I’ve missed twilight, but it seems to have saved up what mysteries I might have been due and dispensed them over the last few days. Las Vegas sits in a desert valley, ringed by mountains. The sun either bakes you, or it’s not there. This place sits at the edge of the sea, and the blue shadows soften before they overcome the day.
It rained earlier, but the steaming afternoon has opened up into night and mist. Crickets, cicadas, and tiny frogs play a concert for the night birds in their dance. Other things flutter among the treetops. There are skyscrapers just the other side of the freeway, but they seem much more distant than that- the rain obscures their substance, leaving only their light. Come to think of it, all substance is obscured in this thing, this gelatinous and sloppy edge of a June night. Weirdness oozes out of the sky, like some sort of divine storm drain backing up. Dark shapes of questionable silhouette, voices on the wind, and dreams of that which is neither here nor there.
The moon speaks in the passive voice, to the disappointment of style guides and astrologers. The sea conceals its purposes and asks that we do the same. Simple propriety. The spear seeks the bystanding heart, but YOUR WEAPONS CANNOT HARM ME. No, seriously. Okay, it wasn’t really a spear. It was a soup spoon, but it was dark and you can’t be too careful.
Summer’s coming, green and dripping. I bought Post-It Notes. I’m a real boy! Project management beckons. Soon I’ll have my walls covered with them. I need to break the book down into smaller subtasks. I need to get a lock on the timeline, or timelines. Raindrops and subtropical heat. Mars on this side of the window, and sugar magnolia on the other. The cats watch the birds give the squirrels dirty looks. The stars seem very close, when you can see them.
I miss my old friends and the madness we shared. Some echo of the old lunacy drips from the sky- absinthe and Mountain Dew drunk from a cracked glass in commemoration. It’s raining again, and the searchlight on the Williams Tower threshes through the storm like an oar. It’s a good night to both remember and forget. This is a tricky maneuver, akin to two people trying to do different things in a very small kitchen. I was trying to do something, but I seem to have forgotten what it was.
I keep talking about the weather, but it seems the polite thing to do.