Il Vento

Oh, yes, it's that time of year. Season of the crazy-making wind. I just got back from a brief foray into the ruckus outside. I needed to get some exercise and thought a quick walk straight up the hill might do the trick. But I soon tired of all the howling and bluster, and I was almost blown over more than once as I gingerly made my way back down. I'm not exaggerating; it took some effort to stay upright. It's strange to feel so light and unsteady, so easily shoved around. It's just a stark rendition of the human condition, I guess. We are wobbly and vulnerable, though we sure do talk a lot.

And meanwhile, the treetops are dancing and the house sometimes shudders, and in the narrow space of a slightly open window, the wind funnels through with a whistling sound.It was blowing yesterday too, and I rode my bicycle, another dumb idea. I hadn't gone very far when I realized I wasn't having fun, but I can't shed the belief that I have to go outdoors and make myself uncomfortable at least once a day or my bones will crumble, my flesh will turn to flab, and the whole show will fall apart a lot more quickly than it already is. This bike ride, however, turned into a symbolic gesture more than anything else, and I was glad to be in Sacate Canyon coasting back...when I encountered a very bullish bull. Dang, just when you think you're home free, that's when the crap happens.

Now this is a ranch, after all, where the cattle roam, and seeing a bull now and then isn't a big deal. I've learned to steer clear of them (ha ha) and they generally go about their business. This particular bull, though, was bellowing and twitching and obviously stressed out by the wind, and who wouldn't be, standing out there all day with that relentless racket and constant movement everywhere, rippling the grasses, circling your ears, tickling your hide? To make it worse, I had blissfully wheeled past his lady friends and was now right in the narrow path between him and them, with no alternate routes. There's a gorge to the right of me, and the bull a few yards in front of me, to the left. Can you picture it? Basically, it's like this: I have to ride by him to get home. And that's no big deal, usually, but he was making noises. Large, loud noises. Noises of stress and irritation. Noises of aggression.

And then -- I swear this is true -- he started doing that thing bulls do in cartoons, where they paw the ground with their front feet just before charging. And he looked at me...he looked straight at me with his vacant prehistoric eyes.

And did I mention how big this thing was? Enormous head, body like a wall, and sorry for being so graphic, but scrotum like big droopy flour sacs, and the obscene pink flash of an erection, like an errant tube of lipstick or something, yikes. All in all, it seemed to me this bull was gearing up.

There was a tree, oh blessed thing. I crept behind the tree, pulling my trusty bicycle with me, and there I stood. I figured I just had to wait it out. I leaned into the tree, felt its comforting solidity, felt my own heart pounding and the damned wind all around. I stole a peek now and then, and the bull continued to loiter in the same spot, making his anxious bleating calls. Minutes dragged by. I wondered how long it might be before someone missed me.

And finally, the bull began to move. Slowly and indirectly, pausing now and then, but definitely moving on, vaguely in the direction of the cows, now past the tree and me, and I got back on my bicycle and pedaled the rest of the way home.

There's no point to any of this, just more vulnerability. It's about shaky shelter, brief hiding places, no guarantees.

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