Road Trip part 1
BEING THE ADVENTURES OF A SEMI-NOMADIC POLYMATH ARTIST, MUSICIAN & WRITER
WANDERING THESE UNITED STATES IN AN ONGOING QUEST FOR PERFECT MOMENTS
Essays, poems, and collected ruminations are being collated and compiled in a parallel journal at Dragoncave. I never know what I'm going to write about next, so if you desire to keep up with what I'm writing and thinking about, you really need to read both journals. Some overlap may occur without prior warning; sorry about that.
Remember that everything happens in the present moment, right here, right now, and that nothing lingers.
This is only a record of changes.
740. 31 December 2007, Beloit, WI
I got a call from the Alzheimers home that Mom had fallen again, rolling out of her bed this time. I went over as soon as I got the message, and she looked terrible; her face was bruised, her lips dry and cut. She was uncomfortable and unhappy, and fighting everything. I was able to soothe her briefly, but then she pushed me away too. This was all in the public room. Shed been sitting in a chair there, so they could watch her.
Im pretty upset myself. This has just been a great fucking holiday season, between Dad not being here, my own illness, the problems with the house, and now Mom maybe dying from new problems. Even if she recovers from this bout of illness, shell be changed. The difference is shocking.
Its just one more thing I cant deal with.
And Im in pain today, and not feeling well. Like my own recoverys been set back, and dealt a blow, by all this. Just a miserable day and night.
Happy Fucking New Year.
739. 30 December 2007, Beloit, WI
My dreams last night were full of art and architecture; beautiful gnarled trees surrounding a group of vacation bungalows; tree branches leaning out over the road, half-concealing the buildings; knocking on one of the bungalow doors to ask if we could see the building inside, and being invited in; just dont touch the food; the kitchen room overlooking the road, behind it the living room space, with brick walls and fireplace, decorative brick work; under a covered walkway, a bedroom as a separate building behind the living area.
Yesterday Mom came home from the hospital, back to Harbor House. After I spoke to the doctor about it, I was upset, because theres only so much they can do for Mom; the diabetes is not under control, and may not be, depending on what shell accept for treatment.
The day is white on white on white. There are black lines like graphic-pen drawings within the total whiteness of the land and sky, which are the same exact shade of white. The trees are like drawings on a sheet of white paper, no depth, no difference of tone.
Very briefly, as I was driving home in the late afternoon, the clouds thinned to the west, and took on a gold huethe first color in the sky in several daysand the suns disk briefly shone through. Now I am back in this amazing snowglobe neighborhood, covered in white, white on white on white. Simply one of the most astounding winter vistas Ive ever seen here.
The storm gave us at least 8 inches locally, with 7 inches the official amount in the area. We had more than the other end of town, though.
And now at sunset the snow is gently falling again. I have been living inside Robert Frosts poem: Whose woods these are I think I know. . . Almost all the photos Ive taken in the past three days, during and after the big storm, could have been illustrations for that poem.
738. Song Without Words, 28 December 2007, WI
Optional soundtrack: Winter Stillness