I show up at huron mountain in a state– it’s an off-season gathering, some sort of social obligation, and I’m weeping and shouting at my father in a public space, the dining or club room– I’m thoroughly beside myself– at the time I don’t consider the display; I’m entirely focused on my anger and frustration with my father– but later, after I’ve calmed down somewhat, I realize what I’ve done. I’ve made a spectacle of myself. I have to get out, get away.
since I arrived by plane, I have no car, and it’s dark and I’m not entirely well, so I don’t know that I can handle the old brown jeep on the roads– but I go. on the road all the oncoming traffic is driving on the wrong side– they keep having to turn quickly and get in the other lane– I’m flashing my lights and honking and driving slowly in order to give them time to move out of my way.
other cars are stopping at the railroad tracks, but I race right across and glimpse an approaching train.
I go to the inn in town and try to make myself inconspicuous in the public spaces– I just need some time to rest and recover. a member of the staff tries to take me around to introduce me to the other guests, but I say, no no no, I’m quite fine– I’d just like to sit quietly and read if that’s okay. so she goes away, and I turn to the contents of the inn’s library. I see, all along the top of the old upright piano, piles of magazines all stacked together and buckled and warped with water-damage– and I wonder, why in the world does she keep these?