Saturday, October 20
"Nineteen is not the age of reason"
-Old 97s
"Nineteen years have rolled around my head, and what have I done for god?"
-Sarah Maria Cornell
"The Cuervo gold, the fine Columbian make tonight a wonderful thing"
-Steely Dan
I woke up up. A scouting mission to the first floor in my bathrobe revealed packages from Rope-a-Dope (Sex Mob and Bullfrog) and Om (Ming + FS) and an end-open envelope from Alyssa. She wrote of mountains. I walked Liza to campus to check my mail, a beautiful crisp day with the crunch of leaves beginning to gain a bit of volume. We passed a sign that said, simply, PSCHNA. Pschna! I came back to revel a bit before going back out, with RebEst, in search of a yard sale. We found a different one, but it was already finished. "You could still buy some stuff" confided the kid manning the empty table, "but you probably wouldn't be interested in it." Undaunted by this sales pitch, we walked on, through the maze of plastic fencing, ambling slowly into the green. They went through Parrish, and I went alongside it, passing a circle of Sorelle, Cadelba, Susan, and a freshwoman like that, eating carrots and hummus and peanut butter. Apparently, this was a thing that Ester had organized and then forgotten about. I reminded her, and we three joined them for some grub. An escaped convict snuck up to us and asked if we could direct him to the bat cave so that he might reunite with his long lost son, who had been crippled by his girlfriend Julia and now used a walker. Pat Thrasher appeared as well, but he wasn't much help. The bat cave?
I wanted to go swimming, but they were reluctant, so I called Liza from the Parrish phone, and she skipped down to through the Armpit Theatre and along the rocky crickbed to a big log with a gap, where dogs and kids scampered with their parents. We sang the Crystals (of course she's a child of oldies radio, just like I do) and agreed it would be better to be apart over break. After much meandering, we arrived at the olde swimming hole by the trestle. An old gentleman with his dog didn't bother us, but the sun had disappeared behind a crowd, and the low cold murky was less appealing without the October warmth. So we just waded a bit, enjoying underwear. A voice called my name as we passed the field house; it was Chris, who I've barely seen this year, off to play some tennis.
Of course she came back to the barn, and we listened to Figure 8. Plans were up in the air all day, but it was decided that Ester and I would ride up to Westchester with the Galynkers in two hours. So we had some rice and Jaipur veggies and I packed up my case with CDs and my backpack with dirty laundry and books. The big vehicle held six of us fairly comfortably, although sister Natalia was in danger of being obliterated by luggage. Driver and father Igor recognized several of the tunes on Tori Amos's new covers record, and engaged us in a talk about the war. Ben and I debated "appealing," his contention being that it's not a useful word because it's disrespectful to Belle & Sebastian and Skin, presumptive for Oranges and Sunshine. Okay, I said, but it's still language. I barely noticed the length of the ride. We pulled into a big white home flying the Old Glory, decorated with dark things and objets russes, where I bore the brunt of grandma's you-have-to-eat. They have decisive staples: newtons, pretzels, honey-bunches-of-oats. I got to sleep on a fold-out in the study. It was good to be there.