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All weekend, every afternoon about five, Portugese Man-O-War-shaped clouds have been materializing on all compass points, scored to the tune of god's boulders crashing together. A thick, tropical mist and a few miserly handsful of watery bullets insinuate, as if the torrent awaits. Nature is like the worst heartbreaking tease you ever had in high school. Big Buildup... Big Letdown. The Storm From Ipanema. As it passes, the atmosphere left behind is a sweaty greenhouse. More like marinating than perspiring. Sound familiar? As summer is maturing, the night sounds are changing. Days ago, the nocturne was clattering katydids (nature's leafy-looking joybuzzers)... now, the chime of crickets. In NC, about this time, they sound like miniature versions of those sleighbell sound effects that every pop song has at Christmastime. But that's not here. I arose, today, with high-octane luzianne, and Arsenal v. Birmingham City on the PPV. So... I indulged. A'English football Ho'. Guilty. Whirlwind tour of F'bg. to grab cigs, get fliers for a reggae benefit, and home and yard items. To keep the grill stylin'. Making smoky, spicy food outdoors takes me there. Gustatorially. Picked the waking peppers, doused the plants with fish stench (they just love it), and managed to avoid my mother's house... where she is Dragon Of The Well. Fuck me for busting ass... which I knew would be rewarded with hysteria. Much like her mother, when things don't go to her liking, or as fast as is desired, all sensibility drains from her eyes. And you could see the sparks from the frayed wiring next to her brain. In situations like that, all you can do is remain calm, and back towards the doorway. And not come back for a few days. I know I'm a bastard to her cronies... who feel she should be waited on hand-and-foot, since she brought me to this world. They ought to live there for a while. Like an afternoon. Now, home is like a sanctuary... Miss Jane safely in SC. Their departure was changed by the minute, and I'm not sure who is actually there. This is not fair, but I wish it was her Prince Charming. Our brief time on the phone was punctuated by driving directions in the background noise, as they were on their way to eat. Hi.. bye. And I go to work, tomorrow. Maybe not Wednesday. Spy museum, perhaps. Or somewhere... else. I'm starving, here. And it's not high school. |
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