It's a late saturday night with feet kicked up and a few simple beverages down, perhaps a few more to go. A certain balance regained with the righting in the bloodline... a terribly debaucherous friday night behind me. With the morning mused light i watched my housemate drain every drop of vitamin c from the house with two close-rounded trips to the fridge to wrap his lips around the aseptic orange juice jug. Poor bastard, poor me i was thinking. And then thinking of Bill Cosby and that beautiful skit on the plight of humanity, our desire to make something of friday night and get out there, get loose and soused and have a good time. Then the subsequent over-indulgence, queasy feelings and an end to 'fun,' we rest our heads against the cool rim of the toiletseat. And the realization in sapped confusion that we earned this, our nine to five, weekday run for the money has bought in time, effort, cool change, the ability to invest ourselves in such stupid endeavors.
That's what i was thinking with the morning light and a coming day of something bordering on regret, what the hell was all that for? Questions like, did the fun i have equal or better the consequence of consumption, my body's rejection to a gross amount of stimulant and depressant? And then two answers to one question; i saw it coming...
I live in a new town. Its been here all along, something in my eyes as the newcomer, this idea of rewound chronology and genesis. This quasi-acuity belongs to subjection, a thing i've been guilty of in more than one instance. I admit it yet it nearly seems healthy... progressive, as if perhaps i was bordering on truth: the truth that all situations no matter how misleading are results of my own projection and spin. The longer i live and the more absurd the situations become, the more difficulty i have in believing the external sentience of circumstance. Outcomes always tend toward the appropriate. Perhaps that gives some standing to our new-age friends and jungian vouchers of coincidence and proper cause and effect. I never could find merit in the argument though the supposition rang true. Perhaps this is my way of dealing with constant travel and a high turnover rate of employment and company. Maybe i'm mission minded and need to inject this experience called life with the false notion of engaging in a sociological experiment. Yeah right... ain't it good though.
In the latest chapter of possible demise, perchance nirvana... i have acquired a beautiful six-three jobbyjob driving truck for a distribution company. I sling soda and bread and other partially hydrogenated products to the community of Sitka grocery stores and shortchange convenience stores. It pays and has something to teach, though i'm still not positive as to which avenue that may lead.
And so my weekend come and awaiting the delivery of some chinese food made by a kitchen of polynesians who call the great gray north their home. Its rained nearly three weeks straight. If it weren't raining the population would deem it a 'nice' day regardless of any other conditions. We're getting out the chopsticks and pouring another drink...
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 01, 2006
Back into the world...
It took a long time to fulfill the contract I'd signed with the federal government. I was a speck of life in the wilderness of central Idaho for the second season running. I represented pocketchange of deep pockets, an afterthought from the dislocation of naturalist to biologist in the caste of this inanimate institution. Get the data. That was my job. Be safe, alone in the wilderness on steep terrain with the huckleberry bears... but still, get the fucking data! So that's what i did and when the season ended i thanked the big guy in the sky and went back into the world.
With the late summer shining through pulled curtains and Ray Charles singin' "the mess around" on the radio, an afternoon nap seemed in order. Third week of the inbetween, unemployed and terribly content with it. The phone rang as i began to nod, friends inviting me to dinner one town over~ in Centralia. With nothing else in mind and the fridge and cupboards wholly devoid of dinner i agreed.
I grew up here in southwestern Washington between a farm and a city, somewhere in the gray area. The lush valleys bending from the Olympics into alluvial deposits of meandering waterways leading up and up, plateauing above subterranean notches harboring immense canyons at the base of Mount Rainier and the fellow Cascade Range. And down there in the lowlands between peaks lies Lewis County, my beautiful semi-illiterate gem called home. It's good land, procures bounteous crops and feeds the mouths of stock and citizen with ease.
When i was coming of age it became apparent that my town, and many of those surrounding, had died with the ailing timber industry. Died from poor stewardship of the land, died from lack of interest, too many vices without income or sufficient subsidy. Desparate as an enfeebled third world country, the twin cities of Lewis County, Centralia and Chehalis, begged for new money to save its economy and well-being. And then a miracle like the angel Gabriel, an outpour from our democratic metropolitan dwellars into the outskirts of our red state. A miracle, Yes! Money arrived due to overpopulation in neighboring cities.
And who would have thought it, streets were cobbled and cleaned, century-old buildings renovated, trees and gardens tended. And then the truly unthinkable, above the dilapidated beauty college, between tattoo shops and book store fronts for the deal of meth, a wine bar moved in. I got inebriated and happy and thought less about the future with my mind and more with my body... and with that came a simple understanding. That there is no such thing as preparation, never has been. Out into the world again, a new home, a new place, an everchanging yet static me.
With the late summer shining through pulled curtains and Ray Charles singin' "the mess around" on the radio, an afternoon nap seemed in order. Third week of the inbetween, unemployed and terribly content with it. The phone rang as i began to nod, friends inviting me to dinner one town over~ in Centralia. With nothing else in mind and the fridge and cupboards wholly devoid of dinner i agreed.
I grew up here in southwestern Washington between a farm and a city, somewhere in the gray area. The lush valleys bending from the Olympics into alluvial deposits of meandering waterways leading up and up, plateauing above subterranean notches harboring immense canyons at the base of Mount Rainier and the fellow Cascade Range. And down there in the lowlands between peaks lies Lewis County, my beautiful semi-illiterate gem called home. It's good land, procures bounteous crops and feeds the mouths of stock and citizen with ease.
When i was coming of age it became apparent that my town, and many of those surrounding, had died with the ailing timber industry. Died from poor stewardship of the land, died from lack of interest, too many vices without income or sufficient subsidy. Desparate as an enfeebled third world country, the twin cities of Lewis County, Centralia and Chehalis, begged for new money to save its economy and well-being. And then a miracle like the angel Gabriel, an outpour from our democratic metropolitan dwellars into the outskirts of our red state. A miracle, Yes! Money arrived due to overpopulation in neighboring cities.
And who would have thought it, streets were cobbled and cleaned, century-old buildings renovated, trees and gardens tended. And then the truly unthinkable, above the dilapidated beauty college, between tattoo shops and book store fronts for the deal of meth, a wine bar moved in. I got inebriated and happy and thought less about the future with my mind and more with my body... and with that came a simple understanding. That there is no such thing as preparation, never has been. Out into the world again, a new home, a new place, an everchanging yet static me.
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