My name is Ricky Gear. Not Richard Gere, though it sounds similar.
No, I'm not a movie star, I'm not rich, and I don't live in Hollywood neither. Believe it or not, I'm a professional drifter: I'm a hot air balloon driver, I float about for a living. Been doing it for a long time, too, and don't see myself getting tired of it anytime soon. Well, not if I can help it, anyway - my doctor is starting to make noises about my heart, a man my age, and all that. And I guess he's half right; wouldn't want to have a couple of honeymooners up with me and the old pump gives out. For me, I can't think of a better way to go, and that's the truth, but if something happened to my passengers, I couldn't live with myself. Get it?
Anyway, if he comes back with anything more than just my age, I'll give it a good long think. Won't say that maybe it'd be a good thing, 'cause it won't. But I guess the local G.C.s would like it - that's a group of kids who do geocaching, and we've made it a competitive thing. There's no prizes, but we keep a league table. Kids love it, and I'm not running out of ideas for new and interesting hidey-holes. Besides that stuff, I'd get to build that hen-house and keep me some chickens. Can't remember when's the last time I had a proper free-range omelette. That'd be nice.
So that's me, and that's my day. It's not very interesting, though, so I'll tell you about a different day.
I'll tell you about my perfect day.
Gear / Chest / Heart / Balloon / Timer
2013-11-13
2013-11-12
It Must Mean Something.
It must mean something.
The radio is off; he could not bear to listen to it any more. Every station, every song, every DJ sounded so... so mundane, so dismissive, so obviously unaware. Unaware of his confusion; unaware of his worries; unaware of his hopes. Unaware of his need for meaning.
It must mean something.
As he drives on through the dry, dark night, the road markings flashing by under his headlights have a steady rhythm, a rhythm that his pulse picks up. Not fast enough to be nervous, but enough to make him feel on edge, as he remembers.
The phone call, telling him; then, the phone call inviting him. Of course he was invited, and of course he went. It was beautiful, no less than anyone could hope; it was dignified, no less than anyone could want; it was moving, no less than anyone could expect; it was sad, no more than everyone could take.
Was it meaningful?
He had listened, he had watched. Then, when it was over, he was still watching. He did not know what for; nothing was happening. Nothing would ever happen again. And then he had seen it - off to one side, in a corner, missed, ignored, a single, tiny speck of green: a four-leaved clover the only living thing, here, on her grave.
Since then, he has been driving. He doesn't know where he is, he doesn't care where he's going. All he knows... but no, he doesn't know anything. He has questions. He has only the one question. That icon of luck, of hope, and fortune, there, on her freshly covered grave: does it mean anything?
It must
The radio is off; he could not bear to listen to it any more. Every station, every song, every DJ sounded so... so mundane, so dismissive, so obviously unaware. Unaware of his confusion; unaware of his worries; unaware of his hopes. Unaware of his need for meaning.
It must mean something.
As he drives on through the dry, dark night, the road markings flashing by under his headlights have a steady rhythm, a rhythm that his pulse picks up. Not fast enough to be nervous, but enough to make him feel on edge, as he remembers.
The phone call, telling him; then, the phone call inviting him. Of course he was invited, and of course he went. It was beautiful, no less than anyone could hope; it was dignified, no less than anyone could want; it was moving, no less than anyone could expect; it was sad, no more than everyone could take.
Was it meaningful?
He had listened, he had watched. Then, when it was over, he was still watching. He did not know what for; nothing was happening. Nothing would ever happen again. And then he had seen it - off to one side, in a corner, missed, ignored, a single, tiny speck of green: a four-leaved clover the only living thing, here, on her grave.
Since then, he has been driving. He doesn't know where he is, he doesn't care where he's going. All he knows... but no, he doesn't know anything. He has questions. He has only the one question. That icon of luck, of hope, and fortune, there, on her freshly covered grave: does it mean anything?
It must
2013-11-09
A Good Day
"Today will be a good day." He says it deliberately.
He needs the wood; it is growing cold.
There is a choice of axes; the forest is right outside. He needs everything it offers: kindling, logs, bark, twigs... every tree is useful, and he will need many trees.
Nothing could be easier.
Out he goes, axe in hand, to the nearest tree; the first swing is exhilarating, satisfying.
Today will be a good day!
The second swing takes longer, as he sees the second tree - that bark will be better for making shingles, perhaps it's better to get it first. On the way, he realizes that the third tree's branches and twigs will make better kindling, and without kindling, the logs would be of no use. That tree first!
But wait, don't the twigs on that fourth tree look better? Not just for kindling, but also to fix the broom? Start with that!
Is a broom important now, should he not get the proper logs first after all? It is getting colder, dirt can wait. Will it be the tree with the good bark, or the one with the first cut already made? Either will take time, and there will still be no fire without kindling. The branches on the third might serve for both?
No. No, they wouldn't burn long enough, not all night.
So many trees.
Nothing should be easier.
As night falls, there are no logs, there is no kindling; neither brooms nor shingles.
"Tomorrow will be a good day." He says it deliberately.
He needs the wood; it is growing cold.
There is a choice of axes; the forest is right outside. He needs everything it offers: kindling, logs, bark, twigs... every tree is useful, and he will need many trees.
Nothing could be easier.
Out he goes, axe in hand, to the nearest tree; the first swing is exhilarating, satisfying.
Today will be a good day!
The second swing takes longer, as he sees the second tree - that bark will be better for making shingles, perhaps it's better to get it first. On the way, he realizes that the third tree's branches and twigs will make better kindling, and without kindling, the logs would be of no use. That tree first!
But wait, don't the twigs on that fourth tree look better? Not just for kindling, but also to fix the broom? Start with that!
Is a broom important now, should he not get the proper logs first after all? It is getting colder, dirt can wait. Will it be the tree with the good bark, or the one with the first cut already made? Either will take time, and there will still be no fire without kindling. The branches on the third might serve for both?
No. No, they wouldn't burn long enough, not all night.
So many trees.
Nothing should be easier.
As night falls, there are no logs, there is no kindling; neither brooms nor shingles.
"Tomorrow will be a good day." He says it deliberately.
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