Maybe it was the blazing inferno of sun, or the alcohol that flows endlessly from bottomless coolers. Could have been too much yummy food, or loud music and dancing, or the way the gentle pool waves rock you to sleep on your float. But ultimately, I think it's the way I am. I spent the past three days in Hattiesburg, Mississippi in a hidden oasis of lush gardens and sparkling waters, we all call Bill & Louise's. We arrived just in time for the new cycle of lovebugs to crawl from their larval casings and fulfill their destiny. My days were spent in either of two places. One, lounging in a chair baking, or two, sizzling in the water. Laughing, talking, dancing, taking small breaks to eat, falling asleep, diving in, rinse and repeat. Go in to use the bathroom, weigh myself (120), pee, weigh myself again (118), check tan progress, pet the kitty, talk to the bird, refill drink, back to the chair. Little rituals I have been performing for four years now.
My nights were spent alone in bed reading a book I had been meaning to read for about a year now. I hadn't planned on spending the dark hours in isolation but once I got into the book, I couldn't put it down. Therein lies the magic for me. It's not reading, it's traveling. When I open it, I am going to Maine, or to the Boo-ya Moon. I'm fully immersed and barely notice when someone wanders in looking for a bathroom, apologizes, and leaves. Wondering where my pool that we all go down to drink from lies. What would my imagination water taste like? Being awed and inspired by a talent almost too great to fathom and a wish to attain that.
As the clock struck midnight, and the hour turned to none, I blink and rub my eyes, check my progress (page 218) and rub my sore back. For this is not my bed, I haven't quite mastered the ridges and lumps. I press a finger onto the top of my only slightly red leg (I tan well), mid-thigh, and watch as the white impression it leaves quickly bleeds back to crimson. Ah, crimson, the color of the king. I light a smoke, turn over to lie on my stomach (Jason says this will help during one of his many 'just checking in' trips, each one drunker than the next) and now, it is time to return.
When it's done, I wipe my eyes (I always cry a little when something good ends-not to mention,I can feel the finality of my favorite author drawing ever closer), replace the book jacket and put the book/travel/time machine in it's rightful place on my shelf next to the countless other King books and give Penny Lane a little kiss. I am home. Tummy a little plumper, skin a little browner, but no worse for the wear. And I have been on a much longer journey. Down to the pool where we all go to drink from. I have knelt and taken a sip. It's so refreshing, I bend and gulped greedily. And just before I fall asleep, I hope that this drink lasts a little longer than the last. But if not, at least now I know where my pool is. In a book. Not just any book, mind you. A story. A good story.
Edit/Post Script/Epilogue: Inspired and anew, I created this: http://gretawriteseveryday.blogspot.com/
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