The weather has been gloomy for weeks now. The clouds always change their timbre, however. The clouds can be ominous and Babylonian one moment and thick and God-like the next, with light breaking through and angels singing in the middle of the day in cities of cumulus. The afternoon light is always hostile by 3:00 pm, and by this time the sky feels like sour milk. You shouldn’t be allowed to drink in a sky like that. Gray May. June Gloom. When will it end? Apparently paradise is not unlimited. That’s what the tourists never understand. The ocean is rabid and foaming now. I heard it on the grapevine. I heard we aren’t meant to live like this. As for myself? Well…
This morning I woke up and immediately thought of a dove’s egg. I told you yesterday the clouds are musical in the way they can change their tune. Have you ever noticed how the weather seems to reflect what’s happening in one’s life? It’s pale blue now (the sky) and the clouds are draped like cobwebs, like lace. A dove’s egg. I needed this spell of peace. It’s quiet. The atmosphere is paper thin, and soft to the touch. The lake is blue and still, yet murmuring. I bet if I went to the bottom of the ocean I would find mermaids today. I think they would be discussing the finer points of Freud. Meanwhile, I go about my day and am filled with longing. I can handle longing, I can handle the eyes, the gaze. But for how much longer can I handle longing and those eyes, that gaze? Forecast unclear.
His temperature is very white hot right now, I know because I can hear it in his voice. Languid. (You’re languid with it.)
Today the interior weather is fertile and deep.
Shall I go deeper?
I feel like a butterfly preserved in lucite. Everything is clear and dare I say milky? White skies, white mornings, whiteout. Nearly translucent. My thoughts and feelings have been blotted out and erased, filled instead with the glass dome. The clear thick sky is falling, is encasing us all. And the way the world is so wet and so slick. A habit-forming blankness.
One of my wishes is hiding up in the clouds and I try to witness the atmospheric changes of the heart. Hazy. Muddied. Muddled. Shaken. Stirred. It’s not complicated it’s just foggy, the world is either fogging or smoking. Drifting. No closure. The cycle continues. The cycle is relentless.
Shantih Shantih Shantih