Clouds tearing in half over violent meadows, our star-view obscured with grey anger, my sister drunkenly chastises all within a small radius of field and grass and dirt, when the light of the neighboring gigantic motorhome is switched off by a even more drunk, grubby hand. No one is safe and the voice is raised because she has feelings no one can understand and they seem important to explain at the loudest possible volume and they are normally either negative, pathetic, or extremely hostile. Swear words pepper her salad statements. She wakes up chipper and baby talks her dog though also yelled at her last night for running off and exploring the wilderness around our campsite lawn. True, coyotes made the blood lust screams of hungry, loitering phantoms, though more domesticated (therefore more territorial) dogs ruff-ruffed right back to cause the phantoms to explore other evergreen avenues. Creek beds splashed with paws and they jump from rocks through the trees hooting and hollering like partying college kids let loose on Grandpa's ranch for the weekend. No need for sleeping bags when the ground is so soft and dry, the grass stitched together so, the bugs are only a minor irritant and if you panic they swarm. So let them crawl.
Rain stopped. It turned the dirt paths of the service roads into a muddy gulch. Trees, bombarded in such a pressurized upside down champagne uncorked deluge, offered no shelter. Only a metaphoric shelter in that we were human beings among them. Looking at them with our eyes and smelling them with our little noses and we had no guns. We hated guns. The trees enjoyed our presence because we thought of them of hugging them all and becoming them and growing the patience of a philosophy scholars in the basement of the forest or the attic of the alpine range where snow makes the nostalgia colder and whiter like a blinding flash bulb of recognition before receding back, back into the fog of not knowing who the fuck you are or what you are capable of..
Lost my mind over this weekend. I hear the stories of Europe recounted. Otherwise we glazed over the details and I don't have anyone other than my grandparents to talk about it with. They must know. I am in prison hearing sirens outside because I've told them nothing personally. I've made no contact and that is a crime terrible. I always go back down the black to that awful place of regret. Where missed opportunities mold into something infested. These failed moments do not need to be colored with blinding red regret. They can be turned into bad things a character does in a story. Fiction. Or they can be looked back on as a learning tool to approach future scenarios with. Either way. No matter how I write about this awful weekend I know that everything bad about it will eventually be forgiven or forgotten and the worry involved in the screams and the tossing across the room of wallets and leashes and black mugs full of water, water I swear it is water, the loneliness and the lodge, the rain ceased and the voice in my head became a dull mumbling voice and everything gathered around, concerned. So I truly forgot what I was getting at.
