A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || December 17, 2006 || 10:20 pm

Equine. Ox. (or, All Things Being Equal)

The weather here is fickle and has been for about a month now. Just as I grow accustomed to things like grabbing a jacket before I go out or finding one more pair of gloves stashed away that I go a big girly ‘eeeee!’ over, something flips and it’s time to revisit thin, shortsleeves tee-shirts. The very minute I slowly ponder pulling out my flip-flops from the back of the closet and giving my toes some manicure-lovin’, the mercury drops several inches and I’m squealing over scarves and hats again.

Something lulled to sleep in summer (though its sleepsong is achingly delivered, low-throated, as early as spring) comes roaring up in me roundabout October and hits its fever pitch by the time the holidays have dug their teeth in. The buzz-buzz in the air and the buzz-buzz in my head and heart and chest collide drunkenly, armed and spoiling for exhaustion.

I was not as exhausted by even half my morning’s guesstimation when this evening rolled around. The warmth of this week seems to be dropping off and the nighttime air grows bite after the sun goes down. “I am not fucking around,” the temperature seems to say, “I’ve been hemmed in by the sun’s rays all day, and I’m not real happy about that business.”

Out to run an errand after all social obligations were put to bed, I had enough space in and around me to breathe and think for a tiny bit. I drove down the streets I know so well that I could shut my eyes and have an exact diagram of them, colors of the actual inverted and blooming negatives on the insides of my eyelids. There was the cold and there was the dark, but every now and again I’d take notice of a house, the amber-gold warmth of light spilling across sash bars and out of panes. I once told a friend –while I was in the dead middle of despair and disappointment– that a love deprived is like being in the middle of a winter wood and stumbling upon a house with the warm-bark smell of a hearty fire ablaze; that surprise registered when a door opens and you are pulled in to warm yourself and be delighted by your sheer dumb luck; the utter grinding of grief at the bottom-end of your very middle when you are turned out into the lonely and dark wood again, only to find it seems forty degrees more chill in light of the warming shelter you received.

I am missing you tonight in the way that only you would understand: I imagine warmth and light and lackadaisical pleasantry wherever you are, you going through your day with me standing in the back of your head on tiptoes, socks sloppy and hands buried in the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt, whispering our secret language in spite of myself.

There is to be rain Christmas Eve and an overcast Christmas is predicted. I expect it will be one of those days that is both muted and bright, something altogether ethereal straight out of a children’s book illustration. In my humble opinion, we should not expose young children to technicolor until they have a ready grasp on how atypical it truly is outside the comfort and safety of thirty-two pages and monosyllabic words.

2 worked it out »

  1. brynne 12.19.2006

    I miss you too, cupcake… although I am not sure what to make of this “putting my hands in your pocketses” thing… sounds coooozy.

  2. Jettomatika 12.20.2006

    dear brynne,

    e-mail me, girrrrl.

    thanks and humbly yours,



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