|
|
There's nothing remarkable about Monday... except for the monotony. Though this one began with a crescendo. It's been months, literally, since a storm passed this way. Before finally forcing myself to wind down for sleep overnight, I decided to leave a crack in the bedroom window... the day-long humidity making the air in the house oppressive to breathe. With the heavy air came warmer temperatures... and what a great excuse to bring fresh air into the house--in November. No more than two hours into dreamtime, I stirred to God's own artillery blasting away in its approach from the north. And it was right there. Overhead. Ground strikes, from the violence of the thunder. No sooner had the window frame strobed, the explosion was instantaneous. Way Cool... these things only usually happen in the afternoon, in the summer. Night storms... I love 'em. Of course, there's something about the race of thoughts in your head upon awakening suddenly... like, "Fuck! The carpet's still on the porch! Is the engine block covered?! Is the locust tree gonna pitch over onto the house... and where?! Do I hear a twister?!" Guaranteed... as soon as the tempest passed, I became comatose. Immovable. Until the next one detonated, just as the alarm was set to go off. And that's as exciting as Day One gets. Unless you count the conversation with the Cover Girl at the office of the junkyard. Maybe I'm too old school, but I still get off on being called "hon" by an attractive young lady. Even if she's surrounded by auto parts. Maybe, especially so. It speaks ill of present circumstances, but I'll take a spiritual lift whenever I can find them, these days. Uneventful, the journey to the Gulag... which was a joy into itself. No overrevving gearbox whine, Praise Jah. Inga is satisfied. For now. |
|
|
