Wednesday, September 8, 2010

in a tent

Inside, inside is a sleeping bag that isn't really warm on top of ground that isn't really forgiving, next to the snores of companions who seem to find this sort of thing energizing and deeply spiritually fulfilling. Inside is a reminder that some people blossom under the strangest and most hostile conditions; inside is a pile of dirt encrusted camping clothes and various bottles of bug spray.
Outside is another rustle in the shrubs, closer this time, close enough to jiggle the corner of the tent a bit. There are ventilation windows made of mesh along the base, and if there were a moon it might reveal at least the silhouette of a chipmunk or a fox or a bear or a murderous escaped prisoner, and if the flashlight had more of a charge and I was less afraid of disturbing the ramblings of a bear and / or aggressive stranger and waking up those goddamned snorers in the process, and if I at least had a baseball bat or a pistol rather than the underwhelming flash of a sleek new camera, then all this would simply be local color, the charm and majesty of the great outdoors, rather than the least comfortable way to possibly spend several thousand dollars.





reading
suddenly, a plethora of work, as commitments resume /// thus, no books

weather
a box of utility peaches and a farewell to summer