Big ol’ Zeus is gonna kill me. On the run from an omnipotent being who can see all, hear all, be all. Running across a desert plain in plain sight, no cover. The dark, menacing clouds start to roll in and I am so fucked that I am not even afraid. Rapid-fire, stop-motion photography. These clouds are black as night and they are angry. A crack of lightning, emblazoned across the sky. It is multi-veined and continues to spark off as the thunder answers its approval. It is the cue for the heavens to open up and pour everything they have after a long hard earned day of making this rain. And it is immediately drenching. Clothes get sopping wet in this summer storm. The humidity makes it cling, but the drops are cool and I feel like am going through a car wash. The drops come down at such velocity, it is blinding me. And whatever brief pleasure I have taken from this is no longer. I stop seeking shelter and accept that I might as well reconcile the fact that I am no better than the key on Benjamin Franklin’s kite.
Indoors somewhere, a family sits down to dinner. And as the rain pounds on their roof and windows of their well-made home, they are serving pizza, homemade. There is laughter and drinks poured. They do not know of another’s fate, entwined in this storm, cannot imagine it. It is not even a stray thought. And why would it be? The comfort of one’s home is not exclusive to the physical creature comforts within. It is also mental, emotional comfort. Call “ignorance” by some for lack of a better term. The house is shielding, protective. There is joviality at the table.
White hot heat, varied temperature weather particles react. The sand gets sticky and latches onto my body wherever it can. Jar full of rain, catching it to drink. Glass jar. I’m thinking of stories Maya Angelou has told her her books. And my heart is broken lately. I try to will the pieces back together. Stretch outward, neverending hands reach out and try to grasp the aftermath of when lightning strikes, and trees lay scorched upon the Earth. How strange it can be for our planet to be called that. Time for Kids magazine. John Glenn. Space exploration. It is 1960s all over again, but worse. We need someone to correct the timeline.