Early On

After a murky and very moist month, there have been a couple of somewhat nicer days. Efforts at early summer. It seemed in some ways that April and May swapped in terms of both temperatures and precipitation.

Also, the societal attitude was more that of April than May. Tempers on edge with seasonal burnout and prayers to see the sun again. I too have felt a bit of burnout at the murk, but it's more musculoskeletal than social. The continuous roller coaster of the barometer has pushed and pulled at my twisted skeleton in ways I imagine the tidal forces of Jupiter affect Europa. My exhaustion toward the weather was one of pain.

Yet everything is lush and green. The early stages of runoff sing in esoteric tongues. The high peaks hold fresh snow from a month of storms. I can remember a May four years back like this one, except the snow-line was much lower, and when the sun came out for Memorial Day weekend there was dancing in the streets. Last night, we had a chiminea and watched the stars.

There has been an ugly conspiracy abroad to get me on HDPLC-Historic District Public Lands Commission-because of my liking to be outside, spearheaded by Sempai and a retired forester of my acquaintance of whom I'm on the historical board with and has been an election judge with me. What a way to start the summer.

Mei fei tsu. The way I see it, it'll keep me from getting tapped for anything political, like mayor or county commissioner. Long hair, piercings, trinkets, tattoos, and I-don't-fucking-do-dress-up aside, I'm on a historical board, a museum committee, a stewardship group, and now, apparently, a commission. That's a lot of irons in the fire. Politics would complicate things, and, if I wanted complication, I'd watch a French film.

So, yes, it is early summer, or at least trying to be. Trying to be a little warmer and drier. I wear sandals, but no shorts just yet. Apparently, I have something else to do to occupy my time that at least two, and maybe more, cats think I might have the qualifications for. I'm not sure how to approach the subject. It's that same sense of queerness as when one of my best friends told me how much he always admired me. Sometimes, I think I am given far too much credit. Still, it's early yet, on several levels. Looks like we'll all see, and, I, for one, like to watch.

Rambles

A day of rest. Over the last few weeks, I'd maybe gotten one or two of these. Not really my fault. See, Sempai had been off California dreaming, putting his stepfather in the ground, and, at its simplest, who else was there? My efforts have been noticed, lauded, and rewarded, for which I am grateful. Besides, the blood drama he had to deal with in a family of conservatives, crazies, and religious zealots makes my trip down south to help my father put his mother in the ground all those years and lifetimes ago almost a simple game of ketchup.

Despite all that noise, it doesn't seem there's been much going on. Oh sure, a couple walkabouts, trips to the local watering hole, Sabina and I even slummed the biggest town in the county, in what is basically the foothills, to get Cajun and play some pinball. Almost a date. Still, it's been almost like downtime, although, I am never one to complain about life being quiet. Whilst I enjoy my adventures, the dramatic side, which can sometimes rear its ugly head despite my best efforts, is something that can make me rather difficult to get along with.

It has been soggy. A lot of nice mornings and then rain in the afternoon. Sometimes rain all day. Snow above ten-thousand. Although, it has fallen a bit lower a few times. The snowpack for our river drainage is back above average, and there's flooding in flat places. Sabina's most recent radio show had a water theme to it in observance of it all. Part of me feels the burnout; wanting shorts and sandals after seeing hummingbirds and blooms. Another aspect grimly accepts this weather pattern knowing I cannot do anything about it other than make the best of it.

No bad weather, just the wrong gear...

Recently, I did draw something of a line in the sand, if only in my own mind. My sister had invited me down for my nephew's birthday. Because of obligations, I really couldn't, but I found myself feeling a little irate. It's been five years since either of my siblings have been to my house. Back when we scattered my mother's ashes up outside of the ruins of Waldorf. It's been two for my father. For some of my friends and acquaintances down below, of whom I wouldn't mind having over, it's been longer. Like since I left the fucking city.

Sometimes I get asked to come down. I him and haw. There's the fuel and my growing hatred of crowds. The fact it's becoming increasingly hard to see at night whilst driving and I don't stay up until the small hours anymore. Rationalizations, perhaps. However, and, what caused the above mentioned ire, was remembering how my father will say the road goes both ways and I find myself sick to death with those both ways being me going down and coming back up.

Point? Final statement on the matter? It's y'all's fucking turn. You want to see me? You come up the hill.

Last night, I was going through some older stuff, and came across this;

"I have this urge to pack up my belongs and move to Africa, or, maybe Tibet, disappear into the wilds, and grow a beard..."

That was right after my grandmother died. I could Conformationally Biasly say it was where the trouble started, or an aspect of it. That wanting to ramble, but we all know better. Although, it got me to think, and thinking is good.

There was a comment from the bruja, which gave me a chuckle. I should have stopped there, but it was late at night, when the demons come for tea, and I was having a whiskey to note I had no obligations for the next two days. I found the last correspondence between us; me offering sympathy and an ear right before her grandmother died. It was the day before the rollover that would take my beautiful friend's life, some ten months after I'd lost my mother.

The gypsy recently told me she believed the bruja was wearing her seatbelt when she was ejected from the vehicle, but the force of impact was enough to do what it did. Such a postulation can help assuage five years worth of slow-burning anger over the circumstance, but it doesn't change facts; dead is dead, and you do not always get to walk away from that. My friend certainly didn't, of which I am so vividly aware. I stared at the correspondence for a long time.

So it goes...

It is a day of rest. I mean to wander the Notch down-valley. Maybe take myself out for a salmon burger. Just because. Walk back up the canyon along the train tracks. Shrimp curry for supper. Tomorrow I do a museum committee thing of being at reception for the train workers, but that's more of cookout than any kind of obligation. I feel myself recharging as these words flow from my fingers. Summer's almost here and the snow on the high peaks is striking as always. I itch to get further into the Backcountry and up upon the alpine, but I know that's bit off. Sooner than I think, but later than I hope.

So it goes...

Notes From the Shoulder

The first hummingbirds of the season were a week earlier than even some of the oldest old timers remember. There was still elation, for they foretell the true coming of summer. My feeders, both seed and pollen, have been busy places. The cats make valiant attempts, and I narrate their trials in the accent of Sir David Attenborough. It's hard to tell who is more amused; myself, or, the mocking cackles of feeling birds.

In twenty-two shorter than we realize days, tourist season really gets underway. The first tour bus of the season showed up during obligations. Chinese. I deal with people from all over the planet, and it is times like that I curse my lack of multi-linguistics. Sure, I know a few words in a few languages, but only enough to sound cool, or, affected, in conversation.

Despite that misanthropic face I see in the mirror, I do also realize I have many metaphoric irons in the metaphoric fire. I might be placing another into those proverbial flames. Right now, it's a whole lot of hurry up and wait. Although, cats of my acquaintance seem to be pulling for me and my patience is formidable. The magistrate pointed my existence out to some powerful people who smoke fancy cigars and drink expensive drinks. I am not sure how to approach the subject.

This is the time of waiting. Waiting for the green and the flowers. Waiting for rafting and the museums to open. Waiting for it to get hot out. Up here, we stand upon the shoulder waiting. Summer is but sun and storm away.