by monday

I rant, therefore I am.

There is this place where I go to fix what is wrong with me, or at minimum, keep the wolves at bay. It isn't that I don't like the wolves, just that I understand their intent. It never changes. They live in my head. They talk to me. In the immortal words of somebody, there is no confusion about why people who kill themselves shoot themselves in the head. It is where the problem lies.

Ah well. Another day.

I hated the camping trip. I feel ripped off. Duped. I wasn't, of course. Again, my fine mind leading the way down a dark alley. What I want to say is that I had NOTHING in common with those people. But I do. A fundamental thing. The wolves.

We were given the camp space because a girl I know was too pregnant to camp this year. It is an old campout, 17th annual, and it is impossible to get a space. I had seen the spot a couple of years ago, and coveted it (problem begins) but I didn't really see it for what it was. I saw what I wanted to see, and, using toddler rules of conduct (I want it therefore its mine) I assumed a great many things, such as, everyone camps like we do. It is a huge campsite, huge, and in other areas of the camp, it is relatively quiet, but our site was situated smack in the middle of 80's rockers. Tesla for breakfast. Non-stop. It was like being in hell. I'm sure I'm paying for something. Judgment, no doubt. I always do.

But there we were, in the middle. The freebie was irresistable. Couldn't pass it up. Yeah, we got a permanent spot at CANACO. I still don't know what CANACO means. I just wanted to be in the middle where the big kids are. I just didn't know the middle of what. Plus, there were way too many people out there. WAY too many. Globs of people flocking together to outrun those damned wolves. )And I wish I didn't have to be so obtuse, but print is print.) The difference, I think, is that the reason we were there, primarily, was to camp. The reason the others were there was about the fucking wolves. Not us. We didn't care so much about that. We just wanted a free campsite. And we got one.

And not that we couldn't afford one. Bummer. Now, I'm sure that some people view camping as a time to blast stereo's and scream and yell into the night. We aren't like that. We are quiet. We were just reading, and making yoyo's for my quilt, Nicole making a loom-knitted scarf, and cooking, and picking berries for cobbler, and catching crawdads, and my honey made me a hanging spice rack out of macrame. Knotted rope. See previous post. And we went up a day early, so really, did have one day of real camping before the hordes showed up.

And the way they looked (let me say what I really mean)... does it really matter that they have no sense of style? Should it? NO. Does it? YEEESSSS. Do these women not see their bellies hanging over their passe-low jeans. Do they not have mirrors? Would you tattoo that? NO. Would you decorate it? I, personally, would not. I try to tell myself that these women are better off being less self-conscious than me, that celebrating big fat hangin' bellies is a step forward for womankind, but these crackheads looked like shit. Period. I am embarrassed to be seen among them. So why was I? Why didn't I leave?

I don't know. I guess because it kept getting nice for a minute, quiet. I tried to look at the similarities rather than the differences. I tried to be one of many. And am. I know that. But also, there is a place for me, and I need to understand that it is not a social one. I called a. and she set me straight about that.

Next year we will go to Waldo Lake.

I'm sure there will be idiots there, and bad campers, but I won't be expected to socialize with them.

fuckin' wolves.