19 tagged with #summer

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ants in my pants


it's literal. inexplicably, my desk crawls with confused ants. there is no food in this room, but perhaps they fell onto the roof and crawled in through the window. they tickle while they explore my arms and legs, sometimes pausing to reach up towards me as if i could provide them answers.

at a previous residence, the long windowsill near my desk was the site of an annual territory war, two different species of ants fighting for control over the ivy plant that drilled into the brickwork. it never bothered me, because the winners always cleaned up the bodies of the lowers, dragging empty husks into their own nests to feed their young. for three days, i'd just vacate the room, because the sounds of their jaws snapping at each other all day proved too distracting for me to work near.

sometimes, i can't tell if my skin is tingling because cracks are starting to open up in this dry spell, or because an ant is asking me for advice. i only have to be careful that i don't mash them under my laptop keys; they seek the warmth, i suppose, or the sweet smell of thermal paste, or the dead skin cells packed into the cracks.

my hair itches.

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08 July 2018 22:44


glimpses


a dog barks from inside the house as i walk past. the dog is dark, the room is dark; all i see are flashes of bright teeth against the glare of the windows. the sounds come contained in a small space, reverberating off thin panes. i imagine hot breath.

i watched the ups man come up the walkway, his shirt translucent as it stretched across his back, soaked several times over with sweat.

i can't wait for this cool break in the weather. it won't last.

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06 July 2018 22:38


to sweat


i dump red chili flakes liberally into hot oil, pushing it around so the smoke burns my eyes. i fill it with chicken powder, mashing it into a paste so i can crack my eggs into it and stir green beans and cold rice into the mush.

my body doesn't sweat well, so i force it to by pressing this mass against the roof of my mouth. and then once i sweat, i crave the salts, so i lick carmelized soy sauce and dehydrated chicken and MSG from the spoon, which makes me so thirty i drink two pints of water in three breaths.

this is the price i pay for being a mammal.

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02 July 2018 23:00


cool down the thunder


the body of this pen is metal, and it sits warmly in my hand when i've been using it. it splutters, at times, growing lighter with words drawn from it. words drawn from me, through it. i know when it's time to top up.

and it grows cold for a moment, a cool pause while i wipe up ink dribbles. it's like the feeling of topping up my motorcycle, too, pulling up gas from below the earth and cooling down the metal tank that sits between my knees.

in the summer, this is what i want to do all the time. i pour cold fluids into channels. years ago, i heard this line, "you cool down the thunder, and i'll ride the whirlwind," and i could never remember where it was from. the closest derivative i've found is, "you called down the thunder, now reap the whirlwind," from starcraft: episode 1.

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29 June 2018 23:02


boats


my parents asked me these questions when i was a kid, to see how i would work my head around them: how do you think boats can float? boats are so heavy, and sometimes made of metal.

but there's a part of my self that feels just right when i can feel through my feet that the bottom of the boat skims happily across the surface of the water, that i can hear the sound of waves slipping against the sides to tell me that we're moving well. i like the resistance when i pull an oar, or a hand, or a paddle, and slowly, the boat moves against it.

we borrowed a boat to learn the feeling of oars, scraping metal pegs against wet metal inserts on the gunwale, scaring more fish and birds away than the quiet electrical motors the other boats used. you can feel the tiniest current, the wind pressing against the flat sides. across the water, a dad rowed the boat backwards, facing the straight stern, pushing the oars, so he could see where he was going. no one corrected his form.

i know the sound of the splash when a fish leaves the water to snatch an insect out of the air, the paloosh when it falls back in. a pileated woodpecker crosses overhead, its neck tucked in like a heron, wings laboring hard to bring it across such a flat, open flight. vultures circle. the wind keeps the biting insects off us, and small spiders huddle against corrugated aluminum benches.

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27 June 2018 23:27


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