Cold Water
I go to the river to bathe. Walk from the Non-Directional Peace Kitchen to Midway, hitchhike from Midway to the water. Drink beer in the car with Good Old Boy fishermen.
Walk downstream until I’m not visible from the road.
The Rainbow Gathering is ten thousand feet above sea level. When dad took me flying, we flew at two thousand feet.
I feel echoey and empty.
I take all my clothes off. My shoulders are sun-burned, the top of my nose, the backs of my calves. How do I burn the backs of my calves just walking around? I started wearing long pants and covering my shoulders with a yellow sarong. I don’t care if I’m hot, at least I’m not burning.
Naked, alone, I wash my underwear in the river. Cold water, swift, too shallow to swim--at least the rocks are round and smooth, not jagged like in some rivers. I lean way over the slow spot and scrape the crusties off the cloth, rinse hard, wring out, hang to dry on a dead tree branch.
The sun feels good, warm and inviting, cutting the slow breeze.
I wade out into the slow spot, gasp, cold, stop up to my calves, crouch down to splash my crotch, freezing numb tingly in the flow. Splash my armpits, face, rinse my hair. Shivering shock. I get out fast.
The sun feels good, warm and inviting. The breeze shivers over my wet skin.
I lay out on the sarong and let the sun dry me. Ignore mosquitos. Turn over to warm my back.
When I have to leave--sun low--I put on my dusty clothes and climb the sage-covered hill.
I am a pompous fool.
Walk downstream until I’m not visible from the road.
The Rainbow Gathering is ten thousand feet above sea level. When dad took me flying, we flew at two thousand feet.
I feel echoey and empty.
I take all my clothes off. My shoulders are sun-burned, the top of my nose, the backs of my calves. How do I burn the backs of my calves just walking around? I started wearing long pants and covering my shoulders with a yellow sarong. I don’t care if I’m hot, at least I’m not burning.
Naked, alone, I wash my underwear in the river. Cold water, swift, too shallow to swim--at least the rocks are round and smooth, not jagged like in some rivers. I lean way over the slow spot and scrape the crusties off the cloth, rinse hard, wring out, hang to dry on a dead tree branch.
The sun feels good, warm and inviting, cutting the slow breeze.
I wade out into the slow spot, gasp, cold, stop up to my calves, crouch down to splash my crotch, freezing numb tingly in the flow. Splash my armpits, face, rinse my hair. Shivering shock. I get out fast.
The sun feels good, warm and inviting. The breeze shivers over my wet skin.
I lay out on the sarong and let the sun dry me. Ignore mosquitos. Turn over to warm my back.
When I have to leave--sun low--I put on my dusty clothes and climb the sage-covered hill.
I am a pompous fool.