Early to Bed

Went to bed early last night.  The room is big and too warm, so I slept with the windows opened enough to counter the heat.  Biggest bed I've ever been in, bigger than my King, full of great pillows, a perfect comforter.  And still, I wake up every hour or two.  Going down for coffee, I find there is no coffee yet.  It is six-thirty and I'm still too early.  The elevator operator (yes, it is like that, old and historic) tells me he will bring me some, that they have some for employees in the back.  Today begins "the season" here.  Hundreds of people will check in today, he tells me.  From now until the New Year will be crazy.

As I wait for him to come back, two people are lighting the giant logs in the walk-in stone fireplaces at either end of the great lobby. Quiet Christmas decorations are already hung.  The season.

Back in my room, I read the news.  And there is this (link).  I test clicking on it, but it doesn't seem to work.  Perhaps there is more behind that than we know.  Just a glitch?  I am full of conspiracy theory.  These are strange and terrible times.  Nothing is ordinary.  Here--I will just post the address for you to copy and paste.

http://current.com/shows/countdown/videos/keiths-special-comment-why-occupy-wall-street-needs-michael-bloomberg

I would have written that if I could, but Olbermann does such a good job, why try again.

I open the curtains to watch Asheville twinkle in the morning's dawning.  The mountains surrounding the city appear on the horizon.  The forest trees still retain some color.

But I confess that yesterday, last night, I was depressed.  Sometimes it overcomes the beauty of things.  The largeness of the hotel, the grandeur of the foothills, the possibility of Asheville all become bogeymen of oppression.  Either they or I may not live up to its/his potential.  Awful, that.

But this story got me going this morning.  Diane Keaton has written a book in which she talks about the three great loves of her life:  Warren Beatty, Al Pacino, and. . . Woody Allen!  I have no desire to read it, but I love the trinity there.

Downstairs, the convention is convening.  Dull, ugly representatives from factories all over the country fill the lobby with their middle-class or aspiring to be middle-class values.  They are tight in their good clothes, their meretricious shoes, their church-going smiles.  They are O.K. people, but they don't belong here.  They should be at the Hilton in Greenville.  The Great Unwashed.  No, no, no, leave this place to me and the one percenters.  I'll be their eyes and ears.  I'll be their Bond.  I've been here before.