Hot and sultry is so over; let the rains begin.
Oops, too late, as usual. Rains stream everywhere, overflowing the oversaturated ground, running off beyond the saving grace of local water tables. Ah well...
The sun'll come out - every afternoon; no need to wait for tomorrow, which, as we all know, never actually comes.
Blithering idiot.
Once again it is a hot and sultry day. I am dripping wet. No, no, didn't fall into a tub... that woulda been nice...
The veriest hint of a breeze tickled the mangled curtain bound by a sagging wooden clothespin. At last -
"That wind is too strong!"
You gotta be kidding me! Damn sauna cesspool. Woulda been nice in Denver. Heard it was 17 degrees in Denver. That woulda been nice...
"I can leave. I don't have to be here."
Yeah, right. I could let you go hurt yourself some more, sitting on your spine aslant on your hydraulic bed... I don't think so.
Frick.
It was a hot and sultry day.
There was no shot in sight: to pour or not to pour, that was the question. Whether twas nobler (or at least more satisfying) to submit to the urge to indulge or to resist and wilt - that was the issue at hand.
Max paused. Well, what else can one with paws do but pause?
A sip now, a pounce later. The plan was set.
tbc
2nd Draft
The woman in the crosswalk was tall and skeletal, the rounded slimness of youth eroded by time. Bottle dyed blood red locks framed bone white papyrus skin. A sleeveless blouse seemed off-white by comparison. It flowed into a skirt flecked with little red dots barely too symmetrical to be blood spatter. Cotton cloth swirled around thinly veiled tibia and fibula as the heat of the day rose up to clash with a descending blanket of fast cooling evening cloud covering.
It had been another one of those long, hot days wherein tedium was reflected in the very air. The sun was settling in for its final splash into the ocean, already having dropped behind the highrises that inevitably mar modern urbanized neighborhoods. The sepia tinted sky was a perfect setting for such an unanticipated sight, and surely the day’s events had made no small contribution to my current state of mind.
The stoplight preceding McCully Bridge had turned red; Ewa-bound traffic on Beretania Street was proceeding as my mind had begun to wander. The rental store's new marquee, attempting to invoke the upcoming Halloween, was calling for blood donors for "Count Coffin". I scoffed to myself at the commercialization of a celebration that had begun as a religious festival, only to be turned into a chaotic celebration of the demonic, now coopted by that greatest of evils in our contemporary society: commercialization. That was when the pedestrian crossing in front of me had caught my eye.
Clearly more needs to go here, say the actual narrative to which this is but an enchanting prelude…
Had the red light turned green? Car horns urged me on. Unsettled, I stepped on the gas pedal.
It had been another one of those long, hot days wherein tedium was reflected in the very air. The sun was settling in for its final splash into the ocean, already having dropped behind the highrises that inevitably mar modern urbanized neighborhoods. The sepia tinted sky was a perfect setting for an unanticipated sight.
The stoplight preceding McCully Bridge turned red; Ewa-bound traffic on Beretania Street proceeded, and my mind began to wander. The rental store's new marquee, attempting to invoke the upcoming Halloween, called for blood donors for "Count Coffin". That was when a pedestrian crossing in front of me caught my eye:
She seemed proportionately tall and skinny rather than slim, perhaps because of her evident maturity (read age); hair dyed blood-red framed bone-white skin. Her sleeveless blouse seemed off-white by comparison. Below her waist swirled a subtly striking skirt: little red dots reminiscent of droplets of blood against an almost white backdrop.
Had the red light turned green? Car horns urged me on. Unsettled, I drove on.
My personal digital assistant has been programmed to list "Exercise" as a daily activity on my generally neglected "To Do" list. Every couple of weeks I just go in and check the activity off until I am once again listed as current.
So last night, feeling a slight attack of guilt at having failed to follow up my good start this past weekend, I was being my usual smart pack mule self, taking a quick turn about the living room in order to claim that I had "walked". To emphasize the point that I was, in fact, thinking about exercising, I even stepped across the open treadmill set up before the big-ass television it fronts. Of course, on the other side of the treadmill are the comfy couch on which I spread the bulk of my bulk and a nice, low Japanese table, designed with short people in mind for the purpose of eating on the floor. (Hence the couch, for those of us from other, more "civilized" cultures... or stiffer knees; but I digress.)
Digressing further, I must take a moment to reminisce that when I was growing up, Mom had a similar table in our house, except that it was shaped sort of like a surfboard, following the lines of the tree from which the top had been cut, and propped up by a mere three legs. When we were young enough, short enough, and light enough to do so, my brother and I would pretend to surf on it. Mother, of course, was less than pleased.
Returning to my story, my walk, and my trip - As I stepped off the treadmill, I somehow misjudged the distance. (Yes, yes, all 2"...) Fortunately, Max was not riding along, as he often does. Anyway, the next thing I knew, there was a table in my face and Nouna, who had been gracefully ensconced on the couch, was across the room behind the leather chair. Now, when I was fitter, I used to fall all the time, usually in pursuit of a ball or an opponent, but still, it used to be a common enough occurrence that I would just roll out of it and keep moving. This was not such a time.
So here I sit today, ice pack in the freezer, heating pad near the microwave, mildly throbbing ankle awaiting elevation. Like the exercise, it'll all have to wait while I mull over the consequences of taking an unexpected trip.
People from Hawaii who know that someone is about to go on a trip figure that going to the Mainland puts one "in the neighborhood," and if one is going to be in the neighborhood anyway, why not just take a little something along and help save the cost of shipping, which is, admittedly, exorbitant, for residents of noncontiguous states in particular. By the time one is done working out the foregoing sentence, a disturbingly substantial-looking box can be packed and the traveler well underway without realizing that consent has actually been given. . . .
"It's just a bundt cake. Come on, be a pal. I'll pack it well so you can just check it in."
"I dunno . . ."
The morning of my departure arrives, as does my ride to the airport, only half an hour late. There is a suspiciously large 10" x 12" x 8" box lightly taped and sitting on the backseat. The box seems inordinately large for a mere bundt cake, but there doesn't seem to be any choice in the matter, so I accept the package. I am, after all, grateful for a ride to the airport in the middle of a weekday. Did I mention my reluctance?
Upon arriving at the airport, I find myself trundling through the usual maze of international travelers, tour groups, and lost tourists as I make my way to the mandatory agricultural inspection. The box, more bulky than heavy, just fits under my profusely sweating armpit. It is just enough of a hindrance to cost me two places in line as some irate tourists rerouted to ag inspection shove past me and my baggage. It doesn't matter; this day is going to be long, and there's just no point in rushing to wait. I amble on, trying to balance the box on my otherwise neatly stacked traveling paraphernalia.
Finally I reach the check-in counter, a mandatory stop with or without an e-ticket. Again, what's the point? Still, the counter agents in Hawaii are so much friendlier and more helpful than the majority of mainland agents that it's almost worth the detour. I did say almost.
"What's in the box?" The agent asks perfunctorily.
"A freshly made bundt cake, just baked last night."
The agent's attention rises visibly. "Ooh! I goin' put "Fragile" stickahs on 'em den." She is as enthusiastic as the baker and intended recipient have been. I hadn't realized how deeply this conspiracy runs.
"Tell you what, take your box to that guy in back of the x-ray machine, cuz I telling you, da machine goin' smash your cake foh sure." She even helps me carry the precious cargo over to the unoccupied screener.
"Er, ok, thanks."
The screener watches us approach with some interest. He takes the box from the his coworker and hefts it. "Is it packed good?" he asks, noting its relative lightness.
"You know what, you should carry 'em," he recommends, "cuz even though we can take care of it on this side, I guarantee da guys on da othah side going smash 'em."
Oh, no! He's in on the conspiracy, too.
"But I already have two carry-on pieces..."
"No worry," interjects the counter agent cheerfully. "I going be at the gate. Just ask the flight crew to help you stow it up front." I cannot help but note how her command of English alters as she refers to the on-board attendants, though I'm not sure what it means.
This check-in agent crooning so reassuringly seems determined not to let that box into the cargo hold, though she's willing enough to let it onto the plane. Defeated, I consent to carry the box, beginning my string of mental curses that will form a steady litany for the duration of the journey.
"Ok..."
At the boarding gate I am fortunate enough to find a row of empty seats right in front of the entryway. I have just enough time to settle myself and my carry-ons before other passengers find my secluded nook. All too soon my brief sanctuary is filled with the the sounds of squalling babies and excited older folks of all ages. With them they bring tantalizing smells of bento and other portable foodstuffs, sensible preparations in the face of the airline industry's decreasing levels of comfort included with the price of airfare. I try to avoid eye contact, very conscious that my box is occupying a now scarce seat.
Finally the front desk check-in agent arrives, smiles, and begins the boarding procedure. She flashes me a smile of recognition, takes my awkwardly proffered ticket, processes it, returns the stub to my fingers awkwardly clutching the pestiferous box, and waves me in.
Down the boarding tunnel there is the usual pile-up near the entrance to the plane. I see an already long line of strollers lined up as I approach. Finally I am facing a wall of decorative flight attendants, arrayed at the entrance as intended welcome. They flash their working smiles at all and sundry with unseeing eyes.
"Can you help me stow this box up here?"
Still smiling... "No. It looks like it will fit in the overhead bin, no problem."
"Well, may I store it in one of these front bins then?"
"No. Take it back to your seat." So much for the promise of helpful accommodation.
Grunting, I head down the aisle, whacking seats, heads, and all, all the way to the back of the plane, apologizing every step of the way.
There is one spot left in the bin above my seat, just large enough for the box. My computer and backpack are just going to have to fit under the seats. Fortunately, my seat companions are traveling light.
There will be the disembarking to come in another five hours to which I can look forward, but for now, I can relax and concentrate on the simpler question of which of us is overflowing into the other's seat more offensively.
All I can say at this point is that that had better be one helluva bundt cake.
I am never ever going to listen to my friends again.
Yeah, right.
I was born and bred a pack mule camel, and I'll live and die the same. Ah well . . .
I wonder what I'll be asked to transport back to Hawaii in a few months. Guess I'd better start devising my excuses now . . .
revised 5-18-07
Hopefully this will be the only factual post as I reclaim this particular blog for arguably more creative endeavors. My intention is to use this site for fictive prose attempts, though whether or not that actually occurs remains to be seen. The theory is that the existence of this blog will serve as the prod I need to actually commit to creative endeavors instead of mere essays and babble. To that end, I am reclaiming this site from its former attempts to construct Glaufinclore Lore from the Early Years, that having evidently been both presumptuous and futile. Forward then.
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