Lost for Words

Time to tamp the PTSD July 21, 2010

Well, it does appear as if our pals in the drilling business down south have that little Gulf gusher close to under control. So we won’t have to stare at the gurgling geyser of goo on the telly around the clock anymore, and some of our badder vibes can go away. No more constant subliminal reminder that things are bad.

Maybe we can all focus on the Atlanta Braves looking like they just might make this a season to remember for Bobby Cox on his way out, or the precocious Cincinnati Reds trying their best to show just how good a manager Dusty Baker has always been. Maybe.

Perhaps, now that the images of oiled up shrimpies and birdies will fade along with the gaunt lying faces of bankers and teary busted frowns of ex-homeowners, we all can really ease on down the summer roads, slather on the butter and sprawl on a towel, or grab a stick and wander up a path to the tippy top of something. Get into a summer head, with a vengeance. We still have six weeks or so before we have to think.

  I think we must all find a way to just let a whole bunch of bad karma ebb back out into the ether, the vast ocean, the deep woods. Hell, Lindsay Lohan’s in jail for the moment, so I think we’re safe.

There’s a whole lot to consider once Labor Day kicks off the politics. A lot of important decisions still need to be made, a whole lot of answers still need to be arrived at before we’re comfortable with what all went wrong — in the Gulf, in the Canyons of Manhattan — with many of our dreams. But there’s time for that.

All of that simply will not turn out well if we approach it with a gusher head — a monumental spout of anger torrenting up from a tap into a feary pool a mile deep in our collective subterranean soul.

Drill we must — into our better halves, back into our Well of Hope, our Vale of Can, our Meadows of Dreams. Back into the Right Stuff, for we have daring to do, a future to build.

And the anger bit will surely bore into a bad pool that will slime solutions with rancor, swamp possibles with doubty sheens, and mire us all in a sticky goo of give up.

So there are summer skies with flaming dusks, warmy cooling waves and fish finally nipping when your fly hits the sparkle in the stream above just right. There are neighborhood shrieks and amateur sparkles, smoky grills and bigfat dripping ‘maters from the yard, and open windows after the night earth cools and the ocean air moves over the bed.

We’ve been through a lot, my friends. A real bad piece of highway. Time to take that 5 minutes of shaky grace on the shoulder after that Near Miss, let the pounding heart ease off, the BP trickle on down to normal and screw the nossle back onto the adrenaline hose.

We’re OK. With miles to go before we sleep. And promises to keep.