I wake up at Ray’s. I wake up on his couch, under his cat, and to the flying saucer sound of cicadas. I wake up at the obscene hour of 7am, and listen. Ray’s gone to work an hour ago or so, and the cat remains curled in the blanket as I contemplate the day.
My shoulder hurts from yesterday’s less-than-tender ministrations – and as a matter of fact, my whole arm aches – and though I’m looking forward to the bands today, I am absolutely not looking forward to a day in the sun, in the crowds, in the noise. I wish that I could have personal viewings, or perhaps box seats.
I’m going to the HFStival today – something I didn’t think I’d ever do again – but the line-up includes the Offspring, and Cypress Hill, and the Violent Femmes, and Jimmie’s Chicken Shack, and Jah Works, and even the Cure – and there just doesn’t seem to be another occassion where there will be such a rob collection of exciting eccentricity.
Can’t say no.
I’m watching the shadows of cicadas on the blinds as the air conditioner flicks off and on, desperately trying to regulate the rising temperature. The cat is whining for the return of Ray, and I’m remembering the last arrival of the Brood – and how they seemed so much bigger. I guess I was that much smaller – and how I’m not sure if I’m regretting the fact that I’m not spending more time near them. By the time we get back from Illinois, they won’t be around, I don’t think. Just a bunch of rapidly decaying bug bodies covering the streets.
Hrm, the cat has given up on Ray and has decided that my chest is the place to be. He thinks she Loves him.
Anywho – once every seventeen years? I guess I’ll have to go out and have some sort of cicada (tail up my NOSE) party.