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ninetynine hot air balloons
Aug. 9th, 2001 09:01 amit is the hottest day of the year. the hottest. day. i'm thinking there must be a clever name for this day, but so far i haven't heard one.
in italy, the coldest, most brutal day of the year is called il giorno del corvo, which means the day of the raven, or of the crow. they don't really make a distinction between the two. when i was there, il giorno del corvo was accompanied by a week of inexplicable phenomenon. giant blocks of ice had begun falling from the sky. i remember breaking ice crystals off of my scarf where my breath had fallen.
yesterday beside the sidewalk one of the small brown quick-bodied birds had fallen dead, its wings forming a little protected shell around its body, which was filled with maggots and bright black squirming flies.
last night it was so hot i could barely sleep. r called and we talked a while; i sensed something sharp or maybe brittle beneath our words, unspoken things. when we hung up i listened to loveline and tried to feel sleepy, impossible since i'd napped for almost three hours, five to eight pm. i could not sleep. i needed desperately to sleep, to escape the constant awareness of heat. i asked antony to tell me a story, sing me a song, to help me sleep. but it didn't work. i slept upsidedown in the bed so my head was near the window fan, but could not shake the feeling that i was not in my real sleeping position. so i kept waking up. pajamas were impossible: but otherwise i had a constant sensation of a loose hair tickling my collar bone, or a small bug landing on me. paranoically brushing away at my shoulders every half-second.
when i woke up from my nap, earlier, i had the strangest of unformed dreams. waking up i felt i was being called to end my twoness. as if someone from the realm of one had noticed me and said i was worth it, i could be one now, too. and gratefully rolling toward the dim window feeling i had left behind my twoness.
in italy, the coldest, most brutal day of the year is called il giorno del corvo, which means the day of the raven, or of the crow. they don't really make a distinction between the two. when i was there, il giorno del corvo was accompanied by a week of inexplicable phenomenon. giant blocks of ice had begun falling from the sky. i remember breaking ice crystals off of my scarf where my breath had fallen.
yesterday beside the sidewalk one of the small brown quick-bodied birds had fallen dead, its wings forming a little protected shell around its body, which was filled with maggots and bright black squirming flies.
last night it was so hot i could barely sleep. r called and we talked a while; i sensed something sharp or maybe brittle beneath our words, unspoken things. when we hung up i listened to loveline and tried to feel sleepy, impossible since i'd napped for almost three hours, five to eight pm. i could not sleep. i needed desperately to sleep, to escape the constant awareness of heat. i asked antony to tell me a story, sing me a song, to help me sleep. but it didn't work. i slept upsidedown in the bed so my head was near the window fan, but could not shake the feeling that i was not in my real sleeping position. so i kept waking up. pajamas were impossible: but otherwise i had a constant sensation of a loose hair tickling my collar bone, or a small bug landing on me. paranoically brushing away at my shoulders every half-second.
when i woke up from my nap, earlier, i had the strangest of unformed dreams. waking up i felt i was being called to end my twoness. as if someone from the realm of one had noticed me and said i was worth it, i could be one now, too. and gratefully rolling toward the dim window feeling i had left behind my twoness.
