Gyridion's Hideout

My latest Adlib work, finished in August, was entered into Summer Chip VIII on Battle of the Bits, placed 28th of 215 entries, and very, very narrowly won gold in its format category.

We beat traffic. Then we stopped for gas, and it all caught up with us. Like slogging through August to reach September, the ride home was a dreary bore. Squandered in lieu of far better times ahead. We’d return home, go our separate ways, and then not talk extensively for a week or two. A slice of grassroots paradise, gone again until next year. The music was nice, but . . . I won’t miss it.

I “slept in” and still managed to roll out of bed at 08:00. We went back to the festival grounds, and me and my father actually spent most of the time talking about recent developments in the family.

Drying out my minimal shoes. Hand towels and a hairdryer to finish do the trick just fine. Sorry for whoever got this room after us, though.

Houses looking like the goddamned White House up in here.

Rhode Island, man . . . 

Dad wanted a view of the ocean. The beach here was perfect. Rocky, cloudy, full of foliage. Compared to town, and the festival, it was the ideal break of pace away from the tourism.

Anchor tent. As many pulled pork and beef brisket sandwiches I could eat. As much rain runoff required to completely liquefy most of the ground inside. The floor became a murky mirror, through which my footsteps could interrupt the opportunity for self-damning reflection.

Some pretty dame of a saxophonist, playing with a conga line of some sort in tow, for her closing number. Then, the rainwater shorted out the flanking monitors as the storm began to pick up. Good finale.

Dad’s on a juice kick because the doctors say he needs a double (or triple) bypass surgery, but feels none of the physical symptoms, so wants to cure himself with diet and medication. But, he does have good taste. It started to rain, and this concoction, featuring beets, perked me up a bit.

Nothing in RI can be too exciting, huh?

Dismantled. Parts of the original balcony on the east side missing. On the north side, fairgoers were taking shelter from the rain within the walls.

Cannon balls, perched atop some retaining walls on either side of the southern entry within the fort walls. Stacked in place, and painted. Got some intense Serious Sam vibes in here.

The festival is held at the same place every year -- Fort Adams State Park. Erected just before the 1800s. It, like all sorts of other things in Rhode Island, holds a certain prestigious history the likes of which slickers from New York like me can’t easily resonate with. It’s hard to fathom heading deeper into New England, where establishment predates my families even being in America.

But we’re Polish. Meandering casually into tough shit is kind of our trademark.

Balconies, on the inside, overlooking the foyer. But nobody was here. They were heading out to brave the storm, or indulging in other tourism, or hiding from the rain entirely.