It's been a scorcher this week, and I'm grateful for overcast. The pathetic fallacy it provides is a nice surprise. A fresh breeze ambles through the flat. It's just a little colder than the temperature of the room. Refreshing and cleansing. A nice change from sticky and sweaty. Another day tolling about under intense UV-assault would have been too much for this pasty Canadian boy. Not that I anticipate doing much tolling today.
You can bet it's another one of those weekend morning (read: afternoon) posts.
I spent the better part of the previous hour navigating a maze of linked Wikipedia articles. Trying to understand what exactly I did to myself, in concocting that "Holy Trinity" of fire, sugar and Absinthe. I look at the bottle, half-full. I ensured a gregarious evening when I poured the other half, and two sugar-free RedBull, into an empty bottle of Sprite. We chugged it in the cab on the way to the now infamous Harley Bar. The glass container has a sticker. It says Van Gogh and Hemingway used it as "Creative Stimulant." I guess I'm in good company.
It's a good thing I opted out of the black one, reaching instead for the emerald green. They call it a lucid drunk. A delicate balance of stimulants and depressants are at play in the herbs. Playing tug-of-war with your consciousness. My memory is foggier than I'd like to admit, but the description feels right. It's scary how quickly it sneaks up on you.
It has started to spit rain. I think Mike might be awake now too. The likelihood that I'll do much more than help him find his way to the train station remains low. We have had a great weekend. Monday will offer me another chance to prove myself. For now I will bide my time, sipping coffee. Watching a man chase komodo dragons on the Discovery Channel.
Bruce Springsteen on Broadway
8 hours ago