Golden Hour

3: Weathered Out

Followed the track of my needle
Tried to be good to my people
So why's there no peace?
No break no relief?

Can I be blamed if I'm angry?
Can I be saved if I'm barely clinging to hope?

(Morning Comes , Delta Rae)

JUNE 24, 2019
ALICE

I don't want to work today.

I've managed to catch another hour or two of sleep after the cabin conundrum, but it's far from enough. I'm exhausted. I'm sore. I'm angry. My eyes sting and my skin itches from the mud I failed to wash off in my hasty shower last night.

I don't want to work today.

Inspiration and hope have both abandoned me, replaced by a jittery sense of uncertainty. Our first shoot was supposed to start at ten. I had planned for a slow morning — an early rise, a quick breakfast, a few hours spent decorating models to a picture perfect ideal — this is not possible now. I'll have to spend the morning cleaning and steaming all the clothes that got drenched last night. My whole creative process has been thrown out of whack. I hate it. Stupid freakin' Mother Nature. Stupid Texas.

I let out an exasperated huff and roll over, burying my face in the pillows. I want to scream, or sleep, or evaporate altogether. I can't do any of that. I have to get up. Now. I have no choice. If my models slink out of their rooms to find me missing and my cabin half taken down by a tree, they'll dive into full on panic. I've got to make an appearance. At the very least, I'll go tell them our schedule has been pushed back by a few hours. Show them that I'm still alive. To do all that, I've got to leave this wonderfully comfortable bed. Jasper's sister — Rose, I think he said — is a very lucky woman. These sheets feel like Egyptian cotton, the pillows like clouds. Considering everything else around here is so rural, this bedroom is a special kind of luxury. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

I eventually convince my body into a hot shower and wash the remnants of last night down the drain. I wash my hair and clean my face, hoping that good hygiene will pass off as restfulness. After that, I dig through the bathroom cabinets, hoping to find a hairdryer hidden somewhere behind this woman's five million creams and endless pink towels. I'm out of luck. I can smell like eucalyptus or cherry blossom or s'mores, if I want to, but my hair will just have to dry out in the sun, like a damn pioneer. I want to feel resentful, and I do, but I don't know who — or what — to direct that energy towards. It's not Jasper's fault, for sure, and I certainly don't feel comfortable blaming an inanimate object like a hairdryer a tree or an old, decrepit cabin. My anger is pointless. I breathe in that realization, and breathe out negativity.

Another silver lining: I don't have to be in front of the camera. It doesn't matter what I look like today. That softens my homicidal mood. A little.

I'm forced to wear whatever I can source out from the large white dresser in the bedroom, which ends up being a pair of athletic shorts and an old track and field t-shirt. Both items read Beaumont High in bright, collegiate lettering, printed clear across the back; which screams class, really.

It's going to be a great day.

Deciding it's far too early for a drink, I settle for a shot of emotional support instead. There is a string of unopened messages from my family waiting patiently on my phone and I pause long enough to read them, hoping their words of support will carry me through the morning.