I have tried this before. With the same template, no less. Scribe. Is this truly who I intend to be?
It still seems self-indulgent. Yet perhaps this aspect of writing, the solitary self-importance inherent to the very act, ought not be my focus. I foresee this to be a continuing issue, but indulging my ego by writing about the ego-driven nature of writing serves only to tie my little mind in circular knots and probably puts off readers who find quasi-existential paradox inconsequential and ultimately boring. Thus, we move on.
(Question: is paradox the plural of itself? or can I add an i, as with cactus?)
In this space, I intend to create a written record of my movements, imparting action plus opinion and possibly insight, but that will depend upon the fragile perspective of my hypothetical audience. (Hi Mom. Send money.)
Enough then, let's get on with it.
I will now provide context. Briefly: After spending January through mid-April at Sivananda Ashram Yoga Farm in Grass Valley, California, I flew home to Minneapolis, then drove to Mount Desert (say it with a French accent, 'dez-airr'), Maine, by way of Chicago and New York City before flying to New Orleans for seven days of JazzFest that first weekend in May. I spent the summer (May through early-October) living on the Northwest shore of Echo Lake, in a cabin on the property of my dear and overly generous friends, the Sevigny-Pierce family. In the stead of a fiduciary rent, I tended to the grounds, cultivated various garden plots and kept the grass cut, plus various other tasks of this nature. Evenings I spent waiting tables at Red Sky restaurant, located just down the road in Southwest Harbor. Here I switched out my patchwork corduroys for a shirt-and-tie to create a veil of professionalism that allowed me to pick out pricey wines and smile nice for the folks who were happy not to know better. Though many did, (know better), in which case I became perfectly invisible and so who knows how or when they received a steak knife and new water, but they did and now, oh wow, This, sir, is your steak; Ma'am, the lamb. Fun game, that. More wine anyone?
So, okay, well, then that brings us (i.e. me; and Mom of course, but she already knows these things) up to this last, past weekend, meaning that of Columbus Day. I disappeared from Mt Desert on Friday the 9th of October, when Ellen and I had a disco dance party in my car until I found a place to park at the Homewood Suites in Windsor Locks, CT, where all our friends from Suffield (Academy) were already playing Beirut in room 123.
We stopped once along the way, for a true Country-style dinner at the Cracker Barrel. We both had the Chicken & Dumplin's (dumplings, with a G, are something altogether different, a more Oriental-style pastry often involving cream cheese, we believe) with two sides. For my choice of "Country Vegetables", I opted for the special Mushroom Rice Pilaf and the standard Corn. Ellen also had the Corn but went for the Mashed Potatoes. There was no shortage of gravy, and thank goodness, because the cornbread was tragically rather dry. The two of us ate heartily for less than twenty dollars, including tip. Later, my unlucky tummy understood how this was possible. And I apologized too, but by that time it was a natural moment for people to clear out of the hotel room anyway...
