May 142008

The hamlet in which I live was battered last night by a series of storms, bruising thunderheads igniting the day-bright sky with great incandescent arcs of violet lightning, hail paradiddling on the roof, rumbles of thunder luxuriantly crescendoing towards mighty percussive barrages that rattled the windows and doors.

What was my reaction to all this elemental bluster? To lie in bed, wide awake, in my pitch-black room, my increasingly concerned dog beside me, responding to every thunderclap by yelling “OOOOOOODDDDDIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNN!” and improvising beatboxed death metal riffs before losing it in a fit of cackles.

Then I had an idea for a teen sitcom called “Poe Boy” which concerns a high school Edgar Allen Poe and the social awkwardness caused by his inability to go anywhere without the weather immediately turning into a violent, ambience-fostering thunderstorm.

The mind, when steeped in hermitage, is a consistently surprising place.

  4 Responses to “The Limbo of my descent into madness.”

  1. uncool. Monk needed your reassurance, and you played it all Beowulf?

  2. He was concerned chiefly because I was playing it all Beowulf. Storms ain’t bother him none. He’s as cool as his namesake eating a cucumber on a winter day in Nome. Daddy, that is cool.

  3. I really like the image of you cackling wildly and raging in a Viking voice at the sky. In my hea, Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” is playing as this happens.

    It’s better than what I did during the same storm. That is, cowered.

  4. I was thinking more like Scandinavian metal, all great pummeling waves of percussion and brutal riffs and trebly guitar solos that make no sense, but come to think of it, “Immigrant Song” works pretty well too.

    And remember, next time hail takes out your window, just shake your fist at the Norse pantheon. THOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

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