Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

  • Music:
Well, hell.

Packing was a bust. Everything has taken a whole lot longer, mostly because of all of the taking-stuff-apart that needed to happen. I still need to dissemble the TV and entertainment system, pack up the kitchen, sort and fold laundry, and a myriad of other little niggly things that need to be done.

I will have to do it tomorrow night, and follow it up with packing. And if it's not horribly late, drive up to the 'Cities. My guess is I'll end up driving up Saturday morning, which makes for a short-as-hell weekend. But I suppose it's an industry weekend, a weekend of doing stuff that needs to be done, even though I don't want to do it because it SUCKS.

Thunder and lightning. Flash flood warnings. I turned off the damn TV because it was getting on my nerves.

Small isolated spot of darkness.

I think I'm at my best in the dark. The most creative, the time when I feel the most alive. It might be the absence of light, the absence of the illumination of the world, the time when I can believe just a little bit that nothing else exists but the space I'm in. Quiet time, when the ghosts of faraway voices can be heard on the old radio, singing in languages that I can almost understand.

Forgotten memories of a faraway place that doesn't exist anymore. Warm childhood memory, snuggled in a sleeping bag in a cabin made of cedar logs as big around as a barrel, franklin fireplace burning norway pine logs with a clean wood smell, the sound of rain softly pelting the roof mixed with the notes of the Grand Ole Opry coming through on a 1950's vintage pink Motorola AM radio. Hank williams voice singing a song of loneliness in a haunting voice that I didn't understand.

There was a time once when I went to this same place in the winter, six feet of snow and six bullets in a revolver. Four days I spent looking at the gun, a blue steel .38 sidearm from World War II. The ghost of Hank Williams voice sang through the walls, and I finally understood that thing that made him sing from the bottom of his soul.

It was a woman. Or perhaps the Woman, the archetype from which all women descend, facets of the same jewel. Lilith, who fills your days with laughter and warmth until she reaches in and pulls, and empties you like a bottle of cheap scotch.

On the fifth day, the sun came out. I packed up the .38 and drove back to what home I had. I still didn't understand where I was, but I knew I was going somewhere, and I had a place to be.

A million years ago, it seems. That place is long gone now, sold to a vacationing entrepreneur who burned it to the ground some years later out of drunken carelessness.

I don't have a place like that anymore, a place I can go where I can make new memories of sunny days and climbing 200 foot trees and exploring old fire towers and walking for miles through the woods without seeing another soul. I don't even know if such a place still exists except in my memories.

Some place to be still.
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