Now it's hot. and damned fucking humid. but not raining. worst time of the year. we hang our heads. defeated. and then shower. and sing. and then do it all over again. it's really a rough time of year. the rainy season's no walk in the park. no glistening milkshake you can just walk away from. but it's exciting and generous and cool for a bit after a big rain. and then the rivers go all gaga....
"I've written beautifully about May, tenderness"--- O, how I love your letters!. and, this, here also, is the month of suicide. I've been writing 4 and 5 and 6 hours every day. My back is creaking. My throat's a gallows.
This is weather I’d like Henry Miller or Dylan Thomas to write me about. Letters all stuffed and dripping with whores and sperm-steaming gutters. Dogs in rut. Dogs glued together, smiling sheepishly, all the way down to the sea's seething bones. Its rusting death. Its old men writhing and twisting around a Johnny Cash song. A dog dying of poison. Foaming. Sputtering. All filled with dung beetles.
This weather sucks. And, yet, in it I am thriving.
Paulina Rubio: fill me with your perfect voice!
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