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Standing barefoot at the jalousie windows of the back door, peering blindly into moonlessness. hearing, unfocused... discordant opera of frogs diverted through angled glass. This is better. I got a grip halfway home on the dark ride. Iggy P0p uncharacteristically crooning "I take a little bad with the good. It's not just black and white. You gotta deal with the real Living on the Edge of the Night." You could say that. The beat tattoos it into the brain, though. God help me, I've got a red neck. An all day effort in the woods+84� cloudless sky+three beers=cleansing and sunburn. Hee Haw. Musical revelation of the day: Virginia Rodrigues, from the Bahia region of Brasil. Big girl, beautiful smile, astounding voice. My proposal: the language of Love is Brasilian. Extra vowels, just Spanish enough to give you a clue, just different enough to flow around you instead of into the ear and into the brain. Like a lover humming softly while stroking your forehead in her lap as you drift. I need a Spanish class. In her interview with Mr. Byrne, she spoke of her "orixas"... her saints, her protectors. With Zion vs. Babylon going on ten time zones away, it's been a crisis of faith, coming to a boil for me. Too many "chosen few" in this world. My god is bigger than your god. But the thought of a saint watching over you, is appealing. If there was one that kept me from cutting past my pants leg to my skin with the chainsaw... then I thank you. Tomorrow morning, an early visit from the dowser... who, by the technology of bent metal rods, will apply his skill to divine where the well will go. Perhaps. If the weather holds, the evening will bring a trip to the observatory... up where the earth curves away in all directions. Trying to find our place in the moonlessness. |
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