reason and ryhme
They did it again. Early, so early. They love to get up early, and alwayse with the big breakfasts; it´s slowing me down.
We drove through the drizzle to a cathedral where women in white wept to relics of the lord and the bones of Mary Magdelin. Birds cooed and swam from the rafters, dropping God´s own disaproval onto the catholic pews to harden in a lumpy white crust of shit. I went outside to wander the wavy alleys and watch artists do crossword puzzles as people oohed and aahed over their works. Carved stone and thatched pastels called me in, unraveled a stairway to the soul as I heard from on top of the hill, from that damnedable fortrous of repent, a cascading choir singing in sticky Latin. And just then came the wind, so suddenly. It roared in with all the passion of the heavens and sparked the light blue sky into a dull, angry grey. Old people everywhere, franticly running to their cars and their cafes as the first of the rain began to fall. I sat on the curb and smoked a cigerette, watching tour busses fill up and laughing with the irony of thunder. God blew me umbrellas, plastic tables, post cards, wrappers and a 20, as bottles smashed and people screamed. I put the money in my pocket and walked inside a resteraunt to dine on dry bread and monk-brewed beer.
Storms have alwayse been my favorite, the only time people seem to remember they are truely alive, the only time they seem to think they may not be for long. I love the clouds that whistle winds of such strength, I love the lightning that inches across the darkness and lingers for an instant as the thunder rushes to catch up. And the thunder, the thunder that booms and scratches through the silence of rain on road, and even that rain that falls so intently, rinsing off the sidewalk chalk and flattening bad toupees.
Well, we found eachother once more after calm had come again and the car ride home was a happy nap.
And at night we ate chocolate ice cream and salmon quiche, watched the lightning and sipped drinks on the terace. I listened to my dad as he told us about changes and kids, about growning up and real life and how "who gives a shit" is only sugar in tea once a family comes along, it disapates into the liquid surge of sitting on teraces, sipping drinks with your sons in France. I wished I was invisible, wished I could watch and listen and sit quiet to write and think, not have responce expected.
Then I think I got drunk and fell asleep, but I don´t remember. I was in a delicate mood, feeling lonely and broken and wishing for nothing more than American girls and walks in the woods. bon fires with friends and the sacred sanctity of my own bed.
We drove through the drizzle to a cathedral where women in white wept to relics of the lord and the bones of Mary Magdelin. Birds cooed and swam from the rafters, dropping God´s own disaproval onto the catholic pews to harden in a lumpy white crust of shit. I went outside to wander the wavy alleys and watch artists do crossword puzzles as people oohed and aahed over their works. Carved stone and thatched pastels called me in, unraveled a stairway to the soul as I heard from on top of the hill, from that damnedable fortrous of repent, a cascading choir singing in sticky Latin. And just then came the wind, so suddenly. It roared in with all the passion of the heavens and sparked the light blue sky into a dull, angry grey. Old people everywhere, franticly running to their cars and their cafes as the first of the rain began to fall. I sat on the curb and smoked a cigerette, watching tour busses fill up and laughing with the irony of thunder. God blew me umbrellas, plastic tables, post cards, wrappers and a 20, as bottles smashed and people screamed. I put the money in my pocket and walked inside a resteraunt to dine on dry bread and monk-brewed beer.
Storms have alwayse been my favorite, the only time people seem to remember they are truely alive, the only time they seem to think they may not be for long. I love the clouds that whistle winds of such strength, I love the lightning that inches across the darkness and lingers for an instant as the thunder rushes to catch up. And the thunder, the thunder that booms and scratches through the silence of rain on road, and even that rain that falls so intently, rinsing off the sidewalk chalk and flattening bad toupees.
Well, we found eachother once more after calm had come again and the car ride home was a happy nap.
And at night we ate chocolate ice cream and salmon quiche, watched the lightning and sipped drinks on the terace. I listened to my dad as he told us about changes and kids, about growning up and real life and how "who gives a shit" is only sugar in tea once a family comes along, it disapates into the liquid surge of sitting on teraces, sipping drinks with your sons in France. I wished I was invisible, wished I could watch and listen and sit quiet to write and think, not have responce expected.
Then I think I got drunk and fell asleep, but I don´t remember. I was in a delicate mood, feeling lonely and broken and wishing for nothing more than American girls and walks in the woods. bon fires with friends and the sacred sanctity of my own bed.