May 17 22
We’ve never been good with heights; so the confidence of our attitude during the whole of the climb was mystifying — something besides will was pushing — though if we are being frank, very little of human life is willed — right? Heart, lungs, the precise fading/persistence of memories… not a lot of choice there…
Anyway… we took a break at what was probably a little over the halfway point. We had no water and there was no shade, at around 95 degrees. We nestled sweatily and a little shakily into a rock nook, next to a solitary juniper — really just a single meter long branch with a Dr. Suess-like tuft of green at the end.
Shielding the sun, with a flat hand above our eyes, we looked out at the radiating miles of flat wash land, cut by the zipper of asphalt that led to the Puente Santo mountains. We thought we could still hear a little accordion music from the copse of Palo Blanco trees below; but the sound was more like a distant tinkling of bells.
At the base of the small juniper was wrapped a torn, white strip of gauze, like a bandage around a bony wrist — the sight of it brought to mind a long forgotten, extremely strange memory — a remembrance right on the cusp of feeling like a dream — but it for sure happened.
When we were about 10, we were eating cereal at the kitchen table before school. Our mother was standing at the counter reading. When all of a sudden we heard Liz (our sister) yelling from the bathroom above:
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”
We ran upstairs to find her lying straight in the bathtub, shower on, crossed arms and her towel tied in an odd loin cloth fashion around her waist. Our mother grabbed her and shook her, trying to wake her from the trance.
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”
Worse, our greyhound Peter was sort of pressed into the corner, by the toilet, standing on two legs, disturbingly anthropomorphic and Anubis-like — having some sort of seizure. When our mother finally broke Liz from her stupor, Peter simultaneously fell to the floor.
Our sister didn’t go to school for the rest of the week and slept in our mother’s room for a month. The strangest part of all though, was that for three days after the incident we were inundated with mail. But not just random junk stuffs, but books, magazines, scholarly journals, etc. all dealing with the theme of ancient Egypt. Really, just mountains of material on Egyptian art and history. There must have been every Egyptological publication piled high on the living room carpet.
Our mother had to go to the post office to terminate our service. But neither the publishers or the post office manager could explain how all of it was addressed and routed to a random house in the Las Jorgas suburbs.
Since the sun was lowering with steadiness, we thought it best to return to our climb.
Stiffly we turned back to the stone face, and looked up to plan the rest of the trip upwards.
(End of Part II)
Anyway… we took a break at what was probably a little over the halfway point. We had no water and there was no shade, at around 95 degrees. We nestled sweatily and a little shakily into a rock nook, next to a solitary juniper — really just a single meter long branch with a Dr. Suess-like tuft of green at the end.
Shielding the sun, with a flat hand above our eyes, we looked out at the radiating miles of flat wash land, cut by the zipper of asphalt that led to the Puente Santo mountains. We thought we could still hear a little accordion music from the copse of Palo Blanco trees below; but the sound was more like a distant tinkling of bells.
At the base of the small juniper was wrapped a torn, white strip of gauze, like a bandage around a bony wrist — the sight of it brought to mind a long forgotten, extremely strange memory — a remembrance right on the cusp of feeling like a dream — but it for sure happened.
When we were about 10, we were eating cereal at the kitchen table before school. Our mother was standing at the counter reading. When all of a sudden we heard Liz (our sister) yelling from the bathroom above:
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”
We ran upstairs to find her lying straight in the bathtub, shower on, crossed arms and her towel tied in an odd loin cloth fashion around her waist. Our mother grabbed her and shook her, trying to wake her from the trance.
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”
Worse, our greyhound Peter was sort of pressed into the corner, by the toilet, standing on two legs, disturbingly anthropomorphic and Anubis-like — having some sort of seizure. When our mother finally broke Liz from her stupor, Peter simultaneously fell to the floor.
Our sister didn’t go to school for the rest of the week and slept in our mother’s room for a month. The strangest part of all though, was that for three days after the incident we were inundated with mail. But not just random junk stuffs, but books, magazines, scholarly journals, etc. all dealing with the theme of ancient Egypt. Really, just mountains of material on Egyptian art and history. There must have been every Egyptological publication piled high on the living room carpet.
Our mother had to go to the post office to terminate our service. But neither the publishers or the post office manager could explain how all of it was addressed and routed to a random house in the Las Jorgas suburbs.
Since the sun was lowering with steadiness, we thought it best to return to our climb.
Stiffly we turned back to the stone face, and looked up to plan the rest of the trip upwards.
(End of Part II)