[Image: “Inertia,” by user cuzco07 on the Deviant Art site. I have never forgotten a formal definition of “inertia” I picked up somewhere, maybe in a physics class; it summarized the force in two ways, the more commonly understood being: the tendency of a body in motion to remain in motion — like a fast-moving vehicle approaching a brick wall. Less commonly referenced is the second half of the definition: the tendency of a body at rest to remain at rest.]

Those of you who know of our extended US road trip may be wondering, well, just what the heck is going on. (I have’t mentioned it here at RAMH in weeks, I haven’t called, I haven’t written, I must not love you, etc. etc.) Fact is, we’re still mired in South Florida. We arrived here at The Stepdaughter’s House o’ Canines just in time to intersect with Hurricane Elsa’s path, and since then… well, let’s just say for now that Other Things Happened. We still have a couple other Florida family visits to make; with luck, though, we’ll finally make it out of the state — gasping in desperation — within another week or two. (And then comes the considerably accelerated scramble of the first leg of our trip…)

With very little to do in the meantime, and (haha) a limited wardrobe to wear while doing it, we’ve been able to caaaaaalm down, relax, and contemplate how best to confront what’s before us at a given moment. Inevitably comes the realization: the comforting prominence of the first-person plural in that sentence. We and us versus the alternative, I and me — well, yes, we’re in pretty good shape, all things considered. I don’t speak much of matters of the heart, but now that I’m in this situation, oddly, I suddenly think of this…

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

(Christopher Marlowe [source])

Of course, Marlowe was inspired not just by a pleasant companion but by roses, posies, and other pleasures of May in the English countryside. But we are still in bloody Florida, in bloody July, bloody 2021. How are we supposed to contemplate anything — even each other — with anything like pleasure? Along comes Raymond Carver, courtesy of whiskey river:

The Best Time of the Day

Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.

Next to the early morning hours,
of course.
And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love

these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.

(Raymond Carver [source])

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Aside: what’s the adjective form of “Marlowe” (a la “Shakespearean”)? “Marlovian”? [Answer, in short order: yes. See the title of this Wikipedia article.]