Of bats and ducks. Not about scorpions, though
It’s Monday night there about ten or ten-thirty pm. I’m at the park and the wind is freaking cold. I have just jogged for say, six or seven miles and now I’m doing some stretching exercises leaning against a tree by the lake before going home for dinner, a shower, and by god, bed.
The sky is mostly cloudy, those ominous orange-white clouds hanging so very low above the city, leaving but a small pocket of night-sky with actual stars to be seen through: One single constellation, which I’ve come to call not-Scorpius during my nocturnal joggings for the past few months – but that’s mostly for no particular reason whatsoever, because I’m pretty sure Scorpius is the only constellation I can recognize at a glance. Maybe it’s because of the distinct, eerie yellowish glow of Antares. But that constellation up above my head right now? Definitely not Scorpius.
There’s so much going on in my head right now: It has not been the kindest two, three weeks now for a convergence of different factors altogether piling up and becoming this one intense ball of bad feelings. The problem with having bats in the belfry, when said belfry is inside your own head, is that you can’t take the easy way out and look for a hotel for the night. The orange juice with the Stolichnaya often helps, granted, and so does all the fancy eating-out on Saturday evenings. But it doesn’t make the bats go away, see, and that’s why I jog at night two or three times a week: Bats are still liable to fly while drunk, but decidedly not after seven-mile laps around the lake during winter nights. So since I can’t beat the bad stuff with sanity and common sense (and alcohol) then I’ve decided to do it with endurance – and it actually works.
But I digress: So I’m leaning against a tree at the park near my place tonight, after my running’s done, stretching out before going back home okay?
Then, of course, as the audience cries for much-vaunted pathos and a plot-twist is sorely needed to for the climax to spice up this post, a duck comes out of a bush by the lake and charges at me.
Fuck. And here’s my thinking only goddamn geese did that.
What do you know.
The sky is mostly cloudy, those ominous orange-white clouds hanging so very low above the city, leaving but a small pocket of night-sky with actual stars to be seen through: One single constellation, which I’ve come to call not-Scorpius during my nocturnal joggings for the past few months – but that’s mostly for no particular reason whatsoever, because I’m pretty sure Scorpius is the only constellation I can recognize at a glance. Maybe it’s because of the distinct, eerie yellowish glow of Antares. But that constellation up above my head right now? Definitely not Scorpius.
There’s so much going on in my head right now: It has not been the kindest two, three weeks now for a convergence of different factors altogether piling up and becoming this one intense ball of bad feelings. The problem with having bats in the belfry, when said belfry is inside your own head, is that you can’t take the easy way out and look for a hotel for the night. The orange juice with the Stolichnaya often helps, granted, and so does all the fancy eating-out on Saturday evenings. But it doesn’t make the bats go away, see, and that’s why I jog at night two or three times a week: Bats are still liable to fly while drunk, but decidedly not after seven-mile laps around the lake during winter nights. So since I can’t beat the bad stuff with sanity and common sense (and alcohol) then I’ve decided to do it with endurance – and it actually works.
But I digress: So I’m leaning against a tree at the park near my place tonight, after my running’s done, stretching out before going back home okay?
Then, of course, as the audience cries for much-vaunted pathos and a plot-twist is sorely needed to for the climax to spice up this post, a duck comes out of a bush by the lake and charges at me.
Fuck. And here’s my thinking only goddamn geese did that.
What do you know.
posted by 186282mps at 8:59 AM
<< Home