The light is mad this afternoon. The sky is dirty white and low and thick. The greens are all saturated. Everything that isn't green seems unreal and in the way. The green things are waiting. Nothing moves—movement feels incorrect. The leaves are focused and not amused by wind or insects or fingers. Heavy green mangos hang motionless at the end of threadlike branches. The fecundity is obscene, smug.
A big storm would seem to be coming—but the rains here are teasing lately. I haven't seen rain for a week or more, but the mornings are often surprisingly damp and cool, when I'm up early enough to see them. (We're all sweaty after nine am.) It's early for the rainy season, anyway. Next week we all pelt each other with water—it ought to be blazingly hot and clear. Pi Mai. It'll be good to have a second new year. Any chance to slough off bad and try again seems good right now. (Maybe collecting new years would be a good way to organize a journey.)
A sign on a building I pass half a dozen times a day reads “Closed for avocation.” I'd say there's a little invisible sign like that posted above my head right now, but that would be glib. The truth is that my brain feels closed, but I have no idea why or what the outcome will be.
This morning, a lizard near my chair somehow lost his tail. About a foot away from me, lizard crouched, frozen. The tail--a bit about the length of the end of my pinky--trailed six inches behind him. As we both watched, it flopped around on the grey stone desperately, as though it were really dying, as though it could really be said to have lived.
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