100 Words; High Adventure with BBQ

Some righteous icicles out back...

It is the first time in many, many, many years I have done what white man calls Christmas shopping. Horrible. To assuage this psychic trauma, I treated myself to BBQ. The graham cracker stout beer was a meal unto itself. One you could cut with a knife, of which the restaurant's proprietor promised me a sharper one for next time. I smiled and thanked him for his time.

I guess there could be a next time; hopping down-valley for some BBQ and a graham cracker stout. That Christmas shopping thing? Bah-adding humbug would be trite-! Now that's for the birds.

100 Words; First Grilling

It was a truly delicious day; that kind of turquoise blue sky and little breeze. The sun was wonderful, bordering upon warm, on my face. Perfect. Well, as perfect as it can get without getting boring.

We trekked to some ruins in the seductive sunlight. My vest has been my top layer for the last three days. It began to feel almost hot out.

No, it's not shorts and sandals weather...yet. However, we uncovered the grill and had steak and roasted peppers. Beer and wine chilled in the snowbank but a few feet away.

This is how we roll...

100 Words; Snow Eater

The wind blows Tibetan from the Roof of the World. Although, the breeze is possessed of a queer warmth, like the whispers of the jinn across the wastelands and within the shadows of ruins, or the breath of a dragon as it speaks in its tongue of riddles. Oddly comforting, but also strangely chilling.

The texture of the snow becomes soft, like that of mashed potatoes. Slush and the preludes of mud. Whorls of bare ground appear for the first time in months. The winds are commonly called chinook, but I prefer their fabled, if not erroneous, moniker; the snow-eater.

100 Words; Alien Song

If you listen, you can hear the river ice as it freezes and thaws, shifts and buckles, expands and contracts. To my ears it is the alien chanting of some far-flung mountain monastery. Mantras of an order older than the kingdoms of Man, perhaps even before the times of dragons and titans when the world was yet young.

Winds of Tibetan viciousness have sculpted interesting drifts across the landscape. In some places, the snow can be a crusted knee-high dune, in others a bare dusting of fine powder. Sometimes, the sound of footfalls is jarring to the cacophony of silence.

100 Words; Young Old Man

They've known one another since childhood. Curmudgeonly old friends. They are a host of characters; a retired language instructor, a skydiving vagabond, and the president of our local historical society. There are some great stories to be told.

Here are men in their mid to late sixties talking, acting, and drinking like it's around high school. I can scarcely keep up. The midnight hour approaches and I cannot keep my eyes open. I am not the nocturne I once was. At forty-one, it looks like I'm the old man. The irony is not lost on anyone. There are laughs aplenty.

100 Words; Summer Thunder

The sky sounds angry. War drums of thunder echo across the peaks. The dragon clouds growling and roaring. Brief and shocking flashes give the illusion of bright daylight against the encroaching evening.

There's a sudden rattle outside that draws attention to the window. It's raining like Africa. The sky is blacker than moonless midnight. A front row seat to the 'pocalypse.

As soon as it starts, the anger abates. The early evening sky lightens a little, a patch of clear can be seen to the west. Seems the 'pocalypse's been canceled. There's nine bean soup and Americana on the radio.

100 Words; Runoff

The world becomes filled with sound of rushing water. Little gulches, dry, frozen, silent, during other times of the year become talkative streams. Hot weather has not truly come yet. Once that arrives, in the afternoons and evenings, the river will not only sing, it will roar.

We saw river rafters the other day. Miguel Loco's down the Grand Canyon, vacation before summer season gets underway and catharsis from a divorce. On walkabout, I think of three trails I want to do directly, all of which have Gulch in their names. The siren's song of running water fills my ears.

100 Words; Upslope

The wind blows out of the east and I start the off with lapsang souchong tea. One of those days. A couple of inches of goose down floats along the air currents in the manner of willow-the-wisp.

Inside, the DJ alternates between bluegrass and Ravi Shankar. Fantastic. Down below, trained meteorological professionals wax 'pocalyptic about this turn of events. Feast or famine. Some people are never satisfied.

It's a little. Probably not enough in the grand scheme. In the moment, perhaps it doesn't matter. There's a certain beauty and silence. Everything is made new under a blanket of fresh white.

100 Words; Services

When it comes to the services, religion ceases to matter. It is more about community. It's dark, it's cold. The impetuous snowshoe and cross-country ski to that old church. Snow falls oh, so softly, we get a white Christmas, and, after such a dry time, a bit of winter's blessings.

The boys who run the show are ordained through the Universal Life Church, which, I suppose, makes my own heresies forgivable. Then again, this doesn't have a have damn thing to do with religion. It's community. Those simple moments of humanity, which get me to beam like a chesire cat.

***

I was introduced to the 100 Words concept from Mister London Street. Although he's since decided to stop blogging, go check out his stuff, it's nothing short of fantastic.

100 Words; Milk and Honey

By the grin on Miguel Loco's face you'd think he was a wide-eyed whelp on Christmas Day. His shoppe was packed with lookie-loos and serious propositions. Outside, the streets were packed; eking, scratching, half-bald monkeys throbbing and pulsing like army ants.

The trail was crowded, but the tundra was striking in the late afternoon sun of high summer. Our last push to the upper lake was worth it, the best part. We got free glasses of wine upon our return. Miguel Loco grinned with whimsiy when we told our tale.

"This is the high season," he said. "Milk and honey."

100 Words; Twilight Tigers

I pulled someone outside to behold the spectacle of the twilight tiger clouds in the fading sunlight. And they spoke of triviality. Stupid things. That, which could be repaired.

And I hissed in the tongues of feral cobras and meditative demons;

"What does it matter? Look at this most beautiful portrait. Enjoy the moment, because it will never come again, no matter how you try."

My lesson was learned or lost. Black or white. Profound truth or a waste of oxygen. It doesn't matter. I watched the twilight tigers fade to shades of Grey, ever so grateful for the moment.

100 Words; Going Back

The party was a rare case of going back. It seems, the ghosts I encounter with most frequency are those of memory. There, they were legion; vampires, punks, and try-too-hard-hipsters. I was invited. Baited, albeit unintentionally, for a trap.

Things change. Things stay stagnantly the same. Perhaps I am just too critical.

Someone said seeing me in an urban enviroment, so many years on, was the money shot. Legend. Apocrypha.

It was a fluke and invite; going back. Accidental time travel. See, as much fun as it could be to fuck with the quantum, the only constructive way is forward.

100 Words; Past Lives

In your past life; you were a principal across the world. Places in Africa and Asia. I 've heard your stories over beers and tequila. You say the women of Ethiopia the prettiest, in Thailand, the skankiest. Tales I listen to with rapt attention.

You hold public orifice, but won't run for reelection for the brain damage. You aren't in charge at his place of employment, but you'll tell anyone-including your overseer-what to do.

I am in awe of your past life. Be that as it may, what you're doing now is a little more important, by virtue of now...

100 Words; Wake Up Call

They were together again; same house and life. False smiles and civilities. The relationship couldn't have been more about convenience if there was a soda fountain and jerky rack in the bedroom.

I jarred her awake to say farewell. Obligations. She threw her arms around me, almost terrified to let me go.

"Thank you. You woke me up."

We'll have known each other ten years come high summer and have been more to each other a little more than half of that come spring. This isn't the first time she's thanked me for waking her. That bit of gratitude's mulilayered.

100 Words; Idle Hands

There was really nothing to do. No victims. The travelers wanted to get where they were going. I got a little punchy. But I insist it wasn't my fault. Idle hands and all.

Images were sent. My sister couldn't stop laughing and my father enjoyed it. My daughter said I was her hero. Sempi said the model never looked better.

For some reason no one believes me when I say the Devil made me do it, even if I might've meant it. Queer. I wonder if it has anything to do with what I once said about the Devil's wife?

100 Words; A Little Night Music

Something from awhile back...

About every three weeks, the Music Geeks meet...

One brings the prog rock, another the grunge. I handle the African/world/punk. Sabina does folk with one Rush song, because. There's Icelandic and electronica; all of that Knob.

I'm not an open fan of the Knob, but I groove to it; a guilty pleasure...

The context speaks to me of after dark in the most neons of downtowns. Places I have been before, though lifetimes have passed. I groove on it when the Geeks play. See, it is so rarely after dark, when the neon comes up I can indulge.

***

This was partially inspired by the 100 Words posts from Mister London Street and a bit from the soundtrack of  Tron; Legacy of which I blame one of the Music Geeks for playing at one of our gatherings...

100 Words; Deception for a Friend

The gypsy's mother is in the sickhouse. Brain bleed. There will be surgery when the swelling goes down.

I am told these things because we're kindred in more ways than one; she's an ICU nurse, I used to dance with the dead for money. We've had closeness with our mothers. My mother's last seventeen days were around this time of year.

I tell the gypsy I'll do whatever I can. She's my friend and I've been where she is. I'm thanked, but I'm really lying.

I might do anything for her, except tell her about the bad feeling I have...

100 Words; The Argentine

Whistler standing all majestic mountain-dog like at the ruin of Pavilion Point...

***

Once, it was part of the narrow-gauge railroad, which snaked up Leavenworth Mountain to what are now the ruins of Waldorf and beyond a bit. The tracks are long gone now. If you know how and where to look, you'll see the remnants of railroad ties.

The grade is under hard-pack. In a month, month and a half, it'll be perfect for snowshoeing. Today, I wear gators over my boots.

"Ready to go?" I ask Whistler.

He gives an approving chomp and lopes ahead of me. We can reach the one ruin in an hour, and I know a shortcut.

100 Words; Assam

You introduced me to assam many, many years ago. It was the last autumn my grandmother was alive. Back then, I would imagine a civilization that was tiered and terraced. Ancient, but perhaps not.

I return from walkabout and put on my whore-red kettle. She screams to me whilst I whip myself a bowl of daal. Assam steeps in the boiling water. It seems to be in context.

These days I live somewhere tiered and terraced. Ancient, but perhaps not. I still have assam now and again. My grandmother has been gone a very long time now.

Same as you...

100 Words; Down Below

We take in a museum by virtue of gifted tickets. Free is my favorite price. Dinosaurs, mummies, and dioramas of Africa.

In our Sahel, the aspens are at their peak and lookie-loos the world over come to marvel. The scent of wood smoke perfumes the air.

Down below, the foliage is still green. Shorts and sandals. The omens of autumn haven't manifested.

I can sometimes get a little nostalgic for the city, despite the claustrophobic crush of  concrete, steel, and glass. There were some good times down below. But then I get back to my mountains, and the nostalgia fades.

***

In giving credit where credit is due; the100 Words concept comes from Mr. London Street. Although, a few other storytellers of whom I admire have been given to doing it as well.