First, the magnitude nine, then the tsunami. And nuclear reactors. How many is it now?
And with change, comes death. And with death, comes birth. It's one cyclic hum-drum routine of beginning then end, then beginning again. Yeah, we get it.
So, the Spring Forward Party: morning of, I was in the kitchen roasting vegetables, sweeping the floor, watching CNN. A pretty typical day, except there's the tsunami, that foaming wave. Little cars and little buildings swirl and sink in the white froth. Like breakfast cereal, drowning cheerios.
That's in the morning.
I'm going to take a shower and the drain's clogged, so I'm up to my ankles in dirty water, strands of hair floating and a daddy long legs all clumped up.
The evening approaches and the floors are swept, the vegetables are roasted, and the tv's off. (And if I recall correctly, it was tallied at two nuclear power plants and a thousand deaths.)
And the doorball rings! Oh, goody! Let me smack some pink on my lips and greet our guests like a proper host: with a hearty welcome! I scramble to the door, but she gets it first. "Hello!" and please come in. I'm out of breath from scrambling. Drinks? Let's all go to the main room. And like a flight attendant, I signal my hands 'this way.' The clock's ticking and I'm on my second glass of merlot and (later in the night) when everyone's in the living room playing bonfire songs (Greenday's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)," naturally) with knee-clapping and tambourine rattles, I've almost forgotten. The girls are up and twirling and the boys are banging the drums... it's very tribal. And we're all drinking and falling deeper.
I'm playing the harmonica and stomping my foot and slapping my thigh (my hand and foot are bruised) and they tell me I'm off tune. It's heart-breaking.
Oh and there's revolution in the Middle East. That too, but back to the party.
I can't think. No, siree. I see him in the kitchen, so, I go, I swagger, and I'm looking straight at him. "You know," I say, "the world's going to end." He laughs.
"Honest to god," and I'm smiling, standing against the fridge. He says something about my hair, but I'm bending my back and swaying my hips forward. And the moment ends, somebody walks in, just like that- and that's this whole night, a big pause---like a baby right before a big scream, the intake of air, the quiet gulp, and you close your eyes because you're expecting a terrible sound... but nothing... it's just a yawn. That's this night. Back into the main room with the camp-fire songs and the kumbayas.
Later, I'm pouring wine into a plastic tumbler. "Red or white?" I ask her. "Red stains your teeth," and she's laughing.
It's a drag to wake up the very next morning, with a headache and red teeth- at that! Another nuclear reactor and a thousand more dead.
The perfect weather for a stroll in the park: it's a bit chilly, so bring a sweater, but the sun's out.
I'm at Coffee Bean as the world spins to an end, drinking a light roast of house-brew. It's subtle and sprite; a quick tang, then mellow. Italian light roast.
Our own technology is our own demise. "Like Atlantis!" Exactly like Atlantis, that fool-proof plan. It's change of course. And you say, "It's change, of course!"
Our own technology is our own demise. "Like Atlantis!" Exactly like Atlantis, that fool-proof plan. It's change of course. And you say, "It's change, of course!"
And with change, comes death. And with death, comes birth. It's one cyclic hum-drum routine of beginning then end, then beginning again. Yeah, we get it.
So, the Spring Forward Party: morning of, I was in the kitchen roasting vegetables, sweeping the floor, watching CNN. A pretty typical day, except there's the tsunami, that foaming wave. Little cars and little buildings swirl and sink in the white froth. Like breakfast cereal, drowning cheerios.
That's in the morning.
I'm going to take a shower and the drain's clogged, so I'm up to my ankles in dirty water, strands of hair floating and a daddy long legs all clumped up.
The evening approaches and the floors are swept, the vegetables are roasted, and the tv's off. (And if I recall correctly, it was tallied at two nuclear power plants and a thousand deaths.)
And the doorball rings! Oh, goody! Let me smack some pink on my lips and greet our guests like a proper host: with a hearty welcome! I scramble to the door, but she gets it first. "Hello!" and please come in. I'm out of breath from scrambling. Drinks? Let's all go to the main room. And like a flight attendant, I signal my hands 'this way.' The clock's ticking and I'm on my second glass of merlot and (later in the night) when everyone's in the living room playing bonfire songs (Greenday's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)," naturally) with knee-clapping and tambourine rattles, I've almost forgotten. The girls are up and twirling and the boys are banging the drums... it's very tribal. And we're all drinking and falling deeper.
I'm playing the harmonica and stomping my foot and slapping my thigh (my hand and foot are bruised) and they tell me I'm off tune. It's heart-breaking.
Oh and there's revolution in the Middle East. That too, but back to the party.
I can't think. No, siree. I see him in the kitchen, so, I go, I swagger, and I'm looking straight at him. "You know," I say, "the world's going to end." He laughs.
"Honest to god," and I'm smiling, standing against the fridge. He says something about my hair, but I'm bending my back and swaying my hips forward. And the moment ends, somebody walks in, just like that- and that's this whole night, a big pause---like a baby right before a big scream, the intake of air, the quiet gulp, and you close your eyes because you're expecting a terrible sound... but nothing... it's just a yawn. That's this night. Back into the main room with the camp-fire songs and the kumbayas.
Later, I'm pouring wine into a plastic tumbler. "Red or white?" I ask her. "Red stains your teeth," and she's laughing.
It's a drag to wake up the very next morning, with a headache and red teeth- at that! Another nuclear reactor and a thousand more dead.
The perfect weather for a stroll in the park: it's a bit chilly, so bring a sweater, but the sun's out.
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