Saturday, July 4, 2009
It’s 8 and apparently it’s a strange thing that there is yet to be more people awake, alert. I find myself in a pink, narrow rocking chair in the corner of the living area, but are we dead in the shower? I take a while to examine every nook so I can begin to feel not at home, but comfortable here for the week. I don’t want to feel invasive, like a thumb, throbbing. I first notice that the only direct rays of sun included in the cottage as of 8 this morning are dancing on one of the white cupboards to the right of the refrigerator. The outline of some sort of familiar tree is being casted against this cute cupboard, looking almost as though there are a thousand little ants participating in one large line dance, although they’re out of line, as the shadows are swirly and inconsistent, but excellent. I sit, recollecting back to the cottage that I grew up in, about three hours closer to home, and how my experience as a boy differed from the daughter’s experience as a girl, both at cottages, separated by a few hours. “I think I chose the non-honey nut,” the astronaut says. He cannot remember if he chose the second container of cereal from the left. “They’re probably mixed,” the daughter concludes, and dissolves back into her Steinbeck. 8:13 now, astronaut compromising with his cheerios, me still in this chair, daughter stretching in preparation for the next page, rocking, yawning once. I run the ends of my fingers through my hair like an infected claw, craving a shower only sort of. I understand that this atmosphere here will soon shift within the hour, presumably, as the remaining children, two more, and the adults will wake and will prepare themselves personal little breakfasts for the first morning. Tomorrow, I sense a large, old fashioned breakfast, consisting of most products from each food grouping. There are two ticking clocks in this living room, now less noticeable with the metal spoon swiping against the porcelain bowl followed by a petite slurping of O’s. I wonder if these two clocks have clicked together in unison, ever. I’m sure it wouldn’t make a difference past the hour of 9 because from the time I got up, just after 5, all there’s been is silence, and the heavenly humming of my laptop. Their sound rhymes with a sound I’d like to call, “hoo hum.” It’s too slow for a “la la,” and not appropriate for a “he he” because of the fullness of the words “hoo” and “hum” together. It’s a little bit of a chore to say. It’s like taking a gulp of Welches. Zoe’s awake. “Yo, Zo.” Her untrimmed claws leave me feeling comfortable, and smiling. I’m not sure if the ones who are sleeping are annoyed with her trotting, but I enjoy it.
Laying on the front lawn now, feet to lake, palms to the cottage, humming. We agree that my metabolism is quite quick, and that we would like some dinner, but it’s only 4. Critters travel across my laptop, and through the desert.
We retrieve our novels, hers from behind her, mine from the cottage. I take small steps with my toes pointed inwards up the unchallenging hill and my teeth click each step because my jaw is seemingly loose, for unknown reasons. I gallop like a menace down the bunny hill into a situation where I find myself rubbing the belly of Zoe who chooses to appear like a stray dog in Afghanistan, deciding against embracing our company that is over to the right a little under the shade. The daughter climbs this tree and rhetorically ponders where to sit, blows on a branch to remove all bug and debris, and gets comfortable. This is when Zoe steps over to me like a cowgirl, strutting, to sniff. She chooses to return home to the sunshine, bathing in the dragon flies, copious amounts of them. They’re like mosquitoes when you go camping; there’s so many of them. Although, they’re not pests. They’re beautiful. They sink and they rise and they dive and glide around the driveway area mostly.
Benjamin plays with himself, half in the shade, half not, by swaying back and forth on his back, rolling in the grass, causing little flakes to remain on him after play time has subsided a few minutes after beginning. He has disappeared, so I pause to read.
The families at the cottage have all developed a sort of game, but I swear it’s just to save money. We are to use the same plastic cup that we were assigned for our entire visit. Our names, well, nicknames were written on them in permanent marker. Some names include “Megy Moo,” “Hemi-R-Oid,” “SPAZ,” which later updated to “SPAZZOLA,” “I don’t care,” and “Tara-Bul.” Mine’s “Andrew,” written backwards. I swear I’ll win. All I drink is water and tea.
Now we go to town: