Monday, August 17, 2015
Day 8.139 Cedar and Stone
I sit on 'my' bench in the park, listening to the audio mix of gulls and jets overhead, people and cars on land and children screeching as they dip toes into the cold Puget Sound water. It is a harmonious mix and I sit cross-legged with eyes closed.
I have been trying to ease the discomfort in my legs and hips using a combination of self massage, Tylenol and Session IPA. The massage feels fine, although I wonder if it would be finer with another set of arms applying the pressure. The beers are cold and satisfying after our trail run. On the run I re-injured my left hip flexor and iliopsoas I am feeling very much like taking a long nap.
I read some, then stumble towards the shoreline, cross-tie walk a driftwood log of about twenty feet and return to my bench. I make a cheese sandwich and sip from my beer. I am feeling odd and I suspect the medicinal combination I have select for this ailment has, in synthesis with the meds I consume daily, created a unique and interesting sensation. Like being stoned out of my gourd.
I see a piece of cedar and pull my knife from pocket to whittle. I spot a smooth and colorful stone, reach to fetch it and sense something cosmic. I have unwittingly connected two powerful natural elements and they vibrate in my hands like an electric toothbrush.
Deep into Tom Robbins mode, I consider the connection between the wood, the rock and my soul. My breathing has slowed as has the volume of merriment behind.
I decide to conduct an experiment. A precise test of the human spirit and our ability to sense vibrational awareness - conducted to the strictest standards of the scientific method.
I will put my handiwork atop the smooth stone on the bench, take a seat at the picnic table some twenty feet behind and see who is attracted to this red-hot vibrating calling card.
The sun falling through the cedar trees at my back casts creeping shadows towards the laboratory.
I sit stealthily and motionless in wait, deep into the tao of the now, much like a mouser waiting for her mouse. Or like a moose waiting for his muse.
Without turning my head I hear voices from three o'clock. A group. Walking my way, two girls and maybe three guys. I guess college age. I hear one of the girls complain about the heat, and I think, I hope, that she isn't the catch.
Sure enough they walk towards my bench. It is hard for me to keep from smiling, laughing out loud because I am virtually guiding them in as an airline traffic controller might.
The two girls sit to the right of the bait. All three of the guys are wandering around looking for something to occupy their need to be doing anything constructive.
Finally one of the guys walks towards the bench and in a swift, thoughtless, feral movement sweeps my artwork and dazzling display off the bench and into the dirt. Then he sits.
Bastard, I silently hiss, raising to go take another log walk and decipher the meaning of this unexpected twist.
When I return they are gone.
I flip-flop shuffle to the picnic table, still analyzing the puzzling round-one results.
From four o'clock comes a soft crush of dried leaf and pea-gravel. Someone is walking my way. Someone petite and in absolutely no hurry.
I turn my eyes to the direction of the footsteps and they immediately widen. I gulp.
I have attracted a hippie-chick. She is beautiful and brown - modeling cut-off Levi's with the pockets showing and a tie-dye bikini top. She is alone. I go into tachycardia.
I watch her every move as she dances into my field of vision. She is going to sit on my bench. I consider calling 911.
As she sits I can hear a collective sigh from every angel in heaven. There is no other sound except that of my arrythmatic heart and a gentle sympathetic wind. I hear a butterfly pass. I now know what inspired Poe to pen The Tell Tale Heart.
She walks directly to the carved cedar, grasps it and returns to the bench, absorbed in close scrutiny.