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i think back to the winter months, when events move glacially. nothing... nothing... nothing... ...minute jolt of forward progress. then, like a snowball, starts to rolls downhill, gaining speed and mass until there's no slowing the plummet. we're rolling, now... until the foreseeable future. like next Thursday, perhaps. each day, compounding upon the preceding. a lackluster stint in the studio was followed by the shriek of the EAS test machine, warning of tornadic activity a scant few miles towards the mountains, and town. stranded in the Commons, without umbella, wave upon wave of torrential rain slashed through the courtyard. an hour later, i chose to wait for the break no more. upstairs to the junk office i sprinted, digging through a box of dusty, unwanted posters from forgettable bands. grabbing one at random, seemingly large enough to cover my head, CD and LP bags, i blasted out of the front door toward the car park. mostly soaked, i threw the bags in the car, and the poster in the tailgate.. only then noticing the subject matter: the band...Survivor; the album... Caught In The Game. the irony was not lost on me. eleventh anniversary on Saturday. i was only planning on dinner and HarryPotter for the festivities, strained as the relations have been... until i saw small, wrapped packages on my side of the coffee table. remedied, with a trip to the kitchen store for a Henkelcleaver. if she ever decides to come after me with a weapon, it'll be cleaner than a rolling pin. "relative"-ly speaking. and, unable to contain the rage, i confronted SlickWillie about his surreptitious real estate wranglings... until he repeated himself, four times, in defense. throwing some of the blame on my mother, he mentioned how she was complaining about no more income, after his last payments on the land. lecturing me on probate. snakes seem to be appearing, everywhere. yesterday, gathering speed, and camping supplies, we had to make an appearance at a studio function. in the middle of the afternoon, after a halted drive in the ailing Miata, paying respects with long-forgotten acquaintances. bagging supplies, and delivering to the jumping-off point, and now, work. this is just the beginning. |
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