Now time for Buffy.
Ok, so this was written last night during the massive storm that rolled through, hence why it is so choppy and disjointed, and my metaphors are mixed. But, hell, that's what happens when you write it with a flashlight balanced on your shoulder. Without any further adieu:
The power's out. I can see the neighbor's lights flicker and then die--a valient death after fighting the good fight. Thunder cracks: the sound crew refusing to be upstaged by the lighting board ops. The pink of light pollution from the city meets the supernatural sun of lightening as bright as the day, creating the illusion it's 1 in the afternoon--time for an after-lunch nap--rather than the real time of 1 AM when all the daytime drudges should be tucked snug in their beds.
But tonight is not a night for snuggling, not with the steamy, pulsing heat of the air exceeding that of someone else's sticky limbs. The pressure, the sheer weight of the atmosphere only adds to the oppression, making the storm a relief rather than an annoyance, as with it comes hope for a subsequent cold front that will battle this heat wave and the front line and, one can only dream, come out victorious.
My mother disagrees. She claims it's too hot to hope. With weather like this, she's convinced we are already in hell. The lack of any power to run the fans and move the stale air in the house makes me tempted to believe her. She hides her head under her pillow, trying to block out the devil in electric form, while I do the exact opposite. I embrace him like an old friend.
Just like a friend, he never gives me much warning before he drops in, and he never leaves until he is sure his presence is known. But he makes me feel powerful, capable, strong. I begin to take on his habits: the flashing temper, the deadly energy, the destructive streak. He's the bad crowd my mother always warned me about. With him, I feel almost...wicked.
An hour after it started, and the rain's dying down. The thunder still rolls, but it has a far away quality, like the neighbors listening to a heavy drum beat with the bass up to loud. The devil moves on to tempt another, knowing his damage is done here. But I know he'll pop up again--he always does. Sometimes I yearn for his visit. I need something to bring all this tension to a head, to let me release the barely-contained rage of every day, moral living.
The flashes of lightening will last well into the night, occasional reminders of our former guest. Personal items left behind, not quite on accident but not intentionally either. An umbrella by the door, a hat on the couch, a sock kicked carelessly under the bed: I know someone other than myself was here, but is now gone, but they just may reappear to reclaim that hat and umbrella. Even if they never do come back to my door again, I have a souvenier, something to ensure I don't forget.
Mother rolls over and removes the pillow from her head. She breathes the deep breathes of dreamless sleep. The storm is gone to her, she who hid from it, denying its temptation. But for me, my sleep will be restless. I'll keep and ear out for my friend, just in case he makes another visit tonight. And I'll welcome him again and return his umbrella and hat--he may need them in this weather.
The power's out. I can see the neighbor's lights flicker and then die--a valient death after fighting the good fight. Thunder cracks: the sound crew refusing to be upstaged by the lighting board ops. The pink of light pollution from the city meets the supernatural sun of lightening as bright as the day, creating the illusion it's 1 in the afternoon--time for an after-lunch nap--rather than the real time of 1 AM when all the daytime drudges should be tucked snug in their beds.
But tonight is not a night for snuggling, not with the steamy, pulsing heat of the air exceeding that of someone else's sticky limbs. The pressure, the sheer weight of the atmosphere only adds to the oppression, making the storm a relief rather than an annoyance, as with it comes hope for a subsequent cold front that will battle this heat wave and the front line and, one can only dream, come out victorious.
My mother disagrees. She claims it's too hot to hope. With weather like this, she's convinced we are already in hell. The lack of any power to run the fans and move the stale air in the house makes me tempted to believe her. She hides her head under her pillow, trying to block out the devil in electric form, while I do the exact opposite. I embrace him like an old friend.
Just like a friend, he never gives me much warning before he drops in, and he never leaves until he is sure his presence is known. But he makes me feel powerful, capable, strong. I begin to take on his habits: the flashing temper, the deadly energy, the destructive streak. He's the bad crowd my mother always warned me about. With him, I feel almost...wicked.
An hour after it started, and the rain's dying down. The thunder still rolls, but it has a far away quality, like the neighbors listening to a heavy drum beat with the bass up to loud. The devil moves on to tempt another, knowing his damage is done here. But I know he'll pop up again--he always does. Sometimes I yearn for his visit. I need something to bring all this tension to a head, to let me release the barely-contained rage of every day, moral living.
The flashes of lightening will last well into the night, occasional reminders of our former guest. Personal items left behind, not quite on accident but not intentionally either. An umbrella by the door, a hat on the couch, a sock kicked carelessly under the bed: I know someone other than myself was here, but is now gone, but they just may reappear to reclaim that hat and umbrella. Even if they never do come back to my door again, I have a souvenier, something to ensure I don't forget.
Mother rolls over and removes the pillow from her head. She breathes the deep breathes of dreamless sleep. The storm is gone to her, she who hid from it, denying its temptation. But for me, my sleep will be restless. I'll keep and ear out for my friend, just in case he makes another visit tonight. And I'll welcome him again and return his umbrella and hat--he may need them in this weather.