hurricane: a sketch

My body is no longer firm and terrestrial; it is resolved into its constituent atoms, subtilized, volatilized. Sublimed into imponderable vapor, I mingle and am lost in the endless sources of those vast globular volumes of vaporous mists, which roll upon their flaming orbits through infinite space.

Journey to the Center of the Earth

i was reading Journey to The Center of the Earth when it hit me that my atoms have existed from the very beginning of the universe. every single part of me was present, destined to be animated by my soul one day. maybe all of those cheesy quotes are true; maybe I am made of stardust. or mountains. or sand.

…

the sand that I’m sitting on isn’t the white flour-ish powder that hems the Gulf of Mexico. it’s coarser, and warmly colored; the homely glow of an incandescent bulb versus the bleached light of LEDs.

and there’s a hurricane coming. rumors of it have been circulating, like foam churning on the crests of summer vacation. you wouldn’t have guessed it while looking at the sky last night. the moon seemed so honest, hanging yellow and low. he was completely alone, unaccompanied by a single cloud. you would think that he couldn’t lie to you, bare and vulnerable against a freshly painted blue wall-of-a-sky. or maybe you did catch a slightly foreboding expression on his face. maybe you didn’t want to acknowledge it.

you still don’t believe it the next morning, when you’re draped across a rusty chair in the sand and reading about a place miles and miles beneath the influence of weather. you’re holding the kindle in one hand, and shielding your eyes with the other. suddenly your gaze is caught between the two and you realize how undeserving you are of such a magnificent backdrop at the moment. an indigo ocean, stretched beneath a smiling blue-and-white sky. a hurricane seems far too alien in such a bright scene.

later in the day, weighed down by cherry and blueberry pie, you chase after siblings who are, as usual, magnetically attracted to a puppy and her owner down the street. the collision of the two forces results in a blurry explosion involving many small arms and legs, some of which are covered in curly brown fur. after the explosion has settled down, the owner explains to you how the waves will reach at least 10 feet, and flood the street. she’s lived here for 30 years, and you begin to feel a bit of apprehension. just a bit.

and – after all – aren’t catastrophes thrilling? only when, of course, you’re safe and sound above the chaos, trapped inside a new and interesting house that hasn’t been fully explored. in fact, you still haven’t examined every single painting to determine whether it’s an original or a copy.

it’s night. the wind is whispering over the beach now, and the sand begins to join in on the secret. it whisks up and into my face, and I realize that I can’t lay here flat on my stomach for much longer. besides, the sun has gone down long ago and I’m the only one left on the beach aside from some brave holders-of-flashlights a mile or so to the left. the sky is ominous, laced with weak green and angry grey streaks. i stand up and look down the line of houses on the shore: few remain who haven’t been shuttered and boarded up completely. as I begin to stumble back up the dunes, alone, the water hisses warnings, accented by flashing white foam.

it seems that a hurricane is, indeed, coming.

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