14 December 2000
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electricity shortage -|-
musings of señor prod. -|-
Milling About Overhead (a semi-fiction)
If you asked me, just as I fell into the planter beside the porch, I would've told you that I'd
gone color-blind. I was reaching across to water a hanging plant when I glanced up into the sky
next to my house: the leaves on the trees and the late afternoon sky were the same color, gone
pure autumn-winter before my eyes. I went head first over the edge of the porch, and 2 feet
down, landing shoulder and back onto the dry dirt. The brilliant color, that nameless autumn-winter
hue, was a heavy bar, gold-brown and glowing, dense as the crippling and expansive emotion it
invoked within me. I decided to sit there and see what would happen.
The leaves were milling about overhead, but they were only shape and a sound like a prolonged
sigh. They were angels whispering among themselves God's mysteries, and their border was all
that separated them from the bright autumn-winter ether. I thought if only I could rise up,
I could touch them, and the sky: temperature would have no meaning, and a sensation like sliding
my hands across my wife's shoulders would coat my hands and my arms up to my neck.
musings of señor prod.
Working like mad at the Revolution.
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