Life is rough, hard, unpredictable, discomforting, so we make environments to mask and assuage the fact. "The comforts of home," as they say. In the past, when my bed no longer felt comfortable, I'd go into the mountains and sleep in a tent on the hard ground in a mummy bag lying on a thin foam sheet. I couldn't sleep the first night, of course, but over the days, often exhausted after a long day's hike or climb, I'd fall asleep like a champ.
Now I just want to buy a new bed.
Get it? That is what happens. When I travel now, I want a room with a view.
But you can't escape the ravages of time and circumstance. No matter how you live, something will go wrong.
"But I don't deserve this."
The old myths, however, will tell you that you do. This is what you get. So. . . .
Leave the comforts of home. Just like sleeping on the ground, you'll get used to it. The bar might be sticky, the cook might be coughing, the glass might not be clean. . . .
That's what I thought yesterday, anyway, after walking and riding my bike for two days. It was (un)godly hot. Devilishly so, I should say. Walking hurt my back and knee. The bike was hell on my neck and shoulder. The roads were bumpy and uneven. The distances were long.
But. . . I started liking it again. Then I got a text from the auto repair place.
"Your car is ready."
I rode my bike up to the shop at noon. I was handed the invoice.
"How much do you think my car is worth?" I asked the fellow at the register. He looked surprised.
"More than the cost of this repair, I hope."
"Nope."
Whatever. I put my bike in the back of the Xterra and drove home wondering if this a.c. was blowing as cold as my last.
When I was walking and riding my bike, I passed other walkers and people sitting at bus stops. The pitiful and poor. That's what people in cars think as they pass. I've been a walker, a bike rider, a bus rider, a hitch hiker. There is something to that. Among the throng, beyond the righteous.
I drove to see my mother for the first time in three days. She's not doing so well, and I am getting frustrated. She spent the morning at the cardiologist going through a series of tests. She has more to do in the coming weeks. I try talking to her, but she cannot hear me unless I nearly shout. She will look at me with uncomprehending eyes and nod and smile the smile of the deaf. It is excruciating. She complains about pains but won't take the meds the doctors give her. I can do nothing. I get frustrated and angry.
And filled with guilt.
I decide get out. I drive to the absinthe bar. I've been there only once before, but when I walk in, the bartender asks, "Where have you been? I haven't seen you for awhile."
I am stunned, so I nod and smile the smile of the uncomprehending. I order the house special. The drink does something to me. The bar is small, dim, the clientele of a certain type. Men wear hats. Women seem characters out of an Eastern European film. The place is certainly not "normal." The music is old, pre-rock, pre-punk. Standards. It feels like "Babylon Berlin," I think.
"Where have you been?"
It is time to eat, but I don't want to cook. Just down the street is a great bbq place that wins national awards. My girl and I used to go when it first opened. The owner was a giant. His father helped him early on. They always remembered us when we went in. But neither the giant nor his father are there anymore, not so you'd notice. The giant has opened up other places now. He's become a recognizable figure.
I usually get takeout when I go, but I decide to eat in. The place is packed. I stand in line, wait, make my order, and sit at the bar. It is sticky. The side door is open. It is hot. It is a "chef's table" if you will. I'm watching the cooks cook, the handlers plate. A tall, thin girl with short, pink hair and many hipster hair clips looks my way without noticing. A chubby dark haired girl smiles and gives me my order.
It is good. It is really good. My fingers get sticky with hot sauce. I almost lick them like a kid but stop myself. The beer glass shows my fingerprints. I eat everything.
At home the cat is on the deck. We do the usual. I think about my mother. I realize something. She has trouble navigating the world now because she lives in her own environment. She does only what she wants. No boss. No pushback. When she has to get out, it is hard. The food is bad, the service is bad, the doctor's are terrible. She feels better when she gets back home.
I realize I am thinking/talking/writing about myself. Too comfortable at home, on the deck with the cat, cheroot and cocktail, "my" music and books, commercial free t.v.
Sun setting, I say goodnight to the cat and go inside. I find "Babylon Berlin" in German again. It is much, much better that way.
I can't find who made that picture at the top of the page, but it is a perfect representation of what bedtime is like for me now. Remember all those terrible nightmares I haven't told you about? Yea.
You can't run from it. You can't hide. Fires and tornadoes, floods and hurricanes. The electricity goes out and people die from the heat. Nothing lasts and the world is a hideous place. Get used to it. Eat and drink and go among the throng.
It's a hard rain that's going to fall.
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