Scuttlefish

it’s starting to rain pretty hard here now that the sun’s down.  I thought it a good idea to move a bunch of stuff off my porch before it got too ugly.  The air smells different.  This isn’t “Maine air”.  It smells tropical, warm and coastal, like the beach in South Carolina, some alien ecological cuisine.  This air didn’t blow in off the north Atlantic, but from somewhere else altogether.

last night’s sunset was vivid Tang orange seared with brilliant golden shafts, not the pinky orange-sherbert sunsets we usually have.  You could feel in the air that something was different.  The air felt lost, like it woke up on an unfamiliar street after a night of drinking.

Even as disconnected as I am from my meteorological environment, I could detect it. I envisioned fishermen from crumbling sepiatones glaring out to sea, wrinkling their blistered noses and smelling the same thing I was. Thinking, “probably not a good idea to go out too far tomorrow” before he drew on his his brandy, turned and headed back up toward the lamp in the window.

He’d be happy to remind you that his gran'pap didn’t need no computer modeling, and that he’d learned “the old ways” from him while working at the old man’s elbow.

-The Havoc Hurricanes Wreak On Yankee Cities (A Visual History) now on Scuttlefish.

Up'ta Camp:

unread back issues of Vanity Fair; check.  Plenty of ice? check.  Bathtub scrubbed and filled with water? check.  Plenty of candles, matches, batteries and liquor.  I’m good.