Temperatures cool, winds pick up. The doves huddle on the fire escape, permakitten creeps closer by my side. Coming up from intuition sessions I’m so wild-eyed and ravenous. Rice goes in the cooker, mushrooms and asparagus get chopped. We roast a chicken Bitman-style: sea-salted, thymed and magic-oiled, stuffed with olives, garlic, lemon, and chili peppers, cast-ironed at high, high heat. Eyebrow cocked, ogle the big sunset (too soon, too soon), then Astaire’s restless gams, Wilder’s Daddy Long Legs. Caron on the satin screen, Hermine on the horizon, summer in the rear-view mirror. Rueful, real: red wine for all.
I woke four hours later than I normally do, and strains of the Beatles song “Yesterday” were already ringing in my ears. I’ve been trying to write for five hours and thus far my greatest achievement has been to kill a fly with my bare hands. Even permakitten Grace has given up supporting my desultory stabs at productivity–felinnui is real, man–and the four shots of espresso I’ve swilled have failed to lift the fog of my alleged brain. New moon and solar eclipse be damned. Nothing transcends the gloom of the last unofficial week of summer.
Maude posthumously financing a LGBT youth shelter makes me cry. Beyonce at the VMAs makes me cry. Huma finally leaving her no-goodnik husband makes me cry. (Writing about) The Light Between the Oceans makes me cry. An elderly woman grasping her husband’s hand makes me cry. Grace delicately extending a striped paw makes me cry. Missing sweet terrier Daisy make me cry. The Dakota Pipeline protesters make me cry. The latest Difficult People episode makes me cry. No Gene Wilder (no Gilda) makes me cry. My friend’s kid going away to school makes me cry. The early sunset makes me cry. My lack of salty snack foods makes me cry. Yes, I have my periodic table. Relevance, please?
Temperatures cool, winds pick up. The doves huddle on the fire escape, permakitten creeps closer by my side. Coming up from intuition sessions I’m so wild-eyed and ravenous. Rice goes in the cooker, mushrooms and asparagus get chopped. We roast a chicken Bitman-style: sea-salted, thymed and magic-oiled, stuffed with olives, garlic, lemon, and chili peppers, cast-ironed at high, high heat. Eyebrow cocked, ogle the big sunset (too soon, too soon), then Astaire’s restless gams, Wilder’s Daddy Long Legs. Caron on the satin screen, Hermine on the horizon, summer in the rear-view mirror. Rueful, real: red wine for all.
I woke four hours later than I normally do, and strains of the Beatles song “Yesterday” were already ringing in my ears. I’ve been trying to write for five hours and thus far my greatest achievement has been to kill a fly with my bare hands. Even permakitten Grace has given up supporting my desultory stabs at productivity–felinnui is real, man–and the four shots of espresso I’ve swilled have failed to lift the fog of my alleged brain. New moon and solar eclipse be damned. Nothing transcends the gloom of the last unofficial week of summer.
Maude posthumously financing a LGBT youth shelter makes me cry. Beyonce at the VMAs makes me cry. Huma finally leaving her no-goodnik husband makes me cry. (Writing about) The Light Between the Oceans makes me cry. An elderly woman grasping her husband’s hand makes me cry. Grace delicately extending a striped paw makes me cry. Missing sweet terrier Daisy make me cry. The Dakota Pipeline protesters make me cry. The latest Difficult People episode makes me cry. No Gene Wilder (no Gilda) makes me cry. My friend’s kid going away to school makes me cry. The early sunset makes me cry. My lack of salty snack foods makes me cry. Yes, I have my periodic table. Relevance, please?