All the Things Wrong with the World are Made Right With You

My son usually introduces me to new music on road trips. This time he navigated hwy 22 to Memphis and we talked about the future of the planet. Gerald has done quite a bit of research on global warming and said we have reached the point of no return: life as we've known it will not be the same for future generations of humans.

We were commuting from his law school in Tuscaloosa to Memphis, where my husband's family will gather for simultaneous celebrations of birthdays and Mother's Day.  I leaned toward him, hanging on every word, while at the same time admiring the vibrant green trees and pasture land we passed.  There had been frequent showers in the area and his dire warnings ran counter to the verdant zone through which we drove. 

"People take all this for granted," he said. "We abuse it." 

He's living in an area of fervent unbelievers . . . in global warming. They do believe in hell fire, though, so maybe a convincing argument could be made from the pulpit.  If preachers got on the side of science they'd just have to get creative, convince people that the Lord Almighty wanted them to choose to live now.  Emphasis being their choice not the Lord's.  Gerald said it would never happen, and that's why he felt hopeless about our future.

The earth underlined his words with a blinding downpour and punctuated his hopelessness with thunder. Cars flashed emergency lights or pulled over to the side of the road. We kept moving, and talking, the Honda a tiny world of its own. Long haul trucks sped past us, fearless and mighty above our puny vehicles.  Seizing the opportunity to gain time in their individual and corporate pursuits-the American way-they pounded us with highway surf. 

I love you, honey. Your ideas are good. Now let's see if we can change the world.

The Real Inside Passage

The Inside Passage haunts me, the sheer mass, muscular and domineering, the allure of frozen quiet shattered with a crack, more ominous than usual because of all the global warming talk. People walk the decks at all hours thinking ponderous thoughts, another kind of Inside Passage. I wanted to be hammered by weather when I was out there, pummeled by a shiatsu of wind and rain. I wanted to get laid every day, have my Inside Passage explored, assaulted, maybe even enjoyed as a safe haven. Cruising is a rite of passage. So is marriage. And turning fifty (not me, but HLH, in whose honor we gathered). The cruise was the cruise was the cruise. Not to be missed.





Hmm . . . yummy fog. Please envelope the ship, let the motors go still so I can hear the electric snap of ice, the hungry lap of water as I walk the decks blindly bumping into other sightless voyagers, perhaps hearing breathing behind me. I turn. The breathing becomes a soft moan. A rustle. "Now," someone says, and, "there."

Lovers out in the open, but hidden by the fog, secret parts lubricated by a salty mist.





My husband doesn't understand why I wanted this photo from the children's playland on the ship.

It's sinister. You could leave a body in the well for an innocent child to discover.














Two of my fans.

It's past ten at night. Note the windows in the rear of the photo.

The midnight sun. One of the best things about this cruise.

I don't wear a watch. I relied heavily on the elevator floors to tell the day of the week (anyone have a picture of that?), and I had incredible energy.


Would a vampire made in the frozen northern reaches of the world be able to tolerate light?