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This would have been a great day to plant myself in the butterfly chair on the porch and just soak in life, surrounded by the latticework, hibiscus, and music. Sun, warmth, breathing, imagining... some would call it "sittin' on yo' ass" (a local comment beyond obvious), and they'd be right. I was all set, too... until Miss Jane arrived, adorned with a black, boiling thundercloud over her head. I made an effort to lighten the mood, accentuate the positive... until it got like throwing water on a grease fire. The only cure would be ass kissing, one vice I have no need for. Besides, that's a ploy for the guilty. I'm not feeling that. The storm started to shift in my direction... I could almost smell the ozone, so I exited to the outdoors. And the tools. Typical old man shit. Retreat to the shed 'til it blows over. Perhaps I should have let it all go, let the wild notions run rampant, wind up sleeping in the car. Instead, the narrow focus of finding a task and executing it looked a good escape... replacing the cam cover gaskets on the SAAB, shaded by the cherry trees with some latin music drifting from the radio. A greasy mood elevator. I've been into elevation a lot, lately. Or should I say, "acceleration." Funny... I grew up clueless about mechanical things. Bred to the philosophy of the aesthetic dream-life, and giving into panic when things broke. Learning to see things through, practically, was my first step into maturity. Being methodical. Measured. Yin and Yang, those two paths. It's also a great way to vent all of my best curses at an inanimate object. Primal scream therapy. Not that it doesn't get back without some bloodletting. Hey, there's always a price to pay. Finished, at dusk, all was magically placid indoors. Tempest over. Seduction by television, the Great Manipulator. Here I am, four hours later. Better living through chemistry... my means of coping. As long as it lasts. |
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