in it and away from it

I show up at huron mountain in a state-- it's an off-season gathering, some sort of social obligation, and I'm weeping and shouting at my father in a public space, the dining or club room-- I'm thoroughly beside myself-- at the time I don't consider the display; I'm entirely focused on my anger and frustration with my father-- but later, after I've calmed down somewhat, I realize what I've done. I've made a spectacle of myself. I have to get out, get away.

since I arrived by plane, I have no car, and it's dark and I'm not entirely well, so I don't know that I can handle the old brown jeep on the roads-- but I go. on the road all the oncoming traffic is driving on the wrong side-- they keep having to turn quickly and get in the other lane-- I'm flashing my lights and honking and driving slowly in order to give them time to move out of my way.

other cars are stopping at the railroad tracks, but I race right across and glimpse an approaching train.

I go to the inn in town and try to make myself inconspicuous in the public spaces-- I just need some time to rest and recover. a member of the staff tries to take me around to introduce me to the other guests, but I say, no no no, I'm quite fine-- I'd just like to sit quietly and read if that's okay. so she goes away, and I turn to the contents of the inn's library. I see, all along the top of the old upright piano, piles of magazines all stacked together and buckled and warped with water-damage-- and I wonder, why in the world does she keep these?