Back in the hedonistic 3 or so years I spent towards the end of a decade of wallowing in self-pity, at the Lake, a lovely cottage garden at my disposal to play with, a place, a scene, a rural route out of my imagination, surrounded by forests and those, such as myself, who shy away from the bulk and bustle of other humans, finding them, em, tiresome, to be kind, and I found my own kind, too.

And thusly we hide away in our own ‘Temenos’, sacred places of our own decoration where we can, be, ourselves, and that is exactly what Irish Lake became for me; sacred, holy, a precinct set aside just for me and me alone, well, and Tim. It was his first, and I was pulled in by that knowledge, that he indeed inside must have been good, somewhere, as this place he loved was indeed touched by magic, and some of it must have rubbed off on him, and I was not wrong, just naïve.

It was wonderful, straight outa my garden fantasies, and the things I learned there I will take with me to my dying days, and perhaps then some.

In some ways, I believe I learned things there I probably could not have learned anywhere else, or at least not as succinctly, as solidly, as willingly. My mind was soothed with the rich earthy vibes of homegrown outdoor weed, my fingernails were generally filled with black earth, with me and the robins sharing joy in the worms, as I recall one late summer day watching as the momma hopped around fetching them for her 2 mouthy little ones, with their big buggy eyes and fluffy feathers. I was at peace, it gave me stuff, and I listened, and took in its scent and cool breezes that came off the lake.

Much of what Tim did, said, lied about, was always washed a little cleaner, indulged, or flat-out ignored, I think, or maybe to say awareness was fogged up by a master manipulator; which is probably closer to the truth of it.

We all, I feel, have these places, these safe spots, holy, secure, a fortress in one’s mind only, sometimes, and respect them, cherish them, for otherwise we are weakened and vulnerable to attack when we do not acknowledge them, protect them, appreciate them for what they truly are, and not just our home, but our strength.

The rumpTus once had his own, his tower on an island as it was, and he traded its protection for a solid white colonial pillared mansion situated on the shores of the Potomac, exposed, open, to a public that loathes him, and where all his tools of conceit he once relied on to cover him are gone, and his loyal bum sniffers and lickers, one by one, even actual peckers, those who once had his backside, have turned-tail and booked it outa dodge, er, D.C., for safer ground, or prison, the man lost his fort, I could coo on, ohr, mcgahn, but I won’t.

The lies, well documented, truths of what he said all out in the open for all to see and hear, and his vault of secrets has been revealed, and eventually ya know the man with the key is going to give up all the stuff that resides inside, one by one, teasing it all out for fun and profit, and it is not a surprise that a dude with the surname of Pecker would be somewhat entranced by the titillating scandal-ridden secrets of others, and it is fortunate for him his Mommy and Daddy didn’t name him Richard.

Well, willy jokes aside, the rumpTus seems to have a real homing device built in for attracting crooks and creeps, shysters and gooks, goof’s and all; he may want to consider a new brand of cologne.

But, all those out in the wild, in their double-wides and rural ranch homes, drinkin’ the kool-aid, their juried juice of choice, oblivious, indifferent, infatuated, flailing in their dreary lives, are easy marks.

I know, for I was one, and know how easily you can be manipulated into subservience to another. Actually, and until most recently, I had failed to learn that one, and final, lesson from the lake – and that is that, to choose your primary abodes wisely, your friends judicially, and your peace of mind will follow.

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