Camp Runamok

March 21, 2011

Camp Runamok

Quilcene, Wash.

Morning came and the light was rank. Ordered by the sounds of the water flowing, dripping. The damp grass was soft, wet by low-hung clouds. The darkness that had hung over me for days before now left with the fleeting darkness of the night. Alive was this place, as was my soul now set free, and to posture as anything else would be to lie.

Rain set upon us for half the day. Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, drip, drip, drip. It fell and careened down the sides of the buildings, just out of reach, out of touch. Rain, cleansing, washing bare of the wounds of stress, the torment of our lives that daily make us crazy. 

I felt as though I were an animal, writhing in the newfound freedom, set free after many years of imprisonment, though it had only been 12 weeks.

Afternoon came as suddenly as the morning had, or so it appeared. The rain, apparently having washed all clean that it could, relented and the sun tried to show itself. But it could not be done, and it too relented to the clouds and fog that pressed it so. The air, damp and cold, was refreshing still and revived the soul to breathe it in. Then the rain came once more and the fog set in thicker still.

No trouble, I thought, the beer was still cold, and it warmed me thus.

The fog came in so thick the bay seemed to disappear from below. Only trees, rain and fog now. Ahh, but how grand a sight!

In layers the trees sat. A layer close by, seen in great definition. Then, another beyond a little bit, still stood out from the fog bank that now backed the view. The next layer was partly shrouded in fog, seeming to be almost unreal, as if fading from the world. Beyond that, only the shape of the hills and mountains could be made out. The shapes of evergreens could be spotted here and there, but even the few of them still clear began to fade from view.

A grey monotony set over the whole scene – a spectacle of the powerful weather. But none of it bothered us. We sat warm and dry, and listened – pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, drip, drip, drip – as the rain beset us again and washed our souls as clean as the damp grass under our feet.

The stress falls firmly on the candidate with the least belief in reality

I would have to say it's been a fair shake of time since my last post. Indeed, the last post was even a school assignment that I somehow felt obligated to post to this blog. God help us all.

The surviving rats of the political sphere have apprehended the most lecherous creatures, once again, to run for office in desolate and despicable places. Congressman Todd Akin has somehow managed to avoid a hanging and continue his seemingly hopeless run for a seat in the Senate on behalf of Missouri. His ideas about rape and pregnancy are right up there with bloodletting to cure infection —which I have always found to be quite effective.

Not that Missouri is either desolate or despicable (Mizzou friends need not take offense, as I assume you are similarly shamed by your failing leadership), necessarily. But honestly, it's no California.

Akin's trouble began when someone let him speak freely. This same issue happened to President G.W. Bush with some regularity, and made for fantastic sound bites in each day's news cycle. Apparently, Akin's campaign manager failed to wake up from his cocaine/whisky hangover on that particular day. Those Midwest republicans certainly know how to combine booze and drugs to a finely honed point of near certain self-destruction before pulling it back just one notch and surviving to the next bender.

As a fan of benders and self-destructive behavior, I can see the attraction of their party and their candidates, but it's hard to get behind the science of auto-rape-pregnancy-prevention in a woman's body. I can't say where that idea came from exactly, but my sources have placed it firmly between the Bible and some more risque books by Stephen King. Sounds fairly legitimate to me.

Alas, the presidential race is fairly close, but still will be a losing matter for Mr. Romney. I have not been out on the campaign trail, but rumor has it that he takes his breakfast dressed in extremely inappropriate fashions.

Now I must go...the beer is running out and I need a bloody mary.