The weather has turned cooler and gray hangs over us, dome shaped. I sing as I pack my bags to get out of town. Riders on the Storm. Jim Morrison is my newest obsession because of his poetry. And his face. God that fucking perfect beautiful tragic tortured face.
I am troubled / Immeasurably / By your eyes, he writes in The American Night.
Couldn’t you just die.
I need the ocean. I need it all over me and crashing on the sand. My love gets out of bed and walks past me naked, sandy blond bed head hair in every direction. Black coffee and warm kisses. That crumpled space between sleeping and wake.
It’s just us and it’s quiet as a faded linen afternoon. I sip my coffee and watch out the window as the sun begins to break through the mist which whispers along the trees.
I don’t know if I will write while I am away. It is a strange thing. Sometimes I never quite can settle in when I borrow someone else’s house. All the coordinates are off somehow and my senses get mixed up.
My body and mind need a break from whatever bullshit they call reality. Lately it’s all just too much. It’s too much rush to get back to the things we used to do that didn’t make sense even then.
The birds are chirping but I have not heard a single cicada despite all the hype. People keep warning about the deafening sound. They complain it’s constant, the maddening buzzing which surrounds them from all sides.
I want to tell them it’s not the cicadas.
But they probably wouldn’t hear.