Monday, August 15, 2011

et in saecula saeculorum


Thanks for coming out tonight.
You could have been anywhere in the world,
But you're here with me—
I appreciate that.
...

1. Vacaville, the day gathering color over hazy pasture. Sean spots a billboard for Liza Minnelli. She's fucking following me. Seething in the back seat, I deepen my resolve to do something drastic.

2. The folksy Sierra humor of the situation—that I should be slipping and tripping in snow, in August, while being simultaneously ravaged by clouds of mosquitoes—is just barely distraction enough. When could I possibly not enjoy myself on a mountain bike? On this of all trails? Well, when I'm not actually on the trail or on the mountain bike, slogging along instead around the blowdown in wretched pursuit of eight people eight times as fit as me. I need slower friends, I fear, at least at altitude, or else one hell of a doping regime. I mean ... training. Training regime.

3. In the fraction of a second that I break the surface there is a cool, close clarity, something in the rush of water and impression, through closed eyelids, of spangled summer light. The sky is miles high but the world beneath it finite and bounded by the shore, perfect, therefore, wet dogs and mozzarella and feet dangling off the dock. Gratitude inundates me like morphine. It's throbbing through my system; it's dripping off me in a thousand teardrop fragments of the lake.

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