Hitchiking Yuma - New Orleans 3/7/08
The seventh night.
What concerns me now is if I'll have to use my knife this night. I can't keep my headlamp on forever. Will whatever it is attack me?
In this abandoned Asbestos House, I was imagining the fright of the family that abondoned it. Was it similar to the small tingling I feel now? What is it that's crawling, scratching and scurrying around? It isn't, or they aren't, cats, as I'd assumed earlier. Some chirping things. Weasels can be vicious. I came here through the swamp and saw the little trails. I was hesitant as the house loomed in front of me. It is too dark to go back through the brambles and puddles now.
I haven't heard the things for a few minutes now. Oh, there they are.
It's the not knowing. Probably something like chipmunks, but do chipmunks climb lattice to look in on you?
I'm well fed. I have tobacco. I held my breath and cut cushions from their poisonous coverings, so I have a soft place to lie on. I think I'll move them further from the entrance. It is getting cold; I'll have to cover up soon. I don't want to fight some gnashing teeth in the dark.
Cassio was a trooper trudging through the swamp until a briar caught him, the poor babe, and I had to carry him the rest of the way. A vet today said he was too young for his rabies vaccination... Raccoons!? They carry that shit. the tracks I saw inside weren't racoon tracks. Something cat-like, but perhaps they were distorted. It's the not knowing.
I can hear shitty rap from someone's vehicle, but I might as well be in the middle of nowhere. Super 8, Burger King, Jack-in-the-Box, I can see you, but you're a million miles away.
Every few minutes, a scurry. Fast, whatever they are. Texas swamp creatures from the dark imagination. Let nothing happen tonight. I'm the intruder. There hasn't been anyone here in years. Six or seven, by height of the brush and trees where used to be a yard that a little girl or boy once played in. Now, a festering swamp. I changed the batteries in my headlamp. Much better. I wonder if somewhere a kid is saying, "There's a light on over at the old witches house!"
I think the little demons grew bored and went to bed. The little creatures, the cats, the chipmunks, the tadpoles. Ran away scared is what they did. I'll search the area in the morning to see if I can find prints in the mud.
Now, they're nearly forgotten, and my sleeping bag is warming up my body, thawing my nerves, loosening up whatever place it is that pumps sleep into your brain. I think I can taste the asbestos, though I have no reference to it. Cassio, his poor dear soul, is still trembling down in the bag between my ankles. A lady came up to me on the on-ramp, said she does rescues. I told her I didn't need to be rescued. She giggled, like, you sorry scum. The bitch wanted to take Cassio from me.
The scurrying again, but I don't care anymore, the sleep is taking me. I'd better let it while I can.
What concerns me now is if I'll have to use my knife this night. I can't keep my headlamp on forever. Will whatever it is attack me?
In this abandoned Asbestos House, I was imagining the fright of the family that abondoned it. Was it similar to the small tingling I feel now? What is it that's crawling, scratching and scurrying around? It isn't, or they aren't, cats, as I'd assumed earlier. Some chirping things. Weasels can be vicious. I came here through the swamp and saw the little trails. I was hesitant as the house loomed in front of me. It is too dark to go back through the brambles and puddles now.
I haven't heard the things for a few minutes now. Oh, there they are.
It's the not knowing. Probably something like chipmunks, but do chipmunks climb lattice to look in on you?
I'm well fed. I have tobacco. I held my breath and cut cushions from their poisonous coverings, so I have a soft place to lie on. I think I'll move them further from the entrance. It is getting cold; I'll have to cover up soon. I don't want to fight some gnashing teeth in the dark.
Cassio was a trooper trudging through the swamp until a briar caught him, the poor babe, and I had to carry him the rest of the way. A vet today said he was too young for his rabies vaccination... Raccoons!? They carry that shit. the tracks I saw inside weren't racoon tracks. Something cat-like, but perhaps they were distorted. It's the not knowing.
I can hear shitty rap from someone's vehicle, but I might as well be in the middle of nowhere. Super 8, Burger King, Jack-in-the-Box, I can see you, but you're a million miles away.
Every few minutes, a scurry. Fast, whatever they are. Texas swamp creatures from the dark imagination. Let nothing happen tonight. I'm the intruder. There hasn't been anyone here in years. Six or seven, by height of the brush and trees where used to be a yard that a little girl or boy once played in. Now, a festering swamp. I changed the batteries in my headlamp. Much better. I wonder if somewhere a kid is saying, "There's a light on over at the old witches house!"
I think the little demons grew bored and went to bed. The little creatures, the cats, the chipmunks, the tadpoles. Ran away scared is what they did. I'll search the area in the morning to see if I can find prints in the mud.
Now, they're nearly forgotten, and my sleeping bag is warming up my body, thawing my nerves, loosening up whatever place it is that pumps sleep into your brain. I think I can taste the asbestos, though I have no reference to it. Cassio, his poor dear soul, is still trembling down in the bag between my ankles. A lady came up to me on the on-ramp, said she does rescues. I told her I didn't need to be rescued. She giggled, like, you sorry scum. The bitch wanted to take Cassio from me.
The scurrying again, but I don't care anymore, the sleep is taking me. I'd better let it while I can.