Sunday, February 2, 2014
Dusk falls Friday night as another batch of snow pours from the starwealthy heavens. My dog tugs at the blanket I have buried myself away under for another sedentary weekend. Reluctantly, I emerge from my state of deep couch hibernation and toss him his drool-soaked tennis ball. He smiles a dog's smile. I wonder if he remembers yesterday at all; I wish I knew half as little as my dog.
Four deer prance through the backyard as midnight envelopes the Millwood woods in darkness. I wonder what majestic snowscapes they have seen today. I want to follow them in my wanderlust, wander off to the woods of my youth and disappear for a while. But I'm stuck inside, pining for a country road.
I bury myself in my books: Johnny Cash swallows pills by the mouthful and Jon Krakauer sits at the base of Everest camp, the peak of his dreams and one life-shattering event awaiting him up the mountain. Amphetamines and Everest sure make for a strange literary cocktail for the mind.
Sunday morning dawns bright and colorless. I rub the sand from my eyes and gaze out the window, half-expecting winter's doldrums to have melted away. But of course the trees are draped in white for as far as the eye can see, the frozen black branches drooping with icicles. From deep in the woods I make out the faint cry of the C&O train; I wonder if that old train conductor feels lonely wherever he is going. I turn on the news: another actor found dead with a needle in his arm.
And in my mind I've gone to Carolina.