Day trippin'
After what seemed to me like years of torrential rain and damp, dready clouds hanging down level with my shoulders, the sun emerged from its hiding. I spent most of the morning with string instruments and studio software, sketching up and fleshing out an idea I'd had the night before. Still a work in progress, though. Some two minutes of track length in, the multitudinous avenues opening before me provided a good place to put the fledgling thing on hold for later revision. I laid down my electric axe, relieved myself of my garments - save for shorts - put on my sunglasses and sat down on my balcony to jam with my acoustic under the scorching gaze of Gods radiant eye. Thus came to be the first part of my burning.
While doing groceries it hit me that it was a perfect day to go outside so I rung her up and proposed a picnic-ish outing on a certain forlorn bridge she had remarked would be perfect for such an occasion. So I donned my clothen armor, packed my knapsack and charged towards our rendezvous on the saddle of my triple-butted steel framed horse. I found her with her friend deep in discussion on the various merits of different makes of cast-iron frying pans. They both ended up buying one and though I managed to avoid getting one myself - and understand, the items in question were very compelling arguments in and of themselves - I was teetering so precariously on the edge that a hummingbird thinking of a nice, succulent steak in Tierra del Fuego could've toppled me the other way. She promised to let me use hers if I'm nice and that's enough incentive for me to comply. Indeed, perhaps even to strive.
We coursed lazily through the other departments in the store, remarking on whatever suited our fancy. I saw a few potential candidates for future dining and coffee tables, but was quickly put off by the three-plus digit price tags. The sofas were mostly cozy and impressive too, but of those adjectives only the latter could be applied to their cost, and definitely not in the flattering sense of the word.
I waited outside the grocery store while they went to pick up a couple of beers and some pistachios. That's what they said they'd do anyway. I had already progressed in my boredom to the state of walking aimlessly around, taking great care to align my foot perfectly with the paving tiles on every step, when they finally returned from their hunt. Apparently things had gotten a little out of hand, one impulse purchase leading on to a slew of others as she egged her hungry friend on to more and more outlandish culinary ventures. Toast and processed cheese I understand, lemon and cinnamon spiced chocolate-dipped cookies I can still dig, but blueberry soup? Outdoors? At four o'clock in the afternoon? You be trippin', sir.
The bridge over the railyard was both too busy and smelly for the gentler two thirds of our party, leaving us with bounty but no lot to enjoy it. Instead of the numerous well-cultivated parks in our city, we ended up on a short strip of gravel road leading from a resting area by some truck terminals straight to the sea. There, between the reeds and bushes, under the ever-watchful oculus blazing high above, pandemonium ensued.
My recollections are mercifully hazy, but photographical evidence stirs up in my mind images both vivid and frightening. While we gorged ourselves we found the number of chocolate puddings to be indivisible by the strength of our crew. A competition was called for and won by being the first to toss three pistachio shells into a foil cup a few meters away. After the winner had had his second helping, things quickly degraded and I bore witness to events that make me question if cameras can lie after all. Truth or some manipulation performed by darker magick, the pictures hint that it would be wise to shy away from frying pans as the weapon of choice, should you ever be called to duel either of my two companions. (I cannot be taken into account here, as I was only borrowing the pan for the picture. As everyone knows, the second you buy a cast-iron pan, you enter a blood bond becoming one with the pan and the pan with you. Using a pan not your own is akin to trying to punch someone with the fist of a third person, while holding said person by the legs.) My last ragged shred of reminiscence is of a horse. In the sea. A sea horse? I suspect the heat of the day star had taken its toll at that point and I had given in to delirium. Thus came to be the second part of my burning.
While doing groceries it hit me that it was a perfect day to go outside so I rung her up and proposed a picnic-ish outing on a certain forlorn bridge she had remarked would be perfect for such an occasion. So I donned my clothen armor, packed my knapsack and charged towards our rendezvous on the saddle of my triple-butted steel framed horse. I found her with her friend deep in discussion on the various merits of different makes of cast-iron frying pans. They both ended up buying one and though I managed to avoid getting one myself - and understand, the items in question were very compelling arguments in and of themselves - I was teetering so precariously on the edge that a hummingbird thinking of a nice, succulent steak in Tierra del Fuego could've toppled me the other way. She promised to let me use hers if I'm nice and that's enough incentive for me to comply. Indeed, perhaps even to strive.
We coursed lazily through the other departments in the store, remarking on whatever suited our fancy. I saw a few potential candidates for future dining and coffee tables, but was quickly put off by the three-plus digit price tags. The sofas were mostly cozy and impressive too, but of those adjectives only the latter could be applied to their cost, and definitely not in the flattering sense of the word.
I waited outside the grocery store while they went to pick up a couple of beers and some pistachios. That's what they said they'd do anyway. I had already progressed in my boredom to the state of walking aimlessly around, taking great care to align my foot perfectly with the paving tiles on every step, when they finally returned from their hunt. Apparently things had gotten a little out of hand, one impulse purchase leading on to a slew of others as she egged her hungry friend on to more and more outlandish culinary ventures. Toast and processed cheese I understand, lemon and cinnamon spiced chocolate-dipped cookies I can still dig, but blueberry soup? Outdoors? At four o'clock in the afternoon? You be trippin', sir.
The bridge over the railyard was both too busy and smelly for the gentler two thirds of our party, leaving us with bounty but no lot to enjoy it. Instead of the numerous well-cultivated parks in our city, we ended up on a short strip of gravel road leading from a resting area by some truck terminals straight to the sea. There, between the reeds and bushes, under the ever-watchful oculus blazing high above, pandemonium ensued.
My recollections are mercifully hazy, but photographical evidence stirs up in my mind images both vivid and frightening. While we gorged ourselves we found the number of chocolate puddings to be indivisible by the strength of our crew. A competition was called for and won by being the first to toss three pistachio shells into a foil cup a few meters away. After the winner had had his second helping, things quickly degraded and I bore witness to events that make me question if cameras can lie after all. Truth or some manipulation performed by darker magick, the pictures hint that it would be wise to shy away from frying pans as the weapon of choice, should you ever be called to duel either of my two companions. (I cannot be taken into account here, as I was only borrowing the pan for the picture. As everyone knows, the second you buy a cast-iron pan, you enter a blood bond becoming one with the pan and the pan with you. Using a pan not your own is akin to trying to punch someone with the fist of a third person, while holding said person by the legs.) My last ragged shred of reminiscence is of a horse. In the sea. A sea horse? I suspect the heat of the day star had taken its toll at that point and I had given in to delirium. Thus came to be the second part of my burning.