No doubt you've seen the news. Damn, that was some cool storms goin' on yesterday. Magic. Magnetic. The aftermath... not so much. People acting like it's Katrina when it's just an overbloated thunderstorm. Couldn't even muster up the bombast to become a tornado. Nevertheless, the power's out. Goin' on almost a day-and-a-half. And, I don't know if it's repair progress or Industrial Revolutionary wiring, but we gots the most jack-assed pattern of power outages here in the suburbs. Some neighborhoods yes, some not. Right now, from my candlelit loft, I can stare across the street of my subdivision at brightly lit townhouses like a Neanderthal peering into the future. Crazy, dude. I foresee this not lasting another fortnight. Could be sooner. The house could spring to life in an hour. Cool.
Had to charge my laptop at a Starbucks today. Just sat in the corner for hours quietly and inconspicuously draining a good outlet. Wasn't wasted, though. Broke in my brand-new journal (seventh in a series) and finished a novel. Reading one, not writing. Pynchon is a writer who one needs to just plow through, like a textbook. Very like an absurdist textbook. And I plowed through a good hundred pages between the gym and everything after.
Such an anti-climactic deus ex machina. Usually, at this point in the story, such an elemental intervention would shift our heroes' stories from Act II to Act III, the cataclysm of heaven touching earth and actions bending fate. She would fall in love with him, He would fuck her, Dad comes out of the closet, Aunt Mabel comes back to life. The kind of petri dish soap operas spawn from.
Instead it's crickets and candlelight. It's points of ellipsis, a tantric bath suckling the atmosphere. It's Prairie repression and Rumspringa's end.
Fermata.
An 8 on the Karmic Scale.
And there's work tomorrow morning.
How blaa.
...And, SCENE!...
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