storm

A distant crack, a roll of thunder, a flash, the clouds tear open and unleash what seems not like rain but rather solid streams of water. The clothes, the rain coat, do nothing to protect the body from becoming instantly soaked and so we run down the street smiling and laughing. A flip flop floats away in a new formed stream in the street and a chase is required to regain this gifted relic. Arriving home it is essential to remove all clothing and the rest, as they say, is history.
A Saturday morning run in the Boston heat… an attempt to wash away the sins of Miami. Trying to regain the somewhat healthy routine that was starting to develop before the trip. It follows a flight, a thunderstorm, a tin can trap on melting tar mac as the sun sinks behind heavy grey cloud and a flashing sky. The airline senses the financial loss and prefers to risk the flight – a pilot can dodge lightning it seems, or so they hope – and so we bump and shake into the afternoon sky and climb the east coast of the United States of America. Entering Massachusetts and the plane is rocking so violently that they ask us to tighten our seatbelts and cancel all services. How is it that so many of us fly on a daily basis without serious incident?
On the ground there is barely time to breathe and preparations must be made for the visit of intense guests from France. The stress levels rise and quiet weekends seem like a future dream or a far off oasis in a tumultuous desert.
Somehow it arrives… and here we are, tin can in hand, poolside, with a weekend stretching out before us that is filled with nothing but punk rock and peace and literature and film and no business textbook jargon.