And somewhere along the line, being his own idiot, the writer discovers what the aboriginal and the Amish and the shyer types realize about photography of all kinds, that as soon as the light goes on, recording, the magic is lost, and the attempt to capture the soul of a thing or of a matter always goes far off, with very rare exceptions.  The writer realizes this about thoughts, as thoughts must come down to us as verbal things, and the words themselves will scatter whenever that microphone is dropped down into the mind for the purposes of recording all that valid self talk.  Poof.  Gone.  Gone forever.

So the metaphor of the hunter, who catches, let's say, words without necessarily having any approval, any agreement, any bow to such a will, rather taken, stolen, against the will of the words or the singer singing his old song, perfectly fine with it, simply practicing, until that moment when the capturing recording camera comes on.  Only the stolid, the most brave and seasoned of performers will allow for the bridge over the shyness.  None of the greats really want to hear their own voices, not Julie Andrews, not Jimi Hendrix...


So, the long drive, up one week, short notice, mom's old cat, deathly ill.  Going to the bathroom everywhere, not able to walk, not eating.  Oh, that's not good.  They gave me a night off, so I rented a car, and I drove.  Up Wednesday, arriving around 8 at night, a full Thursday with old mom, and then having to drive back, for Saturday is a work night, ragweed's got me very tired and down, driving back Friday afternoon into the night, finally dropping in through 270...

And next week, a couple of extra days to have off.  Cat recovering from the stroke, wobbly, but very hungry, and with her same vocalizations in the morning.  And there we are having a little wine after dinner maybe, when the helper announces that's it, she's done, a serious and pressing family health issue to attend to...  Oh, great.


Driving back, a new and better helper for mom found, darkness on the road...  lonesome.  Toward the end, an FM station out of Baltimore, WBJC, a movement of Mahler's Fifth, and then a Prokofiev, a final ballet, then a Puccini, The Chrysanthemum, soothing music for a Sunday night around 10:30 as the road stretches on from Gettysburg and into the rolling Catoctin and the Shamrock Motel and Inn in the hollow past the orchard and the vineyard and the pastures and the horse pens.

Let's face it, human beings are imperfect creatures.  And I suppose there are possibilities for the creation of some beauty, in art, in writing.  The process of sitting down and placing out all those pocketed dark thoughts and sad things.  The unfortunate thing is that you have to actually write all of them out.  "Where did that ten years go when I had a marvelous ride with Betsy driving out to our friends wedding, and we connected then, but somehow didn't stick fast, and ten years ago would have been better, a less burdened time..."

And with, on top of the administrative stuff, the drying out of the carpet from the drain upstairs in mom's bathroom, the monitoring of the cat's behavior, the finding of the new helper lady, spreading baking soda on the carpet, and giving mom a ride, a little lunch adventure.

No wonder the clear animal beauty in Hemingway...