What is it about torrential thunderstorms on sultry summer days? I want to throw up, drink whiskey in a brooding manner, write a love song to the desert, run away to live in the woods, read poems aloud while pacing from room to room, kick up my inner demons, so much more. All this energy wells up inside, furious and ferocious, almost feral; it yearns for violent release. I settle for chocolate and writing about sublime landscapes in bad vampire movies.
This week I went to Dublin to meet up with my friend, on a stop to see me before heading to Belfast to work on the ad campaign for a cable tv show that's filmed there. She was all smiles, refreshed from a week on a small Greek island where donkeys are the only form of transportation. The holiday was basically a second honeymoon with her poet husband, now en route to a writer's residency in California. Although it was the hottest day of the year in Ireland, she insisted on wearing her black duster.
With my husband and brother-in-law, we sat outside various bars, people-watching. She smoked: "It was either cigarettes or an affair," she said, laughing. The move to NY had been hard. Outside of Neary's, a Croatian, maybe Italian dude drank pints of Peroni's, playing Toto aloud on his phone, as if it was a boombox, and we spotted him later in a sushi bar, proof of how small Dublin is.
It was so good to see her, this woman I have known for twenty years: her beautiful golden face, those feline eyes, and her easy, mischievous smile. I am so alive and aware when I'm with her; my waywardness feels less a burden and more like a gift.