Have you ever found yourself on the listening end of a conversation when the only responses your brain can seem to articulate is something along the lines of , “uh (pause) huh”, “Well…” or, “(long) O (pause) kay”? You struggle to relate to what is being said, or you misread the context because, I don’t know, maybe the context is missing. Your tongue trips over the complexity of single syllables and conjunctions are the only pronounceable elements that stand between you and drooling.

It’s like that, only I’m the speaker.

Rather than subject anyone to the uncomfortableness of obligatory interaction, I’ve opted for claustrophobia, even thought it gets crowded in my head. At this point, I am seriously boring myself. There is nothing of importance here, just details, tedium and a laundry list of chores. Too inconsequential to mention, too heavy to forget, and too thankless to delegate successfully….and then there is the irony of remembering there was a time I looked foreword to being an adult. Breaking the boundaries of discipline, staying awake past midnight, doing things I wanted to do only I am mired in my own inertia.

H20
Enamel paint on old rusted sign
13″ X 22″

I left sunday morning for parts more humidly oppressive. A route I’ve traveled often these past six months. A perpetual journey to inevitability. This time was different. I was held captive by my own thoughts rather than the light hearted banter I typically share with my partner. Usually he drives. I pour myself into a newspaper so I’m not visually connected with the traffic subjected to his impatience and uncharacteristic profanity. I’d rather not know who passed us on the right or why he is engaged in passive aggressive tailgating. I’d prefer to send my last moments on the planet engrossed in a crossword puzzle, something I enjoy, rather than engaged in a white knuckle grip of the oh shit handle, something I hate.

Passing the carpet warehouses, I noticed I sheet of paper fluttering across the highway in the wake of passing cars. It passed left, then right, caught like a butterfly in a transparent vortex. Ordinary. White paper. Unworthy of memory. Until a gust slowly shifted it so that I might make out a single word, James.

Six hours is long time to be confined to your own thoughts. James, however was not my thought, but my distraction of all things self-centered. For the next hundred miles, I contemplated James. Who was he? Am I being sexist in my assumption, or is it possible James is female. That would be unusual, but certainly not impossible. Perhaps James is nickname? Jameson?Hmm, kind of pretentious sounding. I went to junior high with a guy who said he wanted to name his son, James. That’s unusual. Not the name, James, but that a thirteen year-old boy is contemplating his future children, and naming them. I wonder if he ever had a son, and named him, James?

I see signs like this at the airport, walking through arrivals. The signs usually have last names, not first names, and the people holding those signs tend to look business-like, almost solemn in their demeanor. I guess it’s possible someone was walking along the interstate looking for James. Highly unlikely. Most likely this was a sign taped to James’ crap packing in the bed of a truck, covered loosely by a blue tarp, frayed and flapping in the breeze. So, why was James leaving? Was he going to someone or leaving someone?

And so the mystery of James accompanied my through downtown Atlanta.

Eventually, I became distracted by other things, as to their importance, I cannot say since I don’t actually remember what those details were. When I arrived at my destination, I found the paper with James’ name clinging to my front bumper. Maybe on a subconscious level, that was the reason I became obsessed with James, or maybe Jamesjust needed someone to consider hims for a moment in time.

Last night we arrived home jet-lagged and almost giddy. Sleep deprivation and the desire to mark your territory can have that effect on the most mild mannered of woman. Not that I could be mistaken for someone mild mannered. We spent a few days driving across California and exploring Yosemite National Park. (I’ll link to photos later. Tired. Thanx). I seem to be adjusting well to traveling without a laptop, and out of cell phone range. I didn’t suffer from the shakes once. But I did get nervous when I discovered my book wasn’t as interesting as I had hoped.

Major travels start and end much the same way, a high level of anxiety, a surplus of stress, and a driving force to accomplish tasks in the shortest amount of time possible. The Hunter and Gatherer don’t understand why the activity, but they are intuitive enough to be suspicious, and therefore a little clingy. They do their part to an envelope my entire suitcased (like they way I make up words when I need them?) wardrobe in wispy contrasting fur, so that I might be returned safely to them, should I lose my way home. A non-digestible trail of bread crumbs, if you will.

After returning and crossing the threshold, I regressed into my obsessive compulsive organizing self, trapped in a circle of soiled laundry, tall grass, and empty cupboards. All of which prevent me from sorting photos. I feel guilty about having a good time. When I enjoy myself, the house falls in disarray, the grass tickles my kneecaps, and we spend three days eating oatmeal and quesadillas because I detest grocery shopping.

I won’t bore you with the trip details, but as advocate for outdoor public spaces, Yosemite, Kings Canyon, and Muir Woods all earn their stripes as National Parks.

*Feel free interpret with or without the sarcasm as it serves your purpose.

Uh yeah, I slipped away on vacation, sometime between checking on my sister and cleaning the small fish pond. Six and a half euphoric days which were uninterrupted by news of broken hips or impromptu visits to the emergency room. So, there was one visit to the emergency room, but my mother thought it best not to disturb the sanctity of vacation, and send the announcement in the form of a letter instead. Thoughtful, isn’t she? Grandma is recovering from her tumble, albeit with a black eye, and she is using her walker for the moment. Growing older is a real bitch.

So about the vacation? Great Smokey Mountains National Park. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Yearly visit. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Of course, there was hiking. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Local color. Yadda, yadda, yadda. No wireless. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Decent food. Yadda, yadda, yadda. And good weather.

In brief:

200, Number of deer spotted at Cade’s Cove.

41, Number of wild Turkeys spotted.

30 Miles hiked.

8 Games of Miniature Golf played.

7 Bears spotted.

7 Mullets viewed when we chose the incorrect restaurant.

5 Number of stones gathered.

2, Number of felines that will not allow me ten seconds of privacy to myself since having returned.

1 Number of bites my better half received while illegally feeding wild life.

1 Number of books I finished reading on holiday.

0 patches of moss transplanted

*To see photos from the trip, click here

Oh and Bob, I snapped a photo of a little something for you. It has a relatively new paint job. I’ve seen it parked out side the pancake restaurant for a few years, on our continual jaunts to the Smokies. She’s had little body work since I first saw her, but it looks as though the effort paid off.

Last week when the weather was cooperative, we packed a picnic and took a trip to Cloudland Canyon. It’s a nice state park located south of the state line. The trip was of an experimental nature. My husband’s knee has been a little bit wonky, and we needed to re-access his hiking ability before we started planning longer hikes.

Both of us grew up in rural areas. As people accustomed to fields, forests, and creeks, we have a less stringent sense of geographical boundary. Kids don’t observe barbed wire fences, they squeeze between cables. What appears to the casual observer as a flagrant disregard for trespassing, is usually nothing more than casual exploration, and the juvenile desire to mark territory.

I like Cloudland, but they have so many rules.

I don’t want to destroy the natural habitat, or damage fragile ecosystems, but I miss climbing, rock collecting, and stick hoarding. My husband misses blazing trails, and gaining better access to creeks and overlooks.

I want to preserve habitat for future generations, but I also long to collect moss and rocks to create a more natural setting within my own yard. In the past, I may have harvested these items, but only for the purposes of propagation, never destruction.

In spite of al the rules, we managed to have good time.