So, these “fishing poles” …
I mean, they seem benign…
But when the men do that flicking thing…
Doesn’t it sound like we should run?
Like the anti-christ himself is about to cast us into the Lake of Fire?
We haven’t seen a groundhog or any other critter since last week. I think maybe the Bald Man scared every goddamn thing within miles by using the loud water-sprayer.
It feels quiet. And still. Things have stopped moving, even our hearts.
We just wait. And we wait.
And it’s as if we wait under something heavy.
For our feet to move. For our blood to stir. For our minds to spark.
The clouds were thin and broke every so often up until about 2:30 am. We managed to make out a partial eclipse just before the full blanket of white happened.
Rothko sat next to me most of the time. He doesn’t mind waiting for things indefinitely as long as I’m sitting next to him.
Honey gets impatient with that kind of pointless bullshit. Especially when it involves being uncomfortable. So she stayed inside. She has never been a “loyal companion” kind of dog. Or rather, her loyalty is heavily contingent on treats and/or a nice place to sit. She wanted nothing to do with Blood Moons or anything else that required being outside or not being in a warm bed or general discomfort.
There was an occasional snoring sound from a neighbor’s open window, and it caused Rothko to puff up and investigate every time it happened. He barked loudly at several phantoms. Just before we went inside, he caught a whiff of crazy and started a Ball Game, running many full-throttled circles around the yard.
I made overtures of chasing him for a few minutes. Then we went inside. I ate cinnamon and honey toast before going to bed around 3.
Don’t look at him.
Earlier he was playing Dave Matthews Band.
Which is bad enough.
Now he’s got the tequila.
Yelling about mangos.
I’ve seen this before.
It doesn’t end well.
He might start that crushing thing he calls “givemedembighugs.”