Backwoods

"I been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain."

-- America, "A Horse with No Name"

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Went on a trip two days ago, or rather, two nights ago, into the deep hillbilly hills of eastern Kentucky, a four-hour foray that began with raindrops and ended in mist. Had a stomach flu not kept me crumpled over in a fetal pose, I would no doubt have enjoyed the journey, savoring the forests, surrendering to the blur of trees.

Our directions took us from Springfield (northeast of Cincinnati) across the southern rim of Ohio, into West Virginia, and then we sort of scooted straight south to Inez. A new, stunning Super 8 waited for us, literally a light in the dark, with its garish yellow sign fighting the night.

On the way, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Mostly from sick little me.

And the next day, there was much of the same; only, this time, it was the sipping and crunching noise of schoolkids who had been given soda and popcorn on their way to the play. Afterward, there we saw the carnage: littered paper cups, decapitated, the plastic lids skewered by straws, severed from the cup, lying on the auditorium floor like casualties, bleeding Coca-Cola, near debris of kernels.

It was a somber ride home.

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I have an apartment for the next year, in Covington, KY, which is a suburb of Cincinnati, not a forgotten back-woods town. It is a mile's walk south from the river and its bridges to the city across the way. I have bought silverware, china (a manly black-and-green theme), new towels and a shower curtain. Baby steps, tiny purchases here and there, will take me to full decor. I have to figure out what to do as far as Internet and TV (though I don't watch much except what gets on the web or DVD, come to think of it), but other than that, it's fully-furnished, fully-mine.

Oh, and I have to buy a bed or something.

But it is my first "place," mi apartamento primero, my primary pad. It's odd and a bit embarrassing to admit that for my entire life, I have never lived alone: roommates and housemates, renting laws and lease restrictions, have always prevented my moving in, making it mine, and really nesting.

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A trip to Hillsdale tomorrow, for Six Characters in Search of An Author. It's the last show of their season, and as such, the last real chance for my friends to meet my girlfriend, for me to see folks, for me to see a show, very probably. It's a grab bag, a gag brag, from here on out.

So, a lot of transitions on the transistor, I guess, in this game of acting for pay. In some ways, serving the Man; in others, excavating the mummy; but all in all, being cool with mine.

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And Life of Pi is good so far.