Saturday, August 22, 2015
8/21-22: Criminal Yoga
The scene of this morning's yoga constitued a crime.
I trespassed -- not murder, exactly, but a crime, nonetheless. The scandalous place in question was another mountaintop property, down the road from my family's, along an ascending ridgeline offering million-dollar views of the town below. It was these views I performed my yoga before, to the music of crickets and stray breeze (and not a single passing car). My only company on the lot was the multiple "NO TRESPASSING" signs planted about.
As it were, this lot has a bit of lore in the town, having originally hosted an ultra-modernistic, conspicuously all-black house which had been owned by, then confiscated from, a drug dealer (or so I've heard, secondhand). After the maybe-dealer owner's arrest, the bizarrely beautiful home sat empty for years, during which it attracted regular visitors in the form of college students from town (as well as an abstract nickname that I can't just now remember). Eventually the property was auctioned off by the county, bought by a bank, and then cleared of the drug dealer's decayed black house, leaving the lot vacant but for a gravel-filled foundation, still painted black in places. Hence the space for my criminal yoga, and the overbearing announcement of NO TRESPASSING.
Normally, I would've refrained from my whim to do yoga on this lot, out of simple respect for its owners (even if their no-trespassing ordinance has no practical or real-world foundation, instituted just to keep drunk college kids from congregating there). Today, however, I made an exception, for reasons too complicated to explain. For what it's worth, I cleaned up some litter afterward, leaving the forelorn old lot better than I'd found it (though I do this everywhere I yoga; cleaning up litter won't change the fact that I violated a law, after all).
That session was so nice, I had to go there again, the next morning. Then, I was joined by a curious beagle, hot on some scent (and, thankfully, no angry property owner's).