Racing the weather, to music.

The office is suddenly hotter and stuffier and I don’t have to look out the window to know that I’ll have to race the rain home today.

Hurriedly throwing things into my bag, I whip out my trusty iPod and within minutes, I’m on my way.

Humidity follows me out the door, past the security guards and onto my customary route back home. I untangle the earphone wires twisted messily around my fingers and pause while I turn the dial, looking for the perfect tune.

Slightly superstitious, I try to please the Gods and stave off the rain with something fabulous and the choice falls on Led Zeppelin. I press play, the moody strains of Babe I’m Gonna Leave You fill my ears and I start walking again, a little faster now.

The song fits the weather perfectly. Stormy clouds seemed to have tinged the whole world different shades of grey and the very air around me is thick, pregnant with the promise of rain. Not just a timid shower, but a full on downpour.

God this weather. Tropical, capricious, infuriating. I can’t believe I actually spend so much time writing about the weather on my blog. But it’s really much more interesting that one gives it credit for. In this country anyway.

I said baby, you know I’m gonna leave you.
I’ll leave you when the summertime,
Leave you when the summertime comes arollin… Continue reading Racing the weather, to music.

Impressions of a night.

Feathers. Hundreds of them coating the road, lit by evening traffic. Whipped, wrenched and tossed around by fast-passing cars, flying up to disappear momentarily against the dark sky before settling into the spotlight again. At once yellow, at once red – headlights follow their jerky prime-time dance. Beautiful until you think about how they got there. Road kill. But there’s no sign of the ugly death.

Just the feathers – hundreds of them coating the road, lit by evening traffic.

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She never usually watches the road, but she does today as she flees towards her destination in her trishaw bubble. The rush of road beneath her makes her feel weirdly like she was a sewing machine needle, watching yards of fabric race beneath and beyond her.

A bump in the road. A catch in the cloth. She tries to stop, go back, correct the mistake, the extra stitch, but she can’t. The needle rushes past, heedless that it’s pricked her and she’s bleeding.

Confused metaphors fly through her mind, whipping with the wind. She tries in vain to hold her loose hair in place and finally gives up, letting the flagellating strands slash against her neck, face and gloss-coated lips. Continue reading Impressions of a night.