We've been thinking about making changes eventually. Moving somewhere else maybe. Switching things around. Monica staying home with Violet while I bring home the bacon. Or, in my case, the Bac-O's. A couple Sundays ago we drove up into the mountains and rode a half-circle around a lake talking about the future and what we should maybe do. Well, Monica talked and I just mostly listened. I did point out some deer though.
"You're really good at spotting wildlife," she said, caught up in the bitty moment.
I swelled with deep organic pride, the good stuff. We aren't big complimenters. So, I'll take the animal spotter thing to the bank.
I find it both inspiring and overwhelming when my wife gets a notion. And this time she's got a doozy. We should get rural, cut out the cultural fat...the cable TV and the internet, maybe. We could grow vegetables. You could fish all the time. (I'm listening). We could make our own clothes out of old Christmas wrapping paper.
"You could hunt deer for meat," she said.
She did. She fucking said that.
I am down with that, I've done it already. But this was pretty out there for the woman I know; Monica doesn't fish with me because she doesn't want to put a hook in a fishes mouth. Those types don't usually throw the hunting thing into the "lets quit this town and get country" equation. Raise goats for Rip-Off Farmer's Market Cheese, maybe. But pop a deer? No.
So, it looks like I need to get all this writing stuff wrapped up pretty soon, folks. See, where I'm going the world creeps slow as Honey Wine. There's electricity, but not much. So, I might not be able to blog to you as much. Plus, I'll be working like three full-time gigs to make up for my lack of value in any field. Probably: Wal-Mart(guns or plants), T.G.I.F. (yeah, there's one in town next to the Wal- Mart), and either Dairy Queen (Blizzard King) or T/A Truckstop (dude with mop and lazy eye and untucked uniform staring at traveling sexy ladies from behind the Louis L'Amour audio books).
At the lake, Monica talks with eloquence and real passion about her vision for the future. I admit to you here that I get turned on by a visionary woman. And all that fresh alpine air; I get super stoned on it. Rocky Mountain High. I make an advance on a country road while driving. I get shot down in an embarrassing mess of flames. All this while Violet naps in back in her car seat: oblivious to the serious shit going on up in the front. Decisions are being bandied about. Lives are being simplified. Christ, deer are getting shot. By me.
I fail though. I fail in keeping up with Monica's soaring spirit. In my head I hear her and like what she is saying and want to commit to the plan. But I am not sure what to do or how or even if I'm allowed to get all Dreamer Dude again in this lifetime. I've done so much Dreaming. I Dreamed things and they came true. Maybe I used up all my Dream Juice? Maybe I might get hit by lightning just for daring to Dream some more?
So, I keep mostly quiet. I feel dazed. Discombobulated. Someone I love is Dreaming big for the two of us and I ain't helping much. I think maybe if I put the cable TV back into the mix it might poke the fires a bit, ya' know?
After all, this whole Dream is one of two things:
A) The best most wonderful Dream of Love and Family and Quality Life ever conjured up by two parents/lovers/sparring partners.
B) The best reality TV show on during the 2011 Fall Season! MONICA,SERGE,VIOLET,AND WILBUR (our son)....an American Family who move to the country for a simpler better life. The ever shifting breezes of love. The tumult of family, of blood. Cute kids raised with chicken shit matted in their corn silk hair. Daddy's drunk on Turnip Whiskey. Mama's high on her homegrown stuff. There's somebody else living in the shed out back. An old man. No one knows who he is. Viewers love him, so the family does too.
Hollywood,call me. We can sort out the details by Monday a week. We are The Bielankos. We are your next American Family. Affected by the Recession. Funny without wanting to be. Decent Looking. Blah-blah-blah.
Call. Me. Now.