When you're squinting even in sunglasses and the temperature's in the triple digits, when the wind is blowing hot and dry and you're feeling angry for no reason, it's time for something to happen. In the south you'd lie down someplace cool or in the shade, sweat beading on your neck. Languor. Out here, in the desert, you bare your skin and feel flayed. You want to make trouble, kick up some dust, strip the steam out of steamy, expose yourself. Even the crows are silent, leaving you to murder.
mint julep, perhaps? come to maine. 53 degrees and sunny. mostly leaves now, but not all. miss you.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite about such days here, Raymond Chandles: "There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Ana's that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."
ReplyDeleteRed Wind (Opening paragraph) You've nailed it, Elizabeth. xo
This was a gorgeous word-piece.
ReplyDeleteStay hydrated and away from sharp knives.
Holy smokes.Hot!
ReplyDeleteYou are so fucking brilliant and dangerous, you hot blooded poet. Damn.
ReplyDeleteWhat Angella said.
ReplyDeleteYou're Joan Didion-ing again! :)
ReplyDeleteMmmm mmmm. Yes woman. I thought of Joan Didion too.
ReplyDeleteThose Santa Anas are famous for inspiring all kinds of things, including beautiful writing, like yours. After reading your words, a tall, iced lemonade from Oliver's stand sounds especially delicious.
ReplyDeletesuch a perfect photo for such perfect prose. you always make my day.
ReplyDelete