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It seems like the weekend is going to fizzle with a whimper, and summer with it. So most everyone is led to believe. Varying shades of grey, occasional blinks of sunshine... that's what the weather witchdoctors predict. Maybe it's because years have passed since dealing with the transition from freedom to the routine of school... but summer just isn't done for me when the buses run. When I can no longer walk about the yard barefoot, slide on a pair of shorts and a soccer jersey, or sip a cool one in the serenity of the porch... then I'll give in. Yes, I love the seasons... but the warm ones are where I thrive. Though I feel like this one has been squandered, just a little. Too much self-inflicted torment. Unsettledness. Expectation. Wildness unrealised. Maybe I've just let the oppressive heat and unrelenting arid air press me down, like the old torture method for witches... when they were bound under a slab of wood, and stones were piled onto it until the life was squeezed out of them. Dramatic image, yes... but maybe not so far off. Drawn into my own cranium--probably from this medium right here--uncovering jagged pieces of answers. Sometimes getting cut on the shards that need seeing to. A Soul Revolution. What have I learned? � That I'm not ready to go numb, and wait out the rest of my time on this plane of existence until the inevitable. � Hormones rule. � Money fucks up everything. But I knew that, already. � And what will happen... will. Regardless. ...and the change of seasons won't alter any of it. Funny thing I've noticed... that when fucked up things happen, they happen to everyone in my circle. When fortunes reverse, they do so, again. My turn can come at any time, por favor. The loo is taking shape... bare timbers covered in wallboard and the first courses of tile. The echo is back. But, we'll still be bathing in the kitchen sink 'til sometime next week. How rugged. In conversation with Arsehole neighbor, upon relating his army days in the field, one of his rude quips was worth a wry chuckle: the DI's instruction for bathing with limited resources, was to focus on "butts and nuts." Well, that'll do for the caveman in me... but, I refuse to be stank. Still wading through tools, building supplies and dust in the house, though I made the effort to continue on dismantling the Trooper, when the clouds lifted. Playing doctor Frankenstein on the inert remains of Japan's most durable SUV. Encrusted with upchucked motor oil, thick skins of grease and spent antifreeze. And spiderwebs. And tiger mosquitos... though the bug juice is like a forcefield. After the dust (literally) settled, we drove out in the twilight for some Chinese. Time to swap oriental eateries. When the cook staff resorts to what was obviously frozen peas and diced carrots, it's time for a change. Though the fortune cookies have been right close, prediction-wise, lately. Back home... a wild hair for some recent entertainment on the PPV. To be gifted with one of the better ghost stories I've seen in ages. The Others. No special effects. No grotesques. No cheapshots. An inside-out story that I couldn't instantly predict in the first five minutes. Or at all, until the very end. Nicole was always the better half (and better-acting and looking), but the cast was ideal. One to go up there with the Haunting. No construction, tomorrow... thankfully. Ragged living space, maybe, but not tied to the house for one day. Might load up another roll in the camera for some worn out US 1. I walked slowly through the house, late in the evening... doing a slow assessment of the walls and the light. Taking mental snapshots, for when this dwelling will be but a memory. Like this season soon to go by the way. |
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