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Home smells like death
Dec. 1st, 2006 07:56 amAs I crossed over the draw bridge that I've lived near for my entire life [well, the parts I remember, anyway], I realized that I will never leave this city. Consider me shackled and chained, because that's what's happened. It's not that I like the people. I don't. All those "Charleston is the nicest city, ever" reports? LIES. Or else they just go to places where they are expected to kiss your ass. Or possibly it's just that the city is perfectly lovely if you're over thirty and not spending anytime in school. Hmm. That could possibly do it.
Point is, it's not that. It's the sight of the grey clouds slowly breaking up so that a tiny sliver of what looks like purple sunlight can flit through, only to be swallowed whole by a giant mass of fog. All of this over choppy dark blue water, with not a single boat actually in the water yet, and leaves swirling around from the parking lot.
It's the inability to drive two miles without hitting a church where they don't think twice about letting the leaves that finally frickin' changed color blow all over the lawn, and not two minutes later you see a nun hurrying to make it to mass on time at another church entirely.
For all the time I spent sleeping in, I think I quite like late night/early morning moreso than any other time except dusk. You can take anything after midmorning and shove it until late afternoon. However, I've learned you cannot exist on that much sleep. Except maybe in the summer, as the days last longer then, so the time between "too fucking hot" and "mosquito bait!" is extended.
Who knew the smell of marine death [pluff mud] would be comforting?
Found a copy of Sleeping with the Fishes. Which I will now read carefully, then wrap and give to my mother in her stocking. Like none of you have ever done that.
... Not the whole giving a gift to my mother thing. The reading something before giving it away thing.
Now I have to remember what I thought of giving Tracy before I thought we decided no gifts. Craaaaap.
Point is, it's not that. It's the sight of the grey clouds slowly breaking up so that a tiny sliver of what looks like purple sunlight can flit through, only to be swallowed whole by a giant mass of fog. All of this over choppy dark blue water, with not a single boat actually in the water yet, and leaves swirling around from the parking lot.
It's the inability to drive two miles without hitting a church where they don't think twice about letting the leaves that finally frickin' changed color blow all over the lawn, and not two minutes later you see a nun hurrying to make it to mass on time at another church entirely.
For all the time I spent sleeping in, I think I quite like late night/early morning moreso than any other time except dusk. You can take anything after midmorning and shove it until late afternoon. However, I've learned you cannot exist on that much sleep. Except maybe in the summer, as the days last longer then, so the time between "too fucking hot" and "mosquito bait!" is extended.
Who knew the smell of marine death [pluff mud] would be comforting?
Found a copy of Sleeping with the Fishes. Which I will now read carefully, then wrap and give to my mother in her stocking. Like none of you have ever done that.
... Not the whole giving a gift to my mother thing. The reading something before giving it away thing.
Now I have to remember what I thought of giving Tracy before I thought we decided no gifts. Craaaaap.
