Something in the state feels strange. There is a gathering, a coming together. The “Southeast Writers’ Conference” is about to commence. I can sense a bunch of writers getting ready to meet for several days of workshops and seminars along with lively discussion groups on the craft of manufacturing prose. Oh some might say it’s just an excuse for a bunch of freaks to hang out, drink, swap stories, sing and float their fish-belly white selves down a river in an innertube in the midst of an Alpine mirage, but nay, I say. Nay.
And tomorrow I get the honor of entertaining blog-family. Will she be freaked? Will I take her to a good place to eat? Will I follow that up with a visit with the cadavers? Who knows?
In addition, some young ones are gathering together tonight, one of the elite groups. Tomorrow they leave for the mountain. I leave with them as well for a late night slog up the “goat trail” to the top of the mountain. I will be with them, suffering in the middle of the night and I am sure the howls I hear off in the distance will be hounds, not my writer’s conference brethren who will be a mere 6 miles away from my mountain. I shall descend the mountain Saturday to join my fellow writers-in-conference.
And the dogs gathered round me tonight, missing their father when, lo and behold, he showed up, looking like he planned to stay for 6 months, every tshirt on a hangar. Lots of hangars. Three or so weeks was all he planned, but it looks to be more than that. The dogs will be glad to have him around.
And the morning was devoted to my two largest friends, with one large-one asking questions of careers and work, for which I could not give directions, only help him come to his own conclusions. The other, calling from Iraq, wanted to try out some web based video and we did. And I was able to see he is still in great shape while I was able to look at his new “office” and see several of the familiar men of his unit. He was also able to have a preview of some of the contents of his first care package. He’ll get more, and, naturally, he wasn’t shy about making specific requests.
On the wall was a painting, unfinished, of the 82nd Airborne crest. Another friend of ours had started it months ago, but she hadn’t completed it before it was her time to come home last month. Small world to find a friend in an old well converted into an office who leaves you something begun for you to continue.
There are threads tying the good people in this world together even in the most unexpected places.
I recently found a link between a guy I dated a few times and some friends at school… very odd, I thought.