There are times when we yearn a sky full of stars. These are not such days. These days I wish the sky were covered with slumbering thick rainclouds. Quick lightning and the roar of thunder, rain spearing aslant on the panes, anything to wet the soil, anything to cool the air. Storms. Storms that rob chunks of daytime, fill them with chaos, force me to stand by the window to look out, see replicated in the floss of over-brimming sewage the innocence of water hitting water to make ripples...
Rain. Lots of it. Lots and lots of it. That is what I want.
Yesterday's was a strange sky for this time of the year. It was beautiful without the terror; it was pretty. I remember thinking: "These clouds remind me of the function of the sky: to carry beauty." But that is merely a pretty a thought, or a thought about prettiness, not beauty.
Then I thought: to each season its own sky, and to each season its own surprises. Which, really, means nothing.
Then a phrase entered my head: "A well seasoned man."
A well-seasoned man? I sensed a story there. An elaborate short story about a man, caught in particular circumstances, a political and moral animal that is thrown particular political and moral problems, bones to gnaw.
But, I wanted the story to start with a non-story, a red-herring, a schlock-piece, about an abused wife who murders her husband and calls his two lovers--her friends--to eat the flesh. But, she has to postpone the dinner because she can't find the right kind of cardamom to--ahem--season her husband's flesh. Because she wants to serve--!--a well-seasoned man.
I know that sounds dumb. But, I am reserving judgment because I haven't seen the actual story that will follow this terrible attempt to make a very bad pun. I have a feeling the story that will follow will adequately engage this vignette to make it both relevant and interesting.