Drive
Em and I will drive my Mom home on Saturday. It is a jaunt but the open road can be good for the soul—or at least so says Jack Kerouac.
Soccer practice tomorrow. Soccer game Saturday at 11:30, if the rain holds off. We’ll take a victory lap, clean up, and be Augusta-bound by two p.m. I suppose. On Saturday I will learn that the soccer leagues do not keep score as they do not want any kids to feel bad. Those present will witness a grand achievement as I manage not to lose my shit over this atrocity. I’ve been pretty consistent and not offered my politics here and I will do my best to refrain again. Oh how I loathe politics and the fact that rarely a breath is taken that is not dependant upon the concept. But stifling achievement and denying a child the excitement of success is Goddamn criminal in my book. ‘Nuff said.
I’m so fucking swamped at work. I will likely, though, take Monday off so as not to ruin myself on the drive to and from. That will give me a Sunday in town and a much needed visit with my Dad and perhaps a drink downtown. There are too many folks that I need to call and see. These kinds of drive-bys make it fairly impossible to catch up with any of them. I will make sure Em sees “Grandpa with the Whiskers” (my Dad) and “Grandpa with the Dogs” (L’s Dad). And I will make sure he gets to see Aunt Nae again (he has already asked if he will see her). I would like to go to Metro and the Discotheque. I’ve heard also of a new place called the Pour House.
I think I look most forward to that two-hour stretch between somewhere on either side of Atlanta and either side of Chattanooga when Em sleeps the sleep of a spent soccer player (scoring winning goal after winning goal in his little boy dreams). The stereo playing John Prine. The muffled wind parted by the speeding Jeep. The sun slipping redorangeblue behind the North Georgia/Tennessee hills. My frantic, drowning thoughts treading water safely. Lapsing into a true driven meditation where no worries dance. The belief that the day will end perfectly, calmly, my Boy in his bed safe. Me in mine. The cool sheets pulled to my chin, my left leg uncovered. The taste of home bittersweet on my tongue.
Soccer practice tomorrow. Soccer game Saturday at 11:30, if the rain holds off. We’ll take a victory lap, clean up, and be Augusta-bound by two p.m. I suppose. On Saturday I will learn that the soccer leagues do not keep score as they do not want any kids to feel bad. Those present will witness a grand achievement as I manage not to lose my shit over this atrocity. I’ve been pretty consistent and not offered my politics here and I will do my best to refrain again. Oh how I loathe politics and the fact that rarely a breath is taken that is not dependant upon the concept. But stifling achievement and denying a child the excitement of success is Goddamn criminal in my book. ‘Nuff said.
I’m so fucking swamped at work. I will likely, though, take Monday off so as not to ruin myself on the drive to and from. That will give me a Sunday in town and a much needed visit with my Dad and perhaps a drink downtown. There are too many folks that I need to call and see. These kinds of drive-bys make it fairly impossible to catch up with any of them. I will make sure Em sees “Grandpa with the Whiskers” (my Dad) and “Grandpa with the Dogs” (L’s Dad). And I will make sure he gets to see Aunt Nae again (he has already asked if he will see her). I would like to go to Metro and the Discotheque. I’ve heard also of a new place called the Pour House.
I think I look most forward to that two-hour stretch between somewhere on either side of Atlanta and either side of Chattanooga when Em sleeps the sleep of a spent soccer player (scoring winning goal after winning goal in his little boy dreams). The stereo playing John Prine. The muffled wind parted by the speeding Jeep. The sun slipping redorangeblue behind the North Georgia/Tennessee hills. My frantic, drowning thoughts treading water safely. Lapsing into a true driven meditation where no worries dance. The belief that the day will end perfectly, calmly, my Boy in his bed safe. Me in mine. The cool sheets pulled to my chin, my left leg uncovered. The taste of home bittersweet on my tongue.
posted by Ryan at 11:26 PM
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