There is a heavy, lazy mugginess to the air. It saps of both energy and ability to care. A forcibly-mustered run through the streets of Tallahassee on this warm, overcast Labor Day feels hypnogogically surreal after two nights of subpar sleep and several days since I last felt conditioned air. Cats nap on rocking chairs and bar stools; a wanderlusted band of neoliberal NoFlo misfits paradies their own
plight existance and restlessness on this so-called holiday.
History and personality fall away, following the rivulets of sweat down my brow and onto the sidewalk. What can’t quite escape is obfuscated by an increasingly unruly and formless beard. There’s really no need for context when all of your present is visible at once. For better or for worse, your narrative becomes you (in every sense of the word). Weather talk is no longer pedantic when it sculpts your days; wit is replaced by a well-timed story of travels and tribulations (or even a knowing glance at the touring hardware).
It is equally enjoyable and isolating to assume an inert identity, a subject that could be beaten to death a thousand times over. One may ask how or why it happens, but the untold volumes needed to explain the phenomenon would simply gather dust like so many useless heirloom keepsakes, clung to tightly for a “posterity” that prevents progress.
Thunder expectedly interrupts the peaceful weightiness. A cushioned chair and ottoman rock in unison, silently returning particulates to the air from whence they came. The rain comes, but on an off day it is welcomed not dreaded. Its unfeeling pitter-patter evokes Hawai’i…or was it Panama or Possum Kingdom?… the steady drone and unwavering humidity level suggest neither urgency nor change–it is easy to infer why so many become “stuck” here (and everywhere else).
A deep breath and a long gander at nothing in particular continue to reaffirm the idle hypothesis that the finish line is likelier to be intangible than physical and that this trip will never truly end. A blinding lightning bolt and eternal crack of thunder subtly suggest that dinner won’t cook itself, but I never was one for nuances.