Virga

Every now and then you get a situation where nimbostratus clouds become so full of moisture they release it in the form of rain, but because of air pressure and compressional heating, all of it evaporates before it reaches the ground. The same thing happens on the planet Venus -- but when the skies cry there it rains sulfuric acid, and the evaporation is caused by the intense heat on the planets surface.

Could you imagine a day so hot where a saving cloud appears, but the rain refuses to fall?
Could you imagine a life where your only hope is to live in the kind of heat that could kill a storm?

What is salvation? Does it always require sacrifice? Does the sidekick always have to frikkin' die just so the hero will finally get angry enough to finish the movie? I didn't tell my air conditioner to break. I didn't ask for the goddamn ceiling fan to fall to the ground. I never wanted to hurt anyone else just so I could try to find what I was looking for. I didn't want to get into all this debt. I didn't want you to move away. I never wanted to be unhappy.

..All Dude ever wanted was his rug back.

Sometimes there's a voice inside of me that sounds like Jeff Goldblum in his all-black Jurassic Park rouge scientist getup, harping on and on about upsetting the balances of iterated biosystems, arguing in vain that disrupting balanced chaotic equations can only lead to more chaos, that ripples on the surface of the lake are actually physical representations of violently destructive reactions.

The butterfly wing that causes the hurricane.
The lady or the tiger. The red pill or the blue.

I think the truth is that we all live a little like spiders, knowing instinctively where to step as not to upset or get stuck in our own convoluted webs of silk. Not that we have all the answers, but that inside of our worlds everything finds a place. The webs all have similar shapes and intents -- but each one is a snowflake, each one is for better or worse the way we put it together, the way we're used to things being.

Comfort zones can be dangerous things -- but aren't they exactly what we're all searching for? Fighting for? Hiding inside? Missing when they're gone? Defending even when they aren't the healthiest things in our lives?

What if I do live kinda like a bum? What if the most important things in my life revolve around bowling with Walter and Donny, and even if it's the result of doing as little as I possibly can, I just want to keep it that way?

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show when you are there.."

The problem is, it's not like that. I'm not like that at all. I have dreams and ambitions. Whether I like to admit it or not, all to frequently I'm a slave to my wants and desires. I crave the attention. I'll put my hand in the flame.

I don’t need to sell my soul, he's already in me.

But the fact I don't always like to admit, the heat from the ground that keeps the water (or the acid, depending on your point of view) from ever reaching my tongue is that I want all these things to happen somewhere in my own web. I'm all about jumping the insect and sucking the marrow from it's vitality, but if I could have it my way it would all happen somewhere within the strands I've woven around me, inside the places I know where to step.

It's a problem.

But you know what's worse? Here I am, close the edge, essentially fumbling with the bra clasps of what could be a major epiphany -- and after all these explorations and metaphors the only thing I can suddenly think of is..

How long has it been since I last saw Krull? That was a pretty good movie.

[Listening to:   Bloodsimple – "Cruel World" ]