Eyeful

photo by Altercator

At one point, I was standing near Joby while he was fiddling with the electronics on the music bike, and when he flicked a switch to return it to its full-throttled volume, the mentioned something about “amperage (I think it was) overload” and it seemed to me that this pretty well summed everything up—in a good way—on a night when being in shirtsleeves was overdressed by at least three items of clothing and on which not only the summer, but indeed, the historical standard for nudity was set, and all this well before the sun ceased glowing in the west.

There was no way I could fully catch up to the level of hijinks, arriving as I did just as the plump of human waterfowl emerged luminescent on the distant dock, so I just took vicarious joy in their glorious naturism and tried to imagine what it was like to be arranged like white stripes on the flag of the lake while an eagle soared overhead; America, fuck yeah!

A somewhat subdued—but still Fancy—Fred arrived via tandem and we lay for a bit with our heads pillowed by the concrete rim of the wading pool to gaze heavenwards at asterisms of our own design; I’m sure I saw plenty of stuff that wasn’t even there but which, nonetheless, reminded me to recall that every single point of light, visible or not, in the night sky, allows us to see into the past, thereby ensuring that nothing we care for ever departs, it just holds its distance overhead forever and ever.

And despite the fact that past misfortune has had an understandable chilling effect on the standing atop of ceilings, it turned out to be perfectly acceptable to take in the view from above, especially with help ascending and descending from colleagues.

Come to think of it, that’s sort of the apt .83 metaphor, although, consistently, more of the assistance inclines towards the upwards.