Deer in the headlights, and other miscellanea

I drove home from Abilene tonight. I was going to wait until this morning, but felt the need for some driving and smoking, and figured I might as well be gettin my ass back home in the process. Left at around two in the morning, arrived thirty minutes ago. It's six thirty right now, which makes for a trip of right at four hours. If everything else in my life is on schedule, the sun should be coming up shortly.

It's a pretty long drive, as drives go, and all state highways and farm-to-market roads. But not too bad. I had my thoughts to keep me company. We're pretty good friends, my thoughts and I. We've had a lot of time alone together.

Oh yeah. Bob Dylan rode along for comfort and company as well. I listened to Time Out of Mind all the way to Fredricksburg. Skipping over a few tracks every time they came around, I made it through the album five or so times. Then at Fredricksburg I popped in Shot of Love, and that carried me into San Marcos. The last harmonica solo on "Every Grain of Sand," the final track on the album, was winding down as I pulled into my driveway. It's nice how things work out that way.

I saw fifty times as many deer as I did other cars on the way. This might be an exaggeration, but if it is it isn't much of one. I could've been some kind of Deer Pope for the crowds lining the road. I don't understand deer. I see them running around during the day, but they're out at all hours of the night as well. Maybe they're so stupid they don't need sleep. They run towards headlights, you know. A couple of months ago, coming home from my Bible study, one of them ran out into the road. I swerved to miss it, but it jumped back in the way and I clipped it with my left headlight. And then last week one of them ran into the side of my car. A couple of my friends were right behind me, and they told me later it bounced off the car with its head, then trotted off into the woods. Damn deer.

If God never said "no," you'd never know you didn't mean it when you asked for His will to be done.

I came up with this poem on the way back home. Came up with some others, too, but they aren't quite as succinct, and will take more time (and sleep) before they're presentable. Enjoy.

HEAVEN'S ROPE

We like to think we climb it one bloody
hand over the other, worn raw as sacrificial meats,
that we purify ourselves by the difficulty of the ascent,
the holy pain in our shaking shoulders,
that the dross falls away, like coins
shaken out of our pockets from a great height.
We like to think we turn
our wide doe eyes to heaven, searchlights.

But those of us that make it are made
against our will, the rope knotted
under our arms, around the chest,
shaking out our breath, penduluming
in the vacant air. We feel ourselves
pulled upward, inches at a time--
even the angels have to strain at the rope,
they heave us up like caskets.
The noose has to be tight, too. We look down,
we want to fall. We struggle.

(1/11/04)

# posted by Daniel at 4:56 AM.

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