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Oct. 30th, 2004 02:15 amIt's the kind of intermittent rain that brings out the worms. They smell like fish. There's the damp which hits your nostrils so immediately that you are transported to the first time you ever smelt rain. Writing in pencil on paper muted with humidity, you write about rain and how the pavement is shiny, and there is this smell beyond limestone - it is fish, but with dirt.
You smell the worms. They are out, drowned from their hiding holes, and you can sense their sections, their movement, their personas like glass. It is dark in the night, and lonely, and there's little parking tonight in this little neighborhood of sleep ramshackle buildings and bars proclaiming zimne pivo zimne pivo zimne pivo.
Went out tonight with the cast - the dim-lit La Majada long table in the back, like in olden times, we are. We drink and make merry, and there's this one guy who's got sad bright eyes watered and softened with tequila, and we've got another who is also tequila'd, but totally focused on his bird target, and I am watching, slightly amused, trying to enjoy my own margarita buzz.
And at the end of the night I have nothing but my buzz and me, and I know I will end up in my car, listening to the radio until the rain is more than song and meaning, and becomes simple precipitation once more, and one of the cuervo'd men (the bird hunter) asks me, "Are you OK?" Without even really waiting for an answer, he starts to gather up his keys, since his bird has flown, and I'm just there, buzzing away, and I say, "Actually, I think I need to sit a bit, and not drive," and he continues to gather up his keys, and his eyes follow his bird, he is looking towards the horizon and I think, 'asshole.' I wanted nothing more than to sit for a bit, and so I talked with Rose outside until the rain pinged us and sank into our shirts and our hair, and instead of making excuses for it and ducking into a doorway to talk some more, we got into our cars, illuminated our headlights, and went out into the night, the knowledge of weeks and months weighing on us just like a lime wedge and a salt rim, and I think, 'asshole,' again, as I get home safely, and I find parking in the night, and I escape into the air to smell worms.
Fishy and fickle, drowned out of their holes into the orange light of Chicago night. I don't see them, but I know them. I am home.
You smell the worms. They are out, drowned from their hiding holes, and you can sense their sections, their movement, their personas like glass. It is dark in the night, and lonely, and there's little parking tonight in this little neighborhood of sleep ramshackle buildings and bars proclaiming zimne pivo zimne pivo zimne pivo.
Went out tonight with the cast - the dim-lit La Majada long table in the back, like in olden times, we are. We drink and make merry, and there's this one guy who's got sad bright eyes watered and softened with tequila, and we've got another who is also tequila'd, but totally focused on his bird target, and I am watching, slightly amused, trying to enjoy my own margarita buzz.
And at the end of the night I have nothing but my buzz and me, and I know I will end up in my car, listening to the radio until the rain is more than song and meaning, and becomes simple precipitation once more, and one of the cuervo'd men (the bird hunter) asks me, "Are you OK?" Without even really waiting for an answer, he starts to gather up his keys, since his bird has flown, and I'm just there, buzzing away, and I say, "Actually, I think I need to sit a bit, and not drive," and he continues to gather up his keys, and his eyes follow his bird, he is looking towards the horizon and I think, 'asshole.' I wanted nothing more than to sit for a bit, and so I talked with Rose outside until the rain pinged us and sank into our shirts and our hair, and instead of making excuses for it and ducking into a doorway to talk some more, we got into our cars, illuminated our headlights, and went out into the night, the knowledge of weeks and months weighing on us just like a lime wedge and a salt rim, and I think, 'asshole,' again, as I get home safely, and I find parking in the night, and I escape into the air to smell worms.
Fishy and fickle, drowned out of their holes into the orange light of Chicago night. I don't see them, but I know them. I am home.
