Nervous Glamper

Of all the dry spots, I sat in the puddle. I didn’t want my jeans sticking to my ass for the next hour, but through the tunnel all I could see on the other side was the corner. There just happened to be a puddle on the edge of this picnic bench. I chose to die on this hill a long time ago. Growing up, I never frolicked with the other boys. Daydreams drifting from wallball to hopscotch, but alas, I was in my own obit. I never had the courage to break this matter of course, regardless of how lonely the drift. It would have taken a hell of a lot more than courage to abandon my star dust for the whimsy of desire. More than a decade later, I began to understand the vast chasm between me and my peers. Or maybe I don’t. Or never will.

My ass is now wet, and I am “camping” in the Hoh Rainforest. If suffering is not involved, I lean on the term “glamping”, but I avoid such vulgar terms in the name of societal cohesion. Placing faith in the human glue certainly has its perks, and far less hostility. While we, the souls of the universe, are all one, I grew up with the Lilliputs and magic caterpillars. I took every opportunity to hide in empty classrooms or behind my father’s leg. The hostility stressed my soul’s meager frame. I did not fit in, and besides, they all hated me. But now, today, fear again. Me verse you, bud. My last encounter with the Hoh Rainforests involved a twenty-mile out and back slog to Blue Glacier. Even the park rangers called in concern when I booked a campsite late that afternoon, “We saw you booked a site at Blue Glacier this evening, we are calling to verify you understand what you signed up for.” I was touched by this thoughtful gesture, “Sure thing fellas, I really appreciate you calling, but don’t sweat it. I am local.” I set camp without a headlight and was ripping home before two in the afternoon the next day. The edge is a beautiful place, the balance between sanity and the impossible.

Everywhere, ever seeking, edge. Five grand worth of camera equipment over the water log crossing. Foot over foot, curb style, every sidewalk, every time. What a fucking weirdo. I’ve always done this, and I just now, notice? What shall I do in this Hoh River peace fest? Take more mushrooms? Pace back and forth and fluster friends? Fuck them. No, I mustn’t. I signed a blood oath, and I have no intention of going back. I swore by the edge, I die by the edge. How confusing all is. They say, “be yourself” and then scream all fucking hell when you choose the overpass, contemplating all those little vessels passing underneath my fragile existence. And they ask me, why I sat in the puddle.