a breather

It’s well past midnight and I should be in bed, I told myself today I would turn in early, not after writng right into the wee hours of the morning yester night and suddenly don’t want to stop writing. Its rather serene and the words seem to be at the tip of my brain rolling off along to the freshly ground album I am so wholesomely listening to. It’s for a review, actually I have three albums lined up for a review and I need to listen to them tonight, at least… so it prolly means no turning in real soon, even though a part of my brain tells me I need to…stop.
I just tried…
Took a gulp of ice cold water and retraced my steps to my room , leaving the lap top on… big mistake, somehow everything I wanted to say kept wriggling out the cage I had built within to keep them in. but I know the sad tales of keeping in what I want to write…morning light comes and like little vampires, every word, every expression dies at the light of dawn. I don’t understand the relationship my imagination and writing posses with the night and the dark. Sometimes I will turn over in bed and scribble it in my journal or poetry book or whatever papers at my bed side I long since learned to keep stationary close by to prevent rapid extinction of my lipsticks and eye pencil that I would grope for from my shelf in the dark along with sheets of rudely torn paper from anything that was a book.
I got smarter.
So I am rambling, just about anything and everything.

Scent

The music makes me think of scent


Barbecuing steak over a hot charcoal stove on a hot hot urban Saturday afternoon on the rooftop of a beautiful flat roofed double storey house... .The delicious scent of half charred, almost ready marinated meat, potatoes and pepper, mingled with the slight dry breeze that swirls around the barbeque guy, sweaty, strong masculine body odor , not necessarily repulsive…more meaty, manly… weird.
And there is light lovers rock wafting teasingly from the amplified player through the wide open doors and windows of the apartment meshed and merged with giggling, loud jesting and off key singing…
The scene changes but it’s always hot…



Something about Freshly Ground is the image of sultry heat it paints,
And with it blithe, adventurous colours of a sunburned afternoon, straw hats, sandy beaches, barefeet, loose see-through clothing and gaudy sarongs, tough cowhide sandals, flashy beaded bracelets.
I breathe…
Hot arid air, the temperature is only helped by the wind, dry monsoon winds that swirl and twist the sand...Into your eyes… sun glasses, huge and sundry… and all the while, sweat dampened sticky bodies, aching for a dip in the cool beckoning sea water…
And the barbeque guy..
Oh yea…
In rudely shredded khaki shorts, bare chest, constantly wiping the sweat off his brow, as his long fork prods into the pieces of meat turning them over, aware of the wanton eyes of the holiday makers, he can hear their stomachs growl, the juices flow fast as they lick their dry lips. He smiles…
The music plays on… ‘Freshly Ground’
The young merry makers laugh, pretend to mime...dance clumsily… a young man steals stealthy glances...Side long glances at a girl that pretends not to notice. She knows. Her friend already told her he was crunching on her.



I breathe…
Hot arid, sea salt air…
It’s all in the music...