Moth Attack

The largest onslaught came after I had finally almost fallen asleep, about five o'clock this morning. I'd left a small night light on, because I always have to get up and pee. I've never seen so many suicidal moths. They were smashing into windows on three sides. Needless to say., I turned off the lamp (7 watts?!), it's very dark on the ridge in summer. Never did get back to sleep, because I wanted to run my errands in town early, and I'd prepared a detailed list, including the order in which to do them; one swing out, one swing back in, no wasted miles. First on the list was stopping at Kroger for a Boathouse Protein Smoothie, which are often remaindered on Monday morning, and I scored, with a mango thing, a quart of it (at least two serving) for half price, and I immediately drank half of it, and felt better. Went to the library, to get the books they were holding for me, one genre fiction, which I'm looking forward to, as I need/demand a certain amount of fiction, and another Renaissance book. After the smoothie, I figured it would ok to just have a draft for lunch; then stopped at Kroger again, and got supplies: eggs, sausage, shredded potatoes, a loaf of multi-grain brain, yogurt, a bag of almonds, a large onion, some small turnips, and sushi for tonight; eat wasabi, until the tears run down my cheeks, and nibble on pickled ginger. The fiction is good, it takes my mind off things. But James Lee Burke has gotten very dark in his last few books, and they're so violent. No so different from the games people play and all the rest of current media, I suppose, and I read for several hours. They had been setting up for a Wake at the pub, when I stopped by, Irish pubs serve that function, and I chatted with the staff about how strange it was, to be the servers at such a function. It started to feel like a James Joyce short story, and I thought about hanging around. I could have washed dishes in the kitchen and blended into the woodwork. My status, at the pub, is such that I could do that. Hang around in the kitchen, wash some dishes, make myself useful, and watch the wake from off-stage. But it seems like a mildly invasive idea, and I shrug it off, do my shopping, drive home the long way around, slowly, stopping to look at the flowers. I'd stopped at the first ford, a lovely place, and driven back and forth a few times, to clean my wheel-wells, then stopped, in the middle of the creek, eight inches of water, to climb out on the hood of the Jeep and roll a smoke. Full summer. The light, the leaves, the flowers in the under-story, the water cascading down, a beautiful place to be, and my mind is elsewhere. I didn't even hear his car, the creek takes precedence, when the county deputy sheriff stops on the bridge, which by-passes and is above the ford, and yells down, wondering if everything is ok. Yes, yes, I assure him, everything is fine, I'm just on my way home.