.



Danse Macabre

Children were decorated, disguised, and disembarking. The street in front of my home seemingly crawling with life. Where as every other day of the year these brats will hardly walk a quarter mile to a bus stop, dangling candy in front of them like carrot and horse inspires amazing feats of physicality. I was not decorated, disguised, and had no intention of disembarking. I was simply wandering about the apartment, television on but nothing showing. I had become anti-Halloween, mostly withdrawn from the festivities.  Since the first time our little town had moved it from the 31st to the 30th ,because that year, Sunday fell under the 31st, and “We can’t have our little angels collecting the devil’s candy on the Lord’s day”.
Typical in my opinion of the softening of our youth. Softening should be reserved for the late 20’s when drinking becomes paramount and you disappear from societal concerns until you tire of hangovers and empty wallets.

A cold beer in my hand, my work shirt unbuttoned, abandoned atop the bed. Socks discarded, feet bare and cool, scrubbing off a day of containment on the matted carpeting. The couch creaks, cracks then cushions me. I scan the channels I usually watch on the television. News is too depressing; election this, democrat that, republican the other thing. Fuck the real world, I work in it everyday. Give me cartoons and sitcoms.

The sun is blazing in the window, forcing a glare on the television screen. It is for that reason that I get off my ass and lower the blinds. I notice then, some pint sized candy whores headed up the steps to my deck. Despite my stance on the holiday I have candy ready. I will not be THAT GUY. The door swings open, candy is dispensed.

Idle Chatter: Nice Evening. Sure Is. Getting Dark So Early. Yup.

Interrupting our illustrious conversation is the screaming howl of multiple military aircraft. I step out onto the deck and peer through the sun-filtering tree leaves to see a tight formation of fighter jets and a large air liner. Not completely uncommon, its Air Force One, Air Forcing itself One hell of a lot faster than I had seen it go before.

Idle Chatter: President Must Be Campaigning. Looks Like He Is Late Too.

We say our goodbyes, goodnights, and good lucks. I return to my couch, beer, feet, and remote rehab.

A few more candies get handed out before the sun, first below the tree line then below the horizon, is gone.
One last visit at the door and its my neighbor and her children. They get special treatment, which means the rest of the bowl of candy.

Idle Chatter: They Are Growing So Fast. Tell Me About It.

We didn’t chat long. I heard a whistle. Wyle E Coyote falling off a cliff out of a cloud of his own disbelief whistling. Old World War II movie bombing run whistling. A meteor? There is an orange tail chasing some dark figure through the sky. East. Then it is gone.

Idle Cha-

The light cuts the night hard and fast. Eyes squinting, pupils reacting, retracting, refocusing. Brilliant white and yellow and angry. Then it is gone. Just. Gone. What the fuck? Was that lighting? No fucking way. I realize I am speaking aloud. The children are just in awe, not yet afraid but my language could change that.

The Dome

As I scan the horizon to see the next bolt hit. I see it. My dream comes racing back. My legs begin to shake my heart pounding palpitations into my now pallid coffer. I am frozen, I want to look away. I want to hide in my beer bottle, which has become encased in a vice grip of my terror. This cannot be. I see the faintest glow of orange to the east. Over a small mountain I see grow before my eyes a dome of orange and yellow. A feeling of despair uncoils in my stomach. I know the rest of this story. The dome grows higher and wider, boiling hot. The air begins to smell like ozone during a heavy lighting storm. The heat wave hits. It is intense, I feel instantly sunburned. I’ve seen this show before. I only wish I had waited around after the credits to see what happens next week.

This town is number 7. What number was that town?

Who are you?
Who are you  to make me feel this way?

What gives you permission?
When did you take up residence in my head?
Did you sneak in through my heart while it was bleeding?

How dare you take advantage of my weakness.
How dare you trespass on my person.
How did you become so bold?

So familiar you feel.
So aware of my details.
Intimate with my thoughts

You were here all along.
You, who torment my soul.
Weighing my heart heavy.
Deadening my thoughts.
Muffling my heart‘s song.
Driving this internal pain.

Are you loneliness?
Is your name Despair?

Are you an occupier? Are you a conqueror?
Will you rape me and ravage the countryside that is my soul?
Will there be anything left after you leave?

Does my heart have a chance?
Does my brain have a choice?
Does my soul have a  path?

How can I possibly compete?
What perverse game is this?
Is simply surviving a victory?

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,
_____________