Let The Good Times Roll

by

 

Up here in the Russian River zone having a 70s esque cowboy/girl porno shoot on the couch of the rental house seven and a half miles outside of Healdsburg California.

 

Magic Marc

Magic Marc

It is Jayne’s 40th.

 

The music is not what we were hoping for—the house despite having three bedrooms, an enormous kitchen, four different televisions, a hot tub and other assorted amenities—there is no Ipod dock.

 

There are innumerable people dithering about making phone calls and we just say let it go and it’s all going to be what it is going to be.

 

The stereo is an ancient dinosaur but it does boot out the tunes.  97.7 FM the Rock/Santa Rosa.

 

It is like being at the country house of my mom’s friends in the high summer when I was about five.

 

Except there is no booze, drugs, or sex.

 

There is the drama of not having the music be right up our alley, but really in the grand scheme of things, we do have tunes.  I have been places where there is not even a radio station to listen to and everybody was bummed that the boom box was out of batteries and the tape deck ate the cassette and we would just sit around in the dark next to the fire and be happy conversing with one another.

 

It is a huge help that Mark is so game to be a silly goose.  He had striped down to some athletic shorts for the hot tub and got caught up posing on the couch with a fur pillow oh so strategically located.

 

That’s what happens when you get a gaggle of kids up from the city to the river.

 

The traffic was horrendous, but I am like a dog, “are we going for a ride, we’re going for a ride, yes, yes?  Awesome.  Oh look cows.  Oh trees. Oh smell that.  OH.”

 

I am not the best driver, well I am a good driver, but when I drive it is not about enjoying the ride, it is not about the secret special route, unless it is a faster route, it is about getting from one point to another.

 

Fast.

 

Now.

 

Quick like.

 

When I am the passenger, however, I actually relax.  I sit back, I get into the music, I get into the scenery, the flash of a black charred wild oak tree underneath the blue press of sky deep into the Marin hills.  The sweep of the vultures wings, the striation of the feathers and how you can tell when it is a turkey vulture or a true hawk.

 

I saw dozens of vultures and three hawks.

 

Deer.

 

There are deer here.

 

Joan and I got tot the house first.  I went right to the hammock between the two old growth redwoods toward the front of the property, next to, I kid not, the babbling of a brook.

 

I closed my eyes and despite the two coffees I had on the road I could have drifted right off into the song of the brook and the soft wind whisking through the boughs.

 

Divine.

 

A moment of absolute stillness when the hammock found its sway and the hook stopped creaking and there was not a sound, not a car, not a squawk of noise from the street, just pure quiet and the song of the water slipping over the rocks.

 

I might have stayed there all the rest of the day, I had not even brought all my gear inside the house, the hammock had arrested me on sight.

 

Then I heard, “ahhhhhhhh” very loudly from the back of the house.  A cry of pain?  Did Joan bump her toes, drop something in the kitchen?  I swung my legs out of the hammock and dashed up to the house to investigate.

 

Joan had not in fact hurt herself, she had just submerged herself in the hot tub.

 

I striped out of my San Francisco resort wear, underneath the many layers I was ready, I had put my swimsuit on this morning after getting out of the shower at 8:30a.m.

 

It was ten hours later, the traffic was horrendous and took twice as long to get here than normal, and I was ready to get down to business.

 

I had put on my swimsuit, pulled out my flip-flops, and put my sunblock on, I sat down to  write my morning pages and got really excited about the idea of getting out to a part of California that was actually sunny.

 

It was not sunny today.

 

It was foggy.

 

It was cold.

 

It was misty.

 

I thought, maybe I should put on a pair of tights just to do the laundry.  Then I realized that I should also put on a shirt and socks and real shoes.  Despite being quite content in my bathing suit and cut off blue jean skirt and flip-flops, I was in fact sitting in my room with the space heater going full blast.

 

Um, probably not quite so warm out there then, I realized looking out the window, in the Mission and it was foggy.  Does not bode well for dashing across the street in the little attire I had on.

 

I pulled the black tights out, the button down shirt, the sweat shirt, the jean jacket, and a pair of socks.

 

I took the laundry over to the mat, half a block down and one block down, and I wished I had worn a scarf as well.

 

July my ass.

 

It is fucking winter.

 

But not here, not here, right up the road outside of Healdsburg.  The time is currently 11:47 p.m. and I am in my swim suit, and flip-flops.  It is not summer time in the Midwest hot, but it is certainly warmer than anywhere in San Francisco.

 

Tomorrow off to the Russian River after breakfast with friends—Mary, Jayne, Bonnie, Mark, Joan—to go inner tubing.

 

I’m going to drift down the river, soaked in sunshine.

 

In fact, I’m already gone.

 

Yes, I’m already gone.

 

Heaven’s knows it wasn’t you that set me free.

 

Me, I’m already gone. 

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