Vomit drafts

That is what these are, vomit drafts. I do them in the time it takes Sophia to have a good long hour and a half to two hour nap (the reason for the brevity of them). I would appreciate feedback, if you would like to give it. I will try and do one vomit draft a day, and revise the ones already up, so the entries will change frequently.

Thank you for reading. :)

Sugar Hollow

(circa June 2005)


We sit quietly in the rumbling white truck. The cab vibrates with the rolling action of the tires on ill-cared for pavement. Your right hand, with nothing to occupy it, rests lightly on the seat. I debate with myself... to place my hand on yours, or not to. To do so would change everything. The movement my hand would make could trigger the air in the cab to swirl around us, stirring up the tender, delicate friendship and plunging it into something much more complicated. A slight smile plays momentarily on your lips... I wonder if you can read my mind, or if my expressions are just that transparent. My hands stay firmly in my lap, fingers twiddling awkwardly and tangling irreversibly with the light brown fringe circling the edges of my sarong. Change is difficult, strange; I cannot.

The road narrows heading into the hidden river bottoms, the verdantly opalescent green of the leaves on the trees on either side suppresses any truly cohesive cerebration. I amuse myself with thoughts of leaping out the window and landing in a soft buttery eiderdown of edible trees, voraciously gobbling up the liquid beryl leaves. My mind wanders.

The a.c. alternately runs quiet and wheezing, working diligently to produce a cool rain-forest atmosphere for the humans occupying the truck. It is Virginia, late June, the humidity reaching a record-high index. Our bodies are accustomed to it, the deep dragging, drowning water that moves oddly unhindered in the air. We are like fish, or we should be, for all the water we breathe. I look over to you, clandestinely, just in time to see gills sprouting on the side of your neck, and rippling with the passage of co-mingling air and water. I close my eyes. What a fantasy.

It is still and silent. We are very close. You begin to scan for a place to park your truck, occasionally glancing over at my side of the road... I turn my head slightly to avoid your penetrating eyes. If I meet your gaze, I would dissect and analyze all over again the many vivid colors painting your irises, and re-memorize the lines and contours of your face. I am transparent. You look at me and you see plainly the thoughts leaking out of my head, blood from a head wound. So I keep steady.

The truck thunders to a stop, tilted catawampus, half on the road, half in the ditch. Your door clicks open, swings wide and fast, bounces wildly at the boundary of its trajectory, and stills. I force my door up and out; grudgingly it gives ground to my body as I lean against it. I slip out the bottom of the door, and it slams shut, narrowly missing my head. You grin sheepishly. My tremulous smile wipes the grin from your face, and we begin walking the overgrown path at the side of the road, single file. As you pace, your 30mm solid black Nikon FE hanging from its strap oscillates to the rhythm of your footsteps along the dirt path. Periodically, I catch glimpses of it as it sways to your music, peeking out shyly from under your arms like a child behind his father's knee. Suddenly, you stop, turn, and face me. I pause in my stride, expectant. Without hesitating, you whip the camera up to your eye, aim, and snap the shutter. Startled, I let out ringing laughter, and you join in with a resonant baritone that shakes my reserve. We resume walking, giddy with the feeling of the moment and the strong, earthy scents hanging in the air. The river is journey's end.

You settle yourself on a large, flat-ish rock resting half-in and half-out of the water.

"Get in."

I pause again, shy and unsure. Your reassuring smile defrosts me; I untie and drop the sarong, leaving it where it lands. Standing on the edge in my bathing suit, turned away from you, I inspect the river bottom for sharp objects and debris before plunging into the rapids. A crawdad scuttles under a submerged rock, its eye stalks peeping out, warily scanning the water above it. The rushing water closes over my body, slowly, cool and wet. My shoulders shudder in reaction to the chill; I immerse my head quickly under, pop back up spluttering. You grin again, the mood is catching, and I grin back.

You begin snapping photographs of the river and her banks, the rocks shining wet with spray, and me. I protest, but you continue to move around from rock to rock, getting different angles, taking pieces of my heart and the river and melding them together into a simple collage... I submerge completely, close my eyes, and imagine you, still stealing parts of me until there is nothing left to take. My cells divide, little pieces of me separate and float off down the river; I am a water sprite, spirit of running water.

Back at the truck, you open the door for me, holding it against its will until I am safely, albeit tilted, in the seat. Lingeringly, you let the door's gravity pull it shut, a soft click. You lean against the window, and this time I cannot help myself. Your smile again appears, this time more full and emphatic, and my lips slide into a mirror of yours. Too bad there is solid glass between us.

You slip into the driver's seat, start up the engine, and pull out of the precarious parking spot. The trees on either side of the road speed up and fly past, racing to the horizon behind us. Your right hand, with nothing to occupy it, rests lightly on the seat. With deliberate, halting advances, I let my hand slide across the seat toward your hand, now gripping the fabric in anticipation. Your skin is smooth against mine. Your fingers get tangled just as easily. Automatic transmissions are heavenly. You hold my hand the whole way home.

Mountain Climb

Insomnia is a bitch. But sometimes, it can open up opportunities you never knew existed.

I was up all night last Friday, suffering with insomnia and a slight melancholy that had no explanation. Restless and fed-up with doing nothing productive, at six Saturday morning an idea jumped into my head... "Why not go for a jog... it is early, no one else is about, and I need the exercise." I strapped on my running shoes, shrugged into my CamelBak, grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

A few energizing lunges and a brisk warm-up walk, then I was on my way. I wandered aimlessly through the quiet neighborhood at the foot of the mountain, the entrance to the canyon within shouting distance. Which direction I went in was of no consequence; my legs told me where to go. Eventually, they took me down the hill towards the canyon mouth, and for a rest, I kept quiet company with the still-sleeping geese and ducks on the edge of the reservoir, a bony bench for my seat. An irritated squirrel urged me on, and so into the tunnel under the highway I ventured, singing softly, experimenting with the echoes and acoustics of the tunnel. Out the other side, and up, up, up on a winding gravel trail. At the top of the hill, I came upon a fork in the path. Here is where Robert Frost would be so very proud of me... "two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

So, up, up, up the abandoned access road, renewed with the sense of adventure and the unknown. As I climb, I take out my cell phone and snap poor-quality photographs of the landscape as it changes from gently rising hill to incredibly steep mountainside. The views up here are... almost indescribable. It is like I am on the wing of a bird, or aircraft, looking down on the land from the sky. Occasionally, I sip from my CamelBak, let the tube fall back to my side and drip droplets of cool water onto my hip... I hardly notice. Almost dreamlike, I stoop to pick up a perfect walking stick lying forgotten beside the track, evidence of worms who burrowed their way under the long-lost bark etched onto its surface, making star-burst patterns. The path ends. I stop a few feet from the industrial fence topped with concertina wire, turn to gaze at the view. I notice small, vibrantly colorful mountain flowers, innocently dancing and twirling their petals in the light breeze. I realize my legs are cold. I look up at the top of the mountain, so close, and make a decision. Whatever it takes, I'm going to the top. No stopping half-way, no turning back until the land slopes down again. I leave the old access road, and strike out cross-country over the sagebrush and wildflowers that go wheeling out of the path of the intruder. The grasshoppers have a field day, each striving to out-do the others in a bid to be the highest- and longest-jumping of the colony. The sun is still lingering behind the top of the mountain, as if waiting to greet me at the summit; birds twittering, keening, vainly trying to coax her out in a brilliant display of light and mute cacophony. I am alone. The sole human within hearing distance, and I am drowning in song. The earth and her creatures communicate in life-song, their very own common language. I am merely a paltry, temporary addition to their morning ritual. Higher I climb, stick in hand, aiding me to my destination.

The juxtaposition of silence and sonance is jarring. I stop, turn around to face the west, the peopled places, the cage of civilization, and wonder at the audacity of humankind. We are a plague. We, in a singular sense, are non-threatening. We, in a plural and massive sense, are damaging. We harm that which we should shelter. We spread disease and irreverence, leaving... nothingness... in our wake. We are finished here.

The rocks are new, sharp, jagged and biting; shining with silver, black, blue and gold flecks, reflecting gloriously the sun's temperate rays and mingling delicately with the percipitation in the air. I can feel a rainbow... but none appears. Gingerly I settle myself down into a depression in the rocks, allowing them to scrape and tear into my skin... it is the least I can do. Fragile pieces of the mountain come off in my grip, separating gleefully from the parent rock, to sit glimmering in my awkward hands... I feel how frail you are, dear Wilderness, in this fine example of earthen wealth.

No one knows how long I sit, and I forget that I have brought contraband into the heart of the wild, so time passes, and I find I do not care. Eventually, the sun makes her slow and steady way over the peaks, and warmly enfolds me in her eternally sunny embrace. I bask in her unfailing happiness... and devote myself to her spiritually.

That is my cue. My time in the sun is realized; I slowly stand, cast one last look around at the panoramic vista, and move off down the mountainside. The brush and wildflowers pick at and ensnare my calves, knees, and thighs... but I have to leave, must return to the black, desolate, empty box of civilization to carry your message, dear Wilderness. You are fleeting, inconstant, yet immortal; fragile, breakable yet rugged. We are killing you, yet you still kindly welcome the murderers into your demesne, maybe to enlighten us a little more of your plight, maybe to humorously point out your everlasting will to exist past us, this scar on your face.

I am gone. I no longer tread your secret trails, I am back on the beaten path. But you will stay within me, I take pieces of you in my thoughts and you left marks upon my skin as a reminder. I will remember.