Where melancholy is neither sadness nor depression, Indian Summer stirs in me this energy that has not the standard flavors of joy and happiness. The flow is a positive one, but it's sticky and twitchy. Reckless. Sticky not like from wetness; it's a dry tight brambly stick. Muscles rub across each other, sparking twinges within. Itchy and twitchy, I need to move and do. Restless. Run and drive and swim. Drive along the ridgeline. "Drive west on Sunset to the sea. Drink Kirschwasser from a shell. San Francisco show and tell." Swim naked at night. Run along Baker Beach, where the fog has taken its brief annual leave.
Plant a fast-growing vine. Feel the playful spring of its grippy curls. Watch it reach to climb the cactus.
I ask a woman at the store What kind of art do you do, before asking her _if_ she does. She responds, "Everything I do."
Cedar scent in an unknown trunk, and I guess correctly that the car's owner is right there with me too.
Windows down, so the remnants of the twilight, long past sundown, can sneak in before they retreat. Radio on, and up, searching for just the right sound right shape, the same way proteins nuzzle up against cells, wrapping, triggering openings and cascades, knowing.
A rare turn away from KALX, solace is sought from the classic rock station. Black Sabbath and Peter Frampton don't quite hit the mark, but they're not far off.
Thoughts and feelings dance spastically, water drops on this too hot griddle. Watch out, I might say something I mean. A kiss might slip, from lips, from me like a thin wet white drip of soft serve ice cream through a tiny crack in the chocolate dipped shell.