One Year Ago

True to character–defect or asset–I begin without knowing how.  My intentions are to develop discipline, skill and wisdom through writing.  I’ve been learning about this web/blog thing–but neither theory nor PDF’s (ad infinitum) seem to kick my ass into gear.  So, RSS feeds, tags and all the techy lexicography be damned.  Post one goes up NOW.

One year ago, I was an orange-clad figure herding tumbleweeds on I-10.  Highway heat from a Mojave July blew like ocean breezes against the shame under which I toiled.  That I collected butts and rubber debris in July rather than mid-August, I owed to Gracie who was in charge of my schedule for a 90-day period in 2010.  Thank you, Gracie.  Some thoughts on Caltrans–Work is good in that a feeling of reparation comes with action.  Finally.  Although, really, the work wasn’t hard and break time/work time was about 50/50.  A squirt straight out of juvy spotted my first day hesitation and attempted to direct my seating arrangement to the back of the van–what she didn’t know made me tired.  I took a seat by the middle window.  The others settled in and into familiar anticipation of a supervised day of dust and heat.  Identification tucked into back pockets, bandanas wrapped up black tresses tightly, and lunches swooshed under seats.  Moving now, I watched heads wobble in unison against the incremental bleakness of the interstate as an incredibly loud conversationalist carried on with no one in particular directly behind my left ear.  Up in front, the delinquent smacked her gum and secured her allegiances as deftly as any debutante.  Whose week-end had gone well, which cousin ended up in county, the club report, chew, smack.  Did someone want to trade for an orange deviled with chile?  She still wasn’t sure of me and skipped past my gaze to the conversationalist now behind my right ear.  The bandana directly ahead turned around and offered hello.  She had been on the crew for 20 week-ends in a row.  And the stories began.  We were chauffeured to various exits, presented with garden tools and pretty much left alone.

Time-tripping on the road, my visions wavered up to the year before one year ago.  My life had devolved into a running nightmare.

And . . . Until I figure out how to add to the format, that’s it for today.  Meanwhile, I’ve written.  And for what it’s worth, I feel good about that.  T

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