SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Day Fifteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Fourteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Thirteen - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019
Atonement - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019


2002-06-19 @ 8:02 p.m.
Tears



It is now Wednesday night. Cowboy pretended to be his Dad on ICQ, "He's not here. I'm trying to figure out how to turn this off, thoe." Fuck. Yeah right. As if your Dad spells 'though' like 'thoe' like you always do. I don't get angry often. It isn't really anger anymore now; it has faded into disappointment. I opened up to him. I let him touch me. This Pinot Gris is making my head spin up and away from the sadness.


As promised, the camping trip synopsis:

Cowboy never called me. He promised he'd let me know around noon on Friday if there would be a space for me up at the Ranch. I checked my email and phone messages every hour at work that day and my heart raced when I spotted each new message. Now it is Monday morning and I still haven't heard from him.

He has no idea how much disappointment he has caused. This weekend was not just about the Ranch; it was more about The Relationship. In my eyes, this would have been where I finally committed myself to him, long distance or not - this weekend was the test. He never called.

There will be a valid excuse. There always is. However, this whole thing is over. I cannot lead this kind of a waiting life.

Late Friday night, I stopped waiting. I called up my friends who had plans to go camping and got in on the carpooling. The attendance list seemed a little dry, so I called up Eric. His affirmative response took less than two seconds travel from neurons to voice box. The idea of sharing a tent to conserve space flashed through my mind, but I curbed the reflex to ask; he has no idea of my keen liking feelings towards him.

The carpool arrived Saturday afternoon. I curled up into the back of the two-door Precidia while Eric and Jen stretched out up front. The Precidia produces and interesting phenomenon - the person sitting in the back seat cannot hear any conversation occurring in the front seat due to wind and the sub in the trunk. So there I am, alone in the back seat, watching the city fade into country to the sounds of Offspring, Rammstein, and Paul Oakenfold. I stare at Eric in the side mirror, memorizing his face even though I've memorized it years ago.

Over the bridges we go and the sun sets into an orange summer haze. Grass grows up longer with increasing distance from the city limits. Cow smells flood around us; they roll up the windows while I protest that it's not so bad.

Out, out, out into the woods. Pick-up trucks replace BMW's while road signs bend and weaken with bullet holes and dents the further out we go. Pavement softens into gravel and then into mud. We tumble out of the car into our camping area. There is the roar of the river from beyond the trees. Pale green maple leaves paint the understory a vibrant green.

We gather wood and set up the tent. Space is limited; someone suggests Eric and I share a tent to conserve level ground. I agree in the same hesitant voice as Eric. We joke about drawing a line down the middle of the tent. Someone makes a joke about tongue - at the time, I could not figure out whether the context was gross or funny or to whom it was referring.

Drinking begins even before the tents are finished being set up. They laugh, the two men that are dirt biking friends of one of my friends, as we struggle with the tent with the broken pole. We gather around the campfire and drink late into the night.

I head off to my find my sleeping bag. The night is warm; a tank top is the only pyjamas required. Eric stumbles in soon after. We lie there, in opposite corners of the tent, laughing about an earlier joke. And I fall asleep.

In the morning, I wake and watch the back of his head while he sleeps. He must have slept like that all night - faced away from me. No regrets. I thanked him in the morning for protecting me from the drunk old men, the dirt biking friends.

At 10am we went to see the guys start their race. There was a lady shooting off a starting gun for each heat. The 'gun' was a real rifle, and her ammo was NOT blanks. You know you are mingling with trailer-trash when�

Later, one of the guys took me on the back of his bike. I have one less life now. We tore up the dirt trails without helmets, and my feet dangling in the air (no passenger foot rests on dirt bikes). Tears streamed down through the dust caked on my face. I screamed out of fear and corners many times.

We returned, and one of the girls looked at my face and said, "How fast did you go?? Faster than with me?" He replied, "Hell yeah! She didn't seem entertained at the lower speeds so I sped up a wee bit."

And with that, the trip was over. Out of the woods, down the highways, home.


Roots | Shoots