...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....
I watch the headline on the opening page of my e-mail, numbers increasing like a ticker to tell me the current body count in the Caribbean. One fifty. Two twenty five. Over three hundred. Three fifty. Five hundred. Six. A big jump to eight thirty, and the figure isn't final. I don't even know what's CAUSING flooding in the Caribbean. I'm saddened, but I expect that. I expect the death toll in Iraq (both sides) to tear at my heart, as I expect that when I hear stories of Rwanda and Chechnia, I will weep.
I also cry at road kill.
I can't afford to take any of this too seriously. Let's face it, we're all dead already, but for a few measly decades. Some sooner than others.
The other disturbing headline is about outlawing "dirty" bombs. As if there are clean ones. Stop it already. There is no kinder gentler version of WAR. It's an ugly word, an ugly concept, and only ugliness follows.
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Storm light shines green through the window. Smack and crack and grumble of thunder rolls around, stereophonic. Natural fireworks throw glow on landscape for brief photographic moments. I make an excuse, take garbage out, remember laundry left on the line. Anything to get outdoors.
So tempting... sarong has one easily undone knot, and I'm dancing naked in the rain.
But no, I've been scolded:
"Don't be long, Mama. I don't want you to get hit by lightning."
It's a fate I've been courting most of my life. Thunderstorm? yeah. On the beach? double yeah.
Don't know what it is about a crackling ionosphere that pulls me, but I_want_it!
Try to inhale power and fury, feel it, live it, own it. I take inspiration where I find it, and am damn grateful.
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