Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world....
--WBYeats, "The Second Coming"
The heat has gotten to us. I have heard stories of people living in Tucson, permanent residents, behaving disturbingly, weirdly, and surprisingly. I may just be the prime candidate, but no matter. There seems to be a bad cloud over this place.
It was actually quite beautiful when I unraveled: beautiful, slow, moist, verdantness-inducing sweet rain, like your pure grandma's kiss on the cheek. But this gift is too radical, too unimaginable -- the perfect gift is a curse. it brought out in us confused feelings, lost, tragic ideas, turned bastardized by the forgotten attempt at enjoying the weather; a movement so forceful that Kansas farmwives gone crazy must be recalled.
An ostensibly stolen beer: "I think this is about a lot more than a beer." The crazed eyes of a meth addict in the part of town where the listless, unemployed "unfortunates" loiter. A crack whore, unable to be "on her game," betraying her faux lechery, smiling at the turn of a dog's neck. Some kind of chaff-bastard Great Unwarshed, smoking a cigarette in front of a shop, with eejit pit bull mutt nearby. "Can you get out of the way of this entrance?" The weakened riposte, reminiscent of the pointless hatred and confrontation of a terrorist in the burning Middle East: "Dick!" A response suppressed: "White trash mother f'er!"
There may be some sort of insane logic at work here. The selfsame phenomena persist: the cellphone cacklings of someone's daughter at college, studying complaint, vanity and ease. Old men at the library, with nothing much to do, except be sad. And on the streets, screeching cars, actively unnoticed by police officers, preferring to prosecute...who?
One day I will understand this unleashed summer; for now, I'll wait, patiently, for a home. --adam