S'pose everything started to go downhill come the sunday night when all the long weekend warriors dreary of the jetski, wakeboard, tubing haulering "go faster! slow down!" out there on every lake wide enough, deep enough, and long enough to accomodate them started heading home to somewhere south of here. I think "t'hell with it, I'm not going anywhere" not because I can afford it, but because the option is open to stay a few days longer and write, type, create new content, whatever.
I know I'm a bum, that's okay. I'll stick around here while half the city leaves tonight for home and the other half tomorrow, clogging the four corners like a clot in a vein. Let them go, they'll be fine.
As though it could be avoided, it's a holiday weekend and that's as good a reason, at the end of a summer, let alone this summer, for 'em all to head up to "gods" country though its evidentally all his country, they'll use god as a way to describe it as a higher heavenly type of place, straight out of the heathers. All fine and well from here in this chair on this dock, on this rocky lichen covered shore facing south south east.
The point of all this to say that these words are typed from live on location here just a little south of desolation but an hour and a half north of madness. Madness though can follow you if you're not careful, mindful, well rounded enough to spot it coming from a mile away and do what needs doin' to stop it.
So sip cold Leffe blonde, poison of choice. Stare, then stare some more wondering what it is exactly that I'm hoping to accomplish - the short answer is nothing. And that's fine enough s'pose as long as it's a fine lighthearted nothing that leaves a some kind of smile on my face because the last few days of summer are simmering and the gettin's good.
The long answer is something along the lines of within a very short, very consuming amount of time, hell be if we have to call it a blink of the eye, something of a stock response moniker followed by cruel observation about time, age, and the passage of each. As I was saying, the long version is rich in that sort of shit, of which there's no escape. I love summer just a like a love all three of the other seasons so when it leaves, its the beginning of something entirely new - a blanket white canvas painted on by desire among a whole lot of other factors. Regardless, when summer leaves, I miss her, and hate to see her go.
This is right around when the float plane comes out of nowhere though sure I could hear it somewhere off behind me. Buzzing down to the other end of the lake, circling, then landing out of sight past the narrows where though the speeed limit in the narrows is 10km, that son of a bitch on the jetski flies through there a dozen times or more, cottage folk screaming at him and cursing and throwing their hands up in the air, I just know it because everyone comes to the cottage on the long weekend for peace and quiet and because everyone is up here, the only peace they'll find is the quiet of sleep.
Otherwise things are well, and okay.
Two Leffe blondes later and maybe some pretzels though I''ll never admit it, I start to feel the slight effects of the 6.6% and then, yes, definitely smile. Smile because here I am, and we are, sitting here on this elevated rock slung with birch and pine, feeling good and like Dafoe said "feelin' goods' good enough" and right at this moment here, I couldn't agree more. Shit, I even smile because when I look over this whole thing, I realize with sincerest childlike enthusiasm that what I'm really doing is writing about drinking while I'm drinking because I'm writing.
Curious enough, maybe summer has something or nothing at all to do with these Leffe blondes or the mood I'm in or anything else other than right here is where my ass decided to plant itself and all seems well enough so why argue? Carefully crafted is how each of these recent moments feel and not being the type to debate a good feeling, but simply roll with them. And hell, doesn't it come from some of the most unlikely places, people, and things, or a mix of all three in variations that, had I taken en edible instead of sitting down with this laptop, I might have accomplished none of these seven hundred and ninety six words so far, rather than sat contemplating those variations all night until the mosquitos drove me back indoors and closer to the fridge, which is where the Leffe live.
Anyway, as the sun starts falling, rounding out another day here while other folk hit the road and head south back towards whatever kind of home they have there, I'll seek my long sleeve and another Leffe (hell, there's only two left anyhow and I have a 'no soldier left behind' policy) then sit right back down. Chase those last of the rays, while the rest set to work getting the evening fires burning, so that the glow of each can be seen from the end of the dock no matter where we are here. No, I won't look down on those who left - they have their reasons, and that's fine and well enough, but know enough to know there's a high probability that they are missing out, then head inside.
Well enough, until I try to stand up which has no become something of a chore all on its own. A mosquito lands on my arm, the poor bastard, bites in, starts stealing my blood. Moments later as her abdomin fills with it, she hesitates, then falls over dead from alcohol poisoning, or that's what I tell myself.
Whether it's true or not, it doesn't make a difference, but without a shadow of a doubt signifying that it is time for bed.