Sunday, 14 August 2005
If you were tacking a westward course on I94 around the Pewaukee area around 19:00 this evening, you might have been priviliged to see a maroon Hyundai hastening towards Madison. Tucked away in a bag on the back seat was an odd bit of clothing. Next to the bag was a digital camera full of images taken at a Renaissance Faire. In the front seat were two gentlemen singing and playing air instruments. The driver was doing percussion and accordian while the passenger had an air acoustic guitar and an array of percussion as well. Had you been a fly on the windshield, you would have known that neither of these two men could sing but were giving it their best college tries. And were you that fly, you would have also discovered that they were giving their best go at doing Jethro Tull's "Skating Away on the Thin Ice of the New Day".
When I got home Saturday morning, I made it my priority to return Old Man Standiford's video camera to him. He had to go to Tomah Sunday to shoot some footage for his 25-year high school reunion. I finally got a hold of him and headed over to his place. I put the camera on the table and we sat down. I mentioned that I was reading a book on the making of Blade Runner and this set us off on various film-geek tangents that I'm glad no one witnessed. Marv, who is living at Dan's, woke up around noon and joined us. He looked groggy as he'd had a bout with John Barleycorn the night before. When I left it was with some summer squash in-hand.
Returning home, I walked into the kitchen only to find that the counter was being overrun by fresh produce. Becca had picked a lot of tomatoes and cucumbers. I then made the mistake of looking in the refrigerator and seeing a couple freezer bags full of broccoli and peppers. This, of course, meant that I was left with the responsibility of dealing with all these vegetables. The peppers would be easy - freeze and dry them. Broccoli would be eaten fresh. Tomatoes would be canned while the cucumbers would be thrown into salads and given away. This left me with squash. What the hell was I supposed to do with mulitiple pounds of the stuff? Kias had given me some last week and I ate squash 4 or 5 days in a row. While I like summer squash, there was no way I'd get through all that Standiford had given to me. (I don't think Becca or Stevie would touch the stuff.) So I thumbed through my new canning book and stumbled upon bread & butter pickled squash. I had never pickled anything in my life. I made a run to the coop for some spices and pint jars. So I cut up the squash with a bunch of onion, threw it all in a big bowl with a bunch of salt, and left it in the refrigerator for a few hours.
Jay Farrar/Son Volt and his music seems to come into my life at times of rebirth, times when things take a turn for the better. It's just this pattern that I've noticed. I first started listening to Son Volt sometime between the release of their first album, Trace, and its follow-up, Straightaways. Sometime in late 1995, perhaps? Whatever the exact time, it followed on the heels of the end of a 2½ year relationship which was finally put down after a few months of lingering in a terminal condition. Initially I found myself listening to "Windfall" and "Tear-Stained Eye" as I struggled to work through the intense loneliness and crawl out from the depths of depression. Eventually I got into the rest of the album and then things got a bit worse when I found out that my roommate at the time had been dating my ex-girlfriend. This gave way to my first real bout with The Green-Eyed Monster and, let me tell ya, it was no fun. But, as the months wore on, things slowly got better. And, just as Philip K. Dick had his events of 3/74, I had my own events of 1996/97. It was a time of personal revelation involving everybody else and involved an eldritch confluence of music, Celtic myth, political philosophy, and Kantian ethics. The end result was that my life truly got better and Son Volt's Straightaways was part of the soundtrack of that period. The next time that Farrar and his music reared its collective head during a time of personal turmoil was when my father died. I didn't notice it as much on the drive down to Louisiana but I did on the way back home. I suppose that, while driving south, my mind was reeling from the shock of his death and a cloud of uncertainty as to what I would find once I reached my destination. The drive home, however, was different. I'd gotten his estate and affairs mostly sorted out before I left and had his ashes in the back seat - I was taking him "home". I had some sense of closure, of finality so I was able to think other thoughts. One of them was the fact that I was driving next to the Mississippi River - the most storied in America. Also during the trek up I55, I noticed all the signs for places mentioned in Jay Farrar's songs - Sainte. Genevieve, Sauget, Cahokia. And I listened to Son Volt while driving through the area. It made for a nice diversion. When I finally got home, I started listening to Son Volt more often and Farrar's music once again became part of the soundtrack to a process of healing, of moving on to a better place.
Last night, after seeing Jay Farrar perform and getting his autograph at our local Borders, I found that his visit was a precursor to things taking a turn for the better. I'd gone with Pete and Claire but they didn't join me in line for an autograph. But, When all was said and done, I found myself outside with The Dulcinea and we chatted because Pete and Claire had disappeared.
Nervous.
Pete was found and Claire followed. The Dulcinea walked to our cars. She asked what I was doing that night and I told her that I had to drop Pete and Claire off at the Eagle's Crest. Then she jokingly mentioned following Marv out to Mickey's. We parted ways but something happened inside. After the drop off, I went home. But I didn't stay there long.
I threw my bag on the kitchen table. Firing up my laptop, I went into my e-mamil and searched for an one containing The Dulcinea's cell phone #. I called her and asked if she was keen on getting together for a couple beers or something. She replied that she was nearly home so I should just meet at her house. Like a prom dress, I was off and out the door.
I was nervous. Very nervous. What was I doing? What did I expect to happen? What did I want to happen? No answers came to me. Instead, I felt like Fred Madison from Lost Highway. The white lines sped past and I felt like I would arrive at a beach with a lone shack. Had my brain ceded control over to my dick? Was this to be just a booty call? Or was there something more? After what seemed like hours, I arrived at The Dulcinea's house.
My heart was beating quickly and I was anxious. Nervous - so very nervous. What was I getting into here? I approached the door and was greeted by The Dulcinea. After the perfunctory salutations, she mentioned something about making a mix CD for an Internet friend.
I followed her to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth. We then found ourselves standing paralyzed in the shadows of the narrow hallway outside simply looking at one another.
"Do you want to go out for a beer?" I asked cautiously.
"No," she answered, "I'd rather just stay here." A pregnant pause followed. We continued nervously looking into one other's eyes. Finally she broke the silence. "I don't know if I should be honest with you about what I'm thinking."
Honesty. Honesty. Honesty is good. "Please do."
"Well, I'm thinking we should just go upstairs and have sex." OK! So she lead me by the hand up to her room. Undressing in her presence felt completely natural as did standing there naked before her. She stood at the foot of the bed and so I knelt upon the mattress. We embraced. The heartache disappeared instantly as my skin touched hers. Immediately I started getting hard and my cock slipped neatly between her legs, pressing up against her lips. Tracing the curves of her hips with my fingers caressing her back, tasting her lips - it felt all at once new yet familiar. "It looks to be a booty call," I thought. "So be it." Honestly, I was not expecting what happened five minutes later.
vinegar of white
Tumeric in my spoon
Pickle squash I will this afternoon
Having made multiple runs to different grocery stores, five o'clock rolled around. I had jars, spices, and a steady hand. I rinsed and drained the squash/onion mix while the jars were being sterilized. In my cast iron pot I got the brine a-workin'. The concoction sent a noxious cloud of gas through the house but I didn't care. Squash needed to be pickled and I wasn't going to let toxic fumes stop me. I boiled, cooked, packed, and processed. Four pints. See:
The events that transpired Thursday night were quite surprising for me. That being said, I must admit that I didn't expect to be having a conversation on Sunday morning about polyamory.
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