I got the news about London and the subsequent media blitz, just as I was walking out the door. So part of my time, Thursday morning, I kept clicking back through to see if anything had changed. No real news, just recycled bits.
From a coffee shop in Austin, over the bridges and headed towards home, I stopped at Barton Creek for a quick swim. I sat at the water’s edge, pondering what to say, think, and feel about the recent turn of events, and a – leap of faith here – Mexican family swam into view. Almost literally. The tree branch I was sitting, where I dove into the water, and where I hauled myself out, was right by a willow that has seen more upright days.
The first of the family to notice this was a young male, age, I’m guessing, between 8 and 10 years old. Could be more or less, depending on a number of factors, but the clues were the fact that he was not wearing a floatation device, like the rest of his younger siblings, and he seemed like the trailblazer.
The downed log provided a good runway for jumping, diving and falling into the creek. Summertime play, along the banks of the fast-flowing stream. There was an adult, indeterminate age, with them, obviously a hispanic female, and the pack of kids, four or five, all kept calling her “Abuela.” Most of the chatter was rapid fire spanish with a definite Mexican accent to it, and I could pick out words and phrases, but I couldn’t quite string together a coherent conversation. Might not have been one.
“Abuela” drifted downstream, and paddled up to the Willow’s trunk, long enough to rest, and presumably, supervise.
Caught in between the quick spanish, though, little phrases seeped in, like the creek water in my shorts’ pockets, items like “Okay,” and “Hey!”
After I dried out a bit, I clipped the phone back on, stuffed the mail in a pocket, and I was slogging back up the trail, still wondering what to think, how to feel.
It’s about freedom.
Mean Streak
My mean streak is starting to surface. Can’t control it. The dark side is taking over. Skip this if dark comedy offends.
I’ve spent, over the last few years, enough time with British lit, and enough time in smelly, smoky pubs, with the aforementioned characters from brit lit, to have a few of those characters residing in my brain.
It’s not a permanent residence, they just pop on around for visit now and then.
Brit Press:
Guardian’s story on the attack.Which affects the price of oil.
Then the same group, supposedly, claimed to kill the Egyptian envoy.
Unrelated stories:
All about how the rural US is gripped by a meth epidemic.Archeology. Including some British Romans.
So the brit lit characters showed up the Thursday afternoon, one of them is actually Irish, and the pair were sitting, side by side, in a pub, mulling over the recent news.
‘Un-fooking-believable,’ one said, looking at the telly over the bar.
‘Means, we’ve got to do something,’ the other replied.
‘Mmm, another pint? I’m working on plan here,’ the first said.
‘Bloody mess, that’s for sure. It’s a lot like trying to argue with me ex-wife, you know, when she’d been drinking. No way to win, not that one.’
He tapped the side of his nose in a knowing manner.
