Dry, dry, dry... dry, dry, dry, dry, dry, dry... dry, dry, That's what this whole death scenario has done to me. Made me dry. Dry. Dry as your late, dead great-grandmother Georgina's dusty, web-bedecked vagina cuddled six foot under the spongy loam of her last resting place in the crumbling confines of a conspicuously extravagant coffin once lavishly quilted with the finest of silks and velveteens to comfort poor grandmama's little birdie head as she twisted off into the netherworld to become ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust. Yes, quite dry, not a drip, drab, dram, not a jot nor tittle, not a bead nor nuance of wet to be found in my vicinty. Just dry.
Dry like that heat you've heard them mention. And no doubt this is a southern/western thing. As only when the mercury soars, nay skyrockets, into the upper regions of the meter, blazing a trail for days on end into the the 100+ degrados, do we begin to qualify the heat. Maybe to distract ourselves from the mere fact that heat, at anything above 100 (really above about 104. That seems to be the magic cut-in temperature for misery) is simply hot, hot and scorching and DRY, because no self-respecting molecule of moisture would be caught dead in that kind of heat. It's not only unfashionable, but it's just not DONE, cavorting about in that kind of heat.
"Ooooo, dear, but did you hear it was 112deg today???"
"Yes, Minnie, but was it a dry heat?"
"Indeed - nicely dry; flirty on the palate; hint of leather, pomegranate & mesquite; burnt finish - alltogether a delight at 112deg. Get a case, let it age and then sprinkle the dust for a lovely, gritty addition to any course."
As if somehow dry heat makes the 16 layers of derm you have just left on your leather car seat so much more pleasurable, even preferrable. Skin-crackling, pore-enlarging, sweat-tap-opening, I-will-drink-my-own-urine-if-I-have-to, cactus-wilting, dirt-boiling hot. Yes, it was a dry heat, like the heat they have in Arizona. In fact, let's all move to Arizona, where all the old, really dry people are, in order to experience with some frequency, regularity and longevity that place where dry heat resides. Seek it out and embrace it warmly. Eschew the tenderness of moisture and simply flake off. Nope, at 100+, I don't care if its dry, tepid, humid, moistened, binty, dirty with extra olives, insouciant, or Copernicus, its f**ing hot AND dry.
And that's how the death has left me feeling. DRY. All dried up. Except for the mucus, of course.
10.11.2006
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