Grasshopper Season



Mid to late August is grasshopper season. During my long bike rides they take to dive-bombing my blue beach cruiser, pelting my legs, ricocheting off spokes. I will swerve for a grasshopper.


Mid to late August is grasshopper season. During my long bike rides they take to dive-bombing my blue beach cruiser, pelting my legs, ricocheting off spokes. I will swerve for a grasshopper.

Should one end in an unfortunate pop under my wheel, I always take a moment of silence. Such an abrupt departure to an astronomically short life, as it was.

My bike path is a beautiful stretch of old Michigan railroad converted into an impressive stretch of wide blacktop. Tall weeds, small flowers, and long stretches of corn, soy or tobacco fields bridge the gaps between quaint farm houses and neighborhoods where smartly kept Victorian houses stand like lavishly decorated cakes.

Beautiful as it is, I long to be on a beach. Having recently spent an extended period of time on various Florida beaches – I want that back- beach culture. Not a care in the world, that's what I want. Tea lit porches and beach bonfires, drinks in the afternoon followed by healthy love making. That is what I want.

Lately, I've been wondering if I can manage this with having a child – more to the root – wondering, if I want children. Do they fit into my life plan? The answer is, yes. They do. My afflicted Mars in Cancer longs to protect another life rather than inwardly protect my own, save it from focusing on over-sensitivity and self-protection when it comes to sex. Most of my piss poor behavior stems from this dynamic, this misdirected Mars in Cancer energy; fire over the water; extinguishing, instigating.

At my best, I am protective of the people I care about. When I am able; when their own dynamics allow it. 

But I digress. Children. Yes. But, not here in Michigan. Not the way I grew up, inhibited by my own creativity. Environment is so crucial to development.

Right now I'm thinking of drinks. I want one. It's 11am and I've road my bike to a boardwalk about 6 miles north. I'm sitting on a bench near a wooden boardwalk overlooking the river. Steel drum music plays softly from a speaker attached to one of the many light poles lining the riverside. One boy clings to the metal railing as his friend watches him lower himself into the cool blue water. An old women with a walker lingers to my left, just out of view, reading the various names carved into a brick walkway.

I'm in my bathing suit, basking in the sun, thinking of drinks in the afternoon, and love; about how we all want to be with someone that understands us, not simply in an objective sort of way, but a deep and penetrating kind. The kind where we'd never have to worry about speaking, unless speaking was as intoxicating as touching- but just to feel, think, and make love. 

Words always get in the way. Not the written kind, but the spoken kind. 

I'm thinking of various forms of communication, communication of all the senses, and if love can be considered real love if only a few senses are engaged. As in digital love. Then again, a blind or deaf person can love. A person with nerve damage can love. So yes, digital love can be real love. Love is a spectrum.

I'm trying not to lament the day away, not to dwell on all the things I've recently left behind or overwhelm myself with thoughts of things that have recently come rocketing in, like grasshoppers, the harbingers of Fall. I'm trying not to think of the setting sun before it inevitably, sets.

There are many strong energies surrounding me right now, begging for my hard work and focus, despite endings and beginnings, inevitable endings.

I long for the day my heart is truly free of past loves. Free for new love. Free.

This boardwalk has become too intense, too much good to consume all by myself. Alone, one can't think of freedom and love making without conjuring too much frustration. These thoughts have brought an abrupt end to my peace by the riverside.

Excited, agitated, impatient, I'll return home and work on my words- the written kind, the kind that never get in the way, like drinks in the afternoon.

I think I'll work on one of those, too.


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