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ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about last Saturday night, when I drove past the place where I see The Carney (a.k.a. The Angel of Death, a.k.a. Jim) and pointed it out to my cousin, Aly (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
noblwish), because she asked me to. She's the only reader of these posts who has been in my car with me and therefore in a position to inquire where this particular spot is. She's also just the sort of person who would ask to see it.
We had spent the day in College Station (about and hour and a half's drive from my home) for the birthday party of another cousin's child. Our own two children were passed out in their car seats in the seat behind us. Aly lives in the city and I agreed to drive her and her 3-year-old daughter partway home rather than have her mate have to drive all the way back to where I live in the outskirts of nowhere to pick them up.
"You have to show me where you see the Ferris Wheel," she said as we passed through my small town, "I'm curious."
"I don't know if you'll be able to see it. I don't think that anyone besides me can."
She said this was okay. Maybe she was curious for curiosity’s sake, or maybe she wanted to see the last place I saw her father and brother. I get curious about stuff like that myself. When it comes to the departed and someone has a memory that I don't have, I want all of the details so I can add it to the collection of my own memories. Grief makes us greedy for every little piece of the one we miss, for every little shred of their existence that we can hold onto.
I planned to show her the honky tonk that Jim and I met up in when we had our friend date, as well. I want to stress that it was a friend date and not a date date. I'm a responsible married woman and even if I could date the Angel of Death, I wouldn't, for more reasons than I can count. It's an easy place to miss driving in the dark, way back off of the highway down a long dirt driveway. At one time, it was on the outskirts of the town, but the town has been developing around it. We passed it before I remembered to point it out. Next time she is out my way, I'll try to show it to her then. I did show her where the Ferris Wheel is, though.
"There," I said when we reached the right intersection, "Do you see it? It's enormous." You don't see it until you are right up on it, when you get to the stoplight. Before that, it doesn't exist, and after that it only exists for a few yards as you drive away.
"Hmmm," she said in a non-committal way. I don't thing she saw it, which is a pity. The Cars and the Spokes of The Wheel were lit up with bright-colored bulbs in all of the primary colors. It looks the most amazing at night, but it's impressive even in daylight since it spans about a quarter of a mile. In the daylight, you can see that the paint is old and flaking, with spots of rust here and there. At night, the entire structure is light and air. None of the bulbs ever go out. The Wheel is life and death, and its lights are constant.
"There's the Carney, right there," I pointed to him as we drove past. "He's looking at us. Wave to him."
Aly waggled her fingers in an apprehensive wave toward the intersection.
"He winked at you," I told her. I didn't let her know that I was a little jealous. I'd never seen him wink at anyone besides myself. But he was looking right at her, not me. I guess I'm not as special as I thought.
She laughed. A few seconds later as I merged my car onto the freeway, the lights of The Ferris Wheel blinked out. They don't fade: one moment they are there, and the next they are gone.
"Now you know," I said.
"Yup," she agreed.
We drove away from the small town, past the suburbs and into the city, talking of incidental things. Behind us, our babies slept soundly in their seats, circling around in the little Ferris wheels of their dreams, neither making a sound.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
noblwish), because she asked me to. She's the only reader of these posts who has been in my car with me and therefore in a position to inquire where this particular spot is. She's also just the sort of person who would ask to see it. We had spent the day in College Station (about and hour and a half's drive from my home) for the birthday party of another cousin's child. Our own two children were passed out in their car seats in the seat behind us. Aly lives in the city and I agreed to drive her and her 3-year-old daughter partway home rather than have her mate have to drive all the way back to where I live in the outskirts of nowhere to pick them up.
"You have to show me where you see the Ferris Wheel," she said as we passed through my small town, "I'm curious."
"I don't know if you'll be able to see it. I don't think that anyone besides me can."
She said this was okay. Maybe she was curious for curiosity’s sake, or maybe she wanted to see the last place I saw her father and brother. I get curious about stuff like that myself. When it comes to the departed and someone has a memory that I don't have, I want all of the details so I can add it to the collection of my own memories. Grief makes us greedy for every little piece of the one we miss, for every little shred of their existence that we can hold onto.
I planned to show her the honky tonk that Jim and I met up in when we had our friend date, as well. I want to stress that it was a friend date and not a date date. I'm a responsible married woman and even if I could date the Angel of Death, I wouldn't, for more reasons than I can count. It's an easy place to miss driving in the dark, way back off of the highway down a long dirt driveway. At one time, it was on the outskirts of the town, but the town has been developing around it. We passed it before I remembered to point it out. Next time she is out my way, I'll try to show it to her then. I did show her where the Ferris Wheel is, though.
"There," I said when we reached the right intersection, "Do you see it? It's enormous." You don't see it until you are right up on it, when you get to the stoplight. Before that, it doesn't exist, and after that it only exists for a few yards as you drive away.
"Hmmm," she said in a non-committal way. I don't thing she saw it, which is a pity. The Cars and the Spokes of The Wheel were lit up with bright-colored bulbs in all of the primary colors. It looks the most amazing at night, but it's impressive even in daylight since it spans about a quarter of a mile. In the daylight, you can see that the paint is old and flaking, with spots of rust here and there. At night, the entire structure is light and air. None of the bulbs ever go out. The Wheel is life and death, and its lights are constant.
"There's the Carney, right there," I pointed to him as we drove past. "He's looking at us. Wave to him."
Aly waggled her fingers in an apprehensive wave toward the intersection.
"He winked at you," I told her. I didn't let her know that I was a little jealous. I'd never seen him wink at anyone besides myself. But he was looking right at her, not me. I guess I'm not as special as I thought.
She laughed. A few seconds later as I merged my car onto the freeway, the lights of The Ferris Wheel blinked out. They don't fade: one moment they are there, and the next they are gone.
"Now you know," I said.
"Yup," she agreed.
We drove away from the small town, past the suburbs and into the city, talking of incidental things. Behind us, our babies slept soundly in their seats, circling around in the little Ferris wheels of their dreams, neither making a sound.
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Date: 2006-08-11 10:35 pm (UTC)As for that wink, well, Death and I are "old friends" so to speak -- the kind of friends who only speak when we're trying to annoy each other. That's why my wave was "apprehensive" -- I mean, I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there. And that explains the wink. Cheeky Bastard!
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Date: 2006-08-12 05:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-12 01:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-12 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-12 02:02 pm (UTC)