City-Lag

The frost on the ground is barely surviving in the warmth of a coming rainstorm. The thick fog that covers Illinois valley, a fog I normally look down upon like a white sea from my perch on the mountain, slowly is crawling up sleepy valley canyon, veiling the world with a sheer nightgown of mist. High thin clouds, pink in the morning sun, will soon give way to thick, dark clouds and rain .The slow, beautiful, serene world of the mountains.

Compared to the stimulation and excitement of the city; the fast paced, twelve lane highways at rush hour, fast food, all night everything, all those people trying to squeeze as much life as possible out of every moment as they scramble full speed through their daily routine. It is understandable why returning to the mountains can result in city-lag (society is not always really such a rat race).
Our next door neighbor in California, Darryl, had rats infesting the whole neighborhood from their base in the boxed-in eaves on his garage; one summer evening just before dark I watched them from the roof of the house exit from a hole in the eave and gather on the roof of his carport. It was like a Disney movie; old fat rats walking slowly and sniffing, young rats wrestling, playing, and all the rats in their prime racing from the carport roof to the pecan tree. It's limbs overhanging the roof, and all of the rats streaking through the neighborhood via the trees. It was a commune, not a society.
The ant world is more of a society, with the hill as the city. One ant out on an adventure, sees the sun going down and decides to head home. As he returns to the hill, other ants returning from their day join him. The closer they get to the hill, the more ants there are, until their lines get thicker, multi-directional, full of worker ants, foragers, scouts etc. The ant speed of movement increases proportionately in their distance from the hill. Suddenly there is a hurry. Movement more purposeful and straight. There is more control and supervision, larger enforcement ants and traffic direction, more societal requirements. The door is crazy. Ants bumping into each other. Ants bringing in leaves. Ants everywhere. Move or get walked on. There is no time to wander back and forth looking for grasshopper limbs, no time to explore cracks; one might get in the way, or an enforcer ant could get the wrong impression.

First of course is the drop in blood pressure and the natural lull after the rush. The senses relax without the constant radars up that are necessary in the city. Secondly is the realization that the party is over and it's back to cooking for oneself (two more weeks and it's Webber time). The convenience of fast food and restaurants, a poor man's fantasy. Reality can be depressing. Another realization is it's hard to be lazy in the mountains: find and cut firewood, move large rocks onto the driveway and crush them with a sledgehammer, keep the fire in the stove burning.
City-lag is like being lazy; depressing to know there are lots of things to do and all work! Work isn't exciting like the city. It's work, but without the work I'm bored. The city was fun. Fun takes money. Money takes work.
Finally, normally the second or third night back, you sleep fourteen or fifteen hours and wake up with your senses running at mountain speed. Akin to four or five deep breaths after a fast dash."There's no hurry now." The return to a world unobstructed with urban sprawl and strip-malls, devoid of traffic and people, and nary a neighbor I can see. I've been back nine days and not been once approached by a panhandler. The only company I've had is a friend and the neighbor's dogs on their passing stroll to the school bus stop. Plenty to sniff there before returning home. The good life.
My friend showed up two days after my return from the city. He works at the hardware store. He arrived with a six-pack of Corona and a bottle of Clamato juice. He loves my glass-shack. The shack has a certain lure to the cowboying, frontier male in all of us.
My friend owes a large mortgage, is 52, and has 28 years left on his mortgage. If not for his wife (I hear that a lot), he'd prefer to live in a shack next to the national forest, and own it in five years. He would like to retire in ten years. "Ten years is a long time," I tell him, "but something will happen. Have faith."
The evening view is spectacular. Still suffering from city-lag, as he talks I feel better; I remember to count my blessings. I think about that commercial, "You don't need a nip and tuck, you need a plan." Oregon has been my plan for twenty years. I'm here. At 51 I'm comfortable. The pace and relaxed state is good for me.
The city-lag releases it's grip. The clamato-beer is good. My friend leaves and I'm grateful for the visit. Suddenly, I remember with earnest again that life is wonderful, every miserable moment.
Be happy.

10 Days til Payday

Ten days till payday and the question is: Is there enough money to eat, and buy materials? Or just enough money for materials? And inextricably intertwined with the first two questions is the third: How many days can a man comfortably go hungry? Normally the second day I want to eat. If I'm told I can't eat for twelve hours, or like the night before, I'm starving upon receipt of the words. Anyway, this is about Materials not colondoscopies. (cool word , huh? is it misspelled?)

Lack of materials is why I have time this morning to write. I was sitting upstairs after breakfast, having a bowl and wondering what jail would be like, when I realized I should be dreaming about having materials to build endlessly. Then I started dreaming of the Winchester Hearst Castle I could build up here. But, alas, I had to admit to myself if I had the money for endless materials, I'd be riding around the country on my motorcycle, drinking in bars, eating in restaurants, living the good life, being lazy and having fun... You know, like all of you do!

Then I started thinking about jail again. I could work out religiously and maybe get a tattoo. If I got really buffed and strong, I'd have the thorns inked around my upper arms to accentuate their size. Get a teardrop. Maybe do the spider web tattoo around my elbows.

No, after deep soul searching, 'been there done that' is something I don't want to say about being arrested or jailed. I better think of Good things lest my energy manifest thought to reality. Is President Bush still in Italy plotting 'The End of Days' with the Pope and the Secret Society of the Jesuits?

Everything is wonderful. It's Friday the Thirteenth and this letter is to remind all of you that life is wonderful, every miserable moment.' And don't forget it and life will be wonderful, and you will be happy. Rejoice in every moment that you're still getting yours.