Crib on the Borderlands

 

Chained to a rock at last. Fortunately, I don't see any eagles descending--at least not until the lender demands the monthly pound of flesh. We moved up (i.e., escaped) from the rental apartment, where the neighbors allow their dogs do their duty near the doorway, in the doorway, or on the stairs, to an almost-country manor. The wide open space begins on the other side of my back fence. The yard is small and the neighbors are too close, but they're not directly below my feet nor cheek by jowl with only paper-thin walls in between. We were already seeking a new abode (following the sale of the chateau) but the new roommates added to the joint below and the loud video games thundering on to three in the morning beneath our bedroom goaded us into accelerating the move. 

We had hoped to move two weeks earlier, but the repetitive demands from the lender and waiting on the seller and third parties to assemble their waterfowl into linear formation hindered our haste, shackled our swiftness, and delayed out dispatch. This may be the shortest move I've made since college. Although, the move from the rental in W town to the chateau was only a couple miles more. At least this move wasn't to another state or from one side of a large state to the other. Can we reside here with hopes of permanency? We had hoped that would be the case back at the beloved Chateau du Chat Gris, but after graduating 3 kids from the schools, including putting our youngest through the school system, to college, on a mission, and back to college, circumstances dictated a change of residence.

In many respects, that move across the state has been great--notwithstanding the squalid pad. My wife has made new friends--like she always does--and I've met more wonderful people. I like associating with people who are better than I am. One would think such association would help make me a better person, but apparently I'm content to benefit from their attitudinal largesse and magnanimity without fear of catching the malady myself. What can I say? Natural immunity, I guess.

I must think of a name for the new place. We were relieved of the little chat gris, so that option is gone. We are located on a border of sorts and the back fence is a stone wall. A not-too-distant mountain is visible out the back, and I've positioned my writing desk so that I can enjoy that view while slinging vowels and consonants in reckless abandon without fear of hitting anything in that direction. Mountain View Estate? Crib on the Borderlands? Fortress of Insufficient Solitude? Whatever handle I decide to hang on the place, it's still a move up from the former hood where a lady was murdered just across the street.

The new abode has sufficient rooms that I now have a dedicated writing room--that's a first. My wife insisted that I do this thing I do in isolation. Speculation leads me to believe that she doesn't appreciate my requests for her to do what she does more quietly and not to talk to me while I'm feeding my addiction. Although, it could be that having my writing desk with inspiration buddies openly displayed thereon constitutes a source of embarrassment for her. The more likely reason is that I and the desk are simply in the way, have been for many years, and she needs a break from us.

The writing desk was my office desk in my private practice. It has been scarred in several moves; it received new scratches and gouges in the move out of the hood--I blame those good folks who lent a hand but lacked love for the labor and the desk. The squalid pad had a room I could've used for a writing room, but we couldn't get the desk into it. When we moved into the new digs, we had to remove the door to get the desk into the room--and then it was tight squeeze. With any luck, I'll never have to move it out.

Instead of worrying about moving the desk, I'll direct my attention to the wonderful places we'll go, this desk and I, as we wrangle words and phrases from atoms alphabetical into adventures somewhat historical or construct elaborate tales with scenes unreal and fantastical. 

However, those adventures must wait a bit. I've got about dozen address changes I need to complete.
 

 

Quest for Cool

 

I wasn't in Miami when I took that photo; Don Ameche and Betty Grable were no where in sight. I've never seen the movie, but I plan to do so.

Spent my first week in Byzantium. Is the incumbent's withdrawal from the race inexplicably tied to my change of residence? It doesn't seem likely as he probably isn't aware of either circumstance. The real adventure here was the quest for cool. I know what you're thinking: Aren't I the High Prince of Cool? (what with Dean Martin being the King of Cool). You're not wrong. Nevertheless, we discovered that the new digs can best be described as an oven stuck on broil. After multiple sweaty and sleepless nights, we determined to bag a window unit.

A questing we did go to the land of Octsoc where the AC herds are known to roam. We stalked the aisles in camouflage specially designed to blend in with wandering denizens of the place, yet the quarry eluded us. We at last learned that the big herds that once darkened the aisles with their passing had been hunted to extinction. However, there remained a few great monsters of a related species gathered in a formidable pack upon the plain. I wasn't sure that my wallet was of sufficient caliber to bring down one of the beasts, but after carefully examining the ammunition on hand and sneaking in close to examine the prey in every respect allowed, I pulled the trigger. The monster nearly crushed me with its bulk, but I succeeded it dragging it through the ranger station checkpoint to hoist it into the transport. Upon our return, we lugged the beast up the stairs and proceeded to remove the boxy skin and disembowel the interior packages for assembly. 

Our pool of cool rolls from room to room on wheels of rigid steel plastic. It joins us in the bedroom at night and inhabits the living room by day, its chilling breath invigorating all in the vicinity.

Finally, the wyrd western short story is complete. Although the stars in their courses and the hand of man combined against giving me time to finish it, I managed to write the ending on Saturday--chiseling the final touches of the climactic clash and sanding down the denouement. Time also allowed me to review and edit another short story that I may submit elsewhere. I'll write at least one more short before I turn to a novella in the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series to catch up on the adventure of Rip and Antonio in search of the stolen prize with Johnny Coyne and Catalina.

Driving to Byzantium

 

Blog post for July 14, 2024

Is Byzantium a place or is it a state of mind?

If you ask that question of those who study poetry seriously, they’re apt to inform you that Byzantium in the poem, “Sailing to Byzantium” is indeed a state of mind, a place of spiritual rebirth for a scarecrow of a man, “a tattered coat upon a stick,” who begs the sages of that city to be the singing-masters of his soul, to gather him “into the artifice of eternity.” I’m sure there’s more, but that’s the nutshell version.

Byzantium, for my purposes, may be a state of mind, but it’s also a place. The place to which I have arrove arriven, arrived. I nailed my 95 theses to the wall, in the form of a polite notice that my days over there in that "no country for old men" had reached an ending point. I had already received the invitation from the sages at Byzantium bidding me welcome to that holy city.

We loaded the four-wheeled transport ‘neath the blaze of western sunshine and slipped the moorings for the open road. The trip, in accordance with my preference, proved entirely uneventful. The drone of the tires, the efforts of the big engine, the forced breeze from the AC, and the euphonious tones of the radio accompanied me. I noticed that I had a tail but I wasn’t alarmed. I was expecting that brown-eyed girl in the family car.

On our arrival, no one greeted us except for the key to the front door. We unloaded as twilight crawled into the darkness of night, and we kept unloading even after our desire to do so had long gone the way of the twilight. We would not have completed the job had not the fils joined us to help with lifting both heavy and light. At long last, hot, tired, and irritable, we crawled into bed to learn that the post 11:pm hours had been appointed by the neighbor below to play a video game with a loud and heavy beat—over and over again. Although the shenanigames eventually ended, the heat went on and on.

After a great breakfast at a local restaurant (Homestead Family Restaurant for $33) and the first trip to the megamart for groceries (where we ran into an old friend), we got serious into the unpacking. A second trip to megamart got us a window fan. A third trip much later in the day revealed that in contrast to our old country home, our car, and the four-wheeled transport, and in common with the new digs, megamart had no AC units for sale. The highlight of the day was Chinese take-out from the New Hong Kong Restaurant. For $13.00 the two of us had a delicious meal with just enough left over for lunch the next day.

Today, we attended with a small congregation who seemed genuinely glad to see us, and got to see another old friend from our original stomping grounds.

Tomorrow, I should meet the rest of the sages and their handlers, as well as some of the men-at-arms, and the high alchemists.