Partitioned Sky

 

Damn, who would have expected a jogger out on a windy wooded road hours after the sun had set? I felt bad, I mean, I had my brights on till I was almost on him, coming the other way. I don't know what I thought he was in his reflective vest with a flashlight strapped to his head; a construction barricade or reflective tape on someone's mailbox or something, certainly not a jogger.

The early dawn light was soft as ever, but seemed chill this morning, reflected as it was off of the layer of white that still covered the lawn. I turned on a light to counteract that impression. My compact florescents aren't bad, being second generation. I mean they're not cold per se, but in in the vent hood above the range I still have an ancient incandescent that hasn't expired yet. I have to admit they give off a cozy glow, and that's all the light I needed anyway. I'll have to experiment with the new high efficiency bulbs they're coming out with now, when it goes.

It was nice too that there was a fire still smoldering in the wood stove. I only had to throw a couple of pieces of wood in there and I was done. In a few minutes it was warm enough for me to take a shower. A fairly warm day was forecast so I didn't bother to stoke the stove when I left for work. As I was cleaning out the ashes after work I was pleasantly surprised when I dug into some live coals. The newspaper was beginning to smoke before I'd even placed the kindling. And I'm still only using poplar, a fairly soft hard wood. My neighbor has some real hardwood cut and split he's going to sell me cheap, as soon as it dries up or freezes so that he can get into his property over in Brown County. The way it's been going it may not do either for the duration of the winter!

I was going to kvetch about my car problems, and work, which are interrelated, but we were going along so nicely and I really don't want to think about all that right now. There is one more thing that I want to tell you though. Something that happened at work this morning:

I was on a small two lane highway in the glacier flattened north of Indiana, flat as a pancake. The sun was shining full on me but the western horizon was dominated by a massive purple cloud trailing the shadows of isolated rainstorms; trailing like the tentacles of a jellyfish swimming against a swift current. That rain, or snow or whatever it was didn't reach the ground until it had traveled miles and miles from where it started in the sky.

I noticed more cloud bursts to the north, but these fell at a gentle, normal angle. The interesting thing was that they fell at an angle opposite to the others. Then I noticed that the southernmost of these rain showers, a fairly heavy downpour, bent at a sharp angle two thirds of the way to ground, forced backward to the same angle as those thrashed trailing tentacles. The division was half way to the cloud by the time that I got to Logansport and lost sight of the phenomenon. It would have been cool to see the one storm completely overtaken by the other.

 

Occupy Nightmare

I don't really have anything to say except maybe: "Forgive them truck driver, they know not what they do." Or should that be, "Forgive them truck driver, they're stupid and can't do any better?" No, some are downright stupid, I'm sure, but most are simply ignorant. I wish they'd say, "Forgive him, for he is trying to pilot that behemoth safely through these streets and it ain't easy."

But why is it always about the job? I know it started out that way because being an over the road truck driver was novel and exciting and at that time the job and sleep eclipsed 90% of my life. It's no longer novel or exciting, but still consumes, along with the necessary sleep, at least 75% of me. I pay a heavy price to earn a living. And what a great living it is. I make a median income and still live paycheck to paycheck.

The days are short. Darkness fall early and the Xmas lights are up. They range from the trashy to the extravagant, and occasionally the truly elegant. I shouldn't put them down though, I do like them; I mean at least they're something to look at.

I started doing some research. I'm tired of this damned rhetoric from both sides of the aisle, but especially from the serfs staunchly defending their cruel overlords. It's tragically comical; stranger than fiction.

I don't remember my elementary school history well enough to retort but I'm sure what's being bandied about isn't right. After hearing an interview with Catherine Crier I decided to get her new book, *Patriot Acts.* I mean, she worked for Fox News, she's main stream enough that I can't get accused of reading subversive literature, which I'm also open to.

She thinks we're in deep do do, but we already knew that, right? I was after Adam Smith and the "Invisible Hand," but lack the time to read primary sources (or even Wikipedia entries with my schedule). Just as I thought: the Right's wrong; got it ass backward, or rather, "selectively edited" (quoting Catherine there). Given my new found penchant for speaking out I'm sure you'll hear more about this. If not, look it up.

Stream of Concientiousness

In addition to this public and my private journal I also keep what I call a poetry journal. Not that what I write is any good as poetry, it's just a place where I can express my thoughts without the need of a narrative thread. I experimented with the format here for a bit. It didn't work out. There's usually an image or two in an entry that I like, but the whole breaks down, and if I get political then the results are just silly. Every once in awhile a little gem emerges so, without trying to win any literary prizes I may share them with you. Here's one from a couple of days ago that I kind of like:

Sure, I'll remember, like
I remember the way
to an abandoned factory where
all the machines are silent.
It was easy to follow the grade of the
old road untill the wash out.
Leaves blow through the broken windows.
But I do remember, I remember
the barn swallows cavorting in
the dim heights,
I just can't picture you there anymore.

The coffee filters are almost gone again,
can that many mornings have passed already?

Follow the Footpaths

 

The windows aglow with a soft grey light barely revealing the outlines of the furniture. Ouch, stubbed my toe (not). I prefer not to use the electricity in the presence of such beauty.

That was before the time change. My internal clock still wakes me an hour early, as does my cat, wanting food, and my regularity. I turn over in bed and await the alarm. The light is broad again before ever I arise.

This morning I had an appointment, on my day off, and rose well before dawn. There was only moonlight as I stoked the fire, then the orange light of the open wood stove flickering off the walls and reflected full on in the computer's blank screen; later dawn sneaking quietly on rosy tipped fingers, or whatever Homer said.

The leaves are mostly gone, the branches bare. Following Dolan Ridge toward town the vista over the Beanblossom is once again revealed. Oh was it fine this morning with frost edging everything close at hand like some digital trick and the melting rays of the sun only half way up the western hills. There was fog hanging low over Wylie Road, my secret backwater.

It has been a magnificent autumn, but this too shall pass.

I had to take my car in. I came really close to buying a new or late model vehicle. I mean, I make a median income, I ought to be able to afford a car, right? Well, on paper I could, but even now there are weeks that I struggle through. I chickened out. It's probably a good thing. The I Ching thinks so, even though I got a changing line that I'd never seen before. It said something like: the sage stands ready with many rags to plug the holes in his boat. This was when I asked about keeping the old vehicle. The prognosis was much worse for buying new though: Stagnation.

So I dropped the car off on the Northwest side and took off walking toward the South side where the cheap car rentals are (of course I could have taken a cab, silly). There was still frost in the shadows at first. I know Bloomington so much better now. Leaving aside the details let me just say that I am no longer a youngster. Trespassing derelict properties because they're interesting would be a lot harder to explain now, not that that stopped me. And here's a tip that I knew, but had forgotten: when you're on foot, follow the footpaths.

That's not exactly true, I recognized the short cut across 37, "the brutal highway," but it went up a pretty steep embankment and I wasn't entirely sure. I might have saved myself a step or two, no matter.

I visited some old haunts along the way. I once lived right across 5th street from Rose Hill Cemetery, nearly thirty years ago. I was looking for Hoagy Carmichael's grave. They've put a new headstone and I couldn't find it. "I thought it was here..." I was just about to leave when I saw the bottle of Crown Royal. I dug the rose out from under the fallen leaves.

I (we) am so blessed to live in such a wonderful place. Multiple adventures latter, involving graffiti art, solar panels, flying fish, and more, and after lunch at a local micro brewery I headed south on the "B-line," a Rails to Trails pedestrian thoroughfare. I knew that there was no way over the "Jordan River" past Grimes but I kept going because I have some old friends who live down that way.

It was the middle of the day and I didn't expect anyone to be home. I stopped first at the son's apartment at the bottom of the stairs. I knocked and called his name. No movement. It's a small apartment so I climbed the stairs to the Stepfather's apartment. Again no answer. Just as I was turning to leave the door at the bottom of the stairs opened. As we were saying "Hey, hey!" the door at the top of the stairs opened. All of a sudden it's a party!

But this too shall pass. I axed if there was a way over the creek short of Country Club and was told about the "Old Bridges." That's what I'm saying, "I know Bloomington so much better now." I'm saying, "follow the footpaths." I'm saying, "Rock On!"

 

Whole Cloth

 

I'm at a loss for words. Just a moment ago I was so clever, so to the point. I remember that I'd declared the not too hidden fact that I'm depressed. Not so that I'd want to end it all, except slowly. Three times under. There was something else, I can't remember what, then the words of my friend Mary, "You're the only one who can change it."

I quipped the memory of her remark, and that's what I can't recall; I was so clever, so to the point.

Godess I'm depressed. Self medicated (i.e. drunk, on the weekends anyway). I got onto facebook drunk. Oops.

I mean, the level of discourse is not. One of my co-workers came into a little gathering in the office and declared that the protesters on Wall Street are being paid by Obama. He was serious. He'd heard it on the internet. Is there some misconstured kernel of truth there or was this fashioned of whole cloth? Does such a distinction even matter?

The Autumn progesses beautifully. I saw my first bare tree this evening, its bronchial structure displayed like spilt ink across the sunset. I've got my poplar stacked and covered and my neighbor said he told some tree hound to get lost so that I could cut up his fallen hickory. I guess I'll be warm even if the electricity fails this winter.

Yeah, I know the truth. It may be beautiful, but it ain't pretty.

 

I Daresay

 

This goes beyond neglect. I daresay I have no regular readers left. Not that I could blame you. It's been a long time since I've had anything truly interesting to share. Should I go back out on the road again? Banish the thought!

Wednesday last was a grey day, constant drizzle punctuated by the occasional downpour. The city is grey, punctuated by neon. How indistinct; I realize how much we rely upon light and shadow to structure our world, all the time imagining everything to be so clear.

Overcast and rain makes the city dissappear; not so the autumn woods. The muted colors glow, take on new life. I get frustrated with the tourists clogging up the roads, rubbernecking the leaves. I guess I can share. I feel sorry for the welfare mothers though, the ones who couldn't afford the petrol to come down here even if they had a car. Occupy Brown County! (That's not a racial slur; Brown County is the autumn tourist destination in Southern Indiana, with colors equal to New England's.)

It's not grey now. The sun is bright, filling my living room with the moving shadows of the leaves still on the trees, and there are many. It's just now approaching peak. (Who among thee remembers peaking on LSD?) I work too much, too long. I pay a heavy price to earn a living, yet I am blessed. Yes dear reader, I neglect you. Another Lotus Festival has come and gone. Last night I attended Carrie Newcommer's CD release concert at the Buskirk-Chumley theatre.

Everything is Everywhere.

 

Chiropractor, Heal Thyself!

 

It was the kind of pain that turns your stomach, that beads your brow with sweat. I'd jumped out of bed without realizing anything was wrong; now I was hobbling around the living room saying, "Oh shit" over and over. "Oh shit, this sucks, I don't think I can make it to work today. Oh shit." I called my chiropractor but his office was closed till Wednesday. "Oh shit, fuck!"

I'd been experiencing some lower back pain since Saturday, after I'd cut up some downed trees in the back yard and hauled the wood up to be split. The pain was low level and I'd hoped it would simply work itself out. Then Sunday my buddy brought his splitter over. He ran the machine while I fed it. I could tell it wasn't the best for my back, but it didn't feel like I was doing any more damage, nor was I in any more pain after than before. I even went to work that evening.

Monday morning was when I got slammed. I recognized this pain. I'd had it before, after cutting wood once years ago; duh. I forced myself to eat a little dry toast, swallowed massive amounts of ibuprofen, did stretches and hobbled around for about half an hour. "Oh shit, oh shit." I started to feel better and headed for Indianapolis thinking maybe my boss would know of a chiropractor close by so that I could get cracked and then keep cracking. I can't afford to lose work.

By the time that I got there the pain was manageable and I figured I'd wait till Friday to seek help, my day off. It was a busy day. I was climbing in and out of the tractor continually, dropping trailers, hooking to trailers. Lo and behold come evening time I was feeling good; not just better, really fucking good, like that ambrosial peace that descends on one after an intense migraine has departed.

"The morning will be the test," I figured, "after a night of inactivity." When morning came I was still good. I'm healed, thank the Goddess!