Magic Silver Pop-Flash Lightning Storm Show

The post below is a recap of an actual evening's close, not just fantasy fiction - it's about real times spent in my driveway watching the weather.

The ranchito outside of Krum, Tx that is the scene of this evening is up for sale.
I fear I shall see few evenings like this from my driveway in town anytime soon.

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In my driveway, I stand under the traces of rain passed on. I feel wind rush from a high pressure front just rolled by, fading out. Thunderstorms recede miles, miles and more miles away on the prairie horizon.

They race to their next appointment for a hail drop. Quite an ambitious schedule they keep.

Spirits of Chaos revel up in the heavens and silent xeon lamps pop their flash. Might be cannon thunder of the gods but it's to far away to hear, barely felt. Too far away to hear? Yeah but easy to see by an unaided eye.

At night when driving home I've got to turn off the AC. Roll down the windows, and smell that fresh scrubbed air.

Lucky for me, I checked out a Maria Callas CD from the library. Popped that sucker in the CD slot as the silver sliver light show fires up the sky. Laughing, growling and barking I was like a coyote dog, as I drove north along I35.

I get paused at the railroad tracks, by this night train pulling freight, in the crossing way. I breath slow and easy, turn off all but the running lights. And wait for the train to finish rooooolllllling by. Gonna wait a while for a night train blocking the entrance to downtwon cosmopolitan Krum, Tx.

So then I watch the sky show but through trees by the roadside, trees yet to sprout leaves. Rosebuds and azaleas - they are in bloom but strange, these trees appear to have no leaves yet.

Rock-bam-boom, clacka-clacka-doom, train keeps going on, on, on.

As Maria Callas sings sumthin in eye-taliyun about some dying lover's broken heart. I see the show through fingers of tree trunks, smell the blooms, hear... nothing but CD and train. And the sky just rocks with silent ka-BAM on each explosion of finger light.

But they are .... Sssshhhhh - silent explosions. Voiceless ropes of cold silver dropped from sky to ground, jumped from ground to sky.

All I hear is the train at the crossing, and Maria Callas. Doing that classical wail, which is akin to a soul sister wail, just different. An earlier form of soul music, is whut them opery arias is. Nice stuff, opry - whut some folks call an acquired taste.

When not so very far away, sometimes the thunder you know is there by its lightning is just the softest of murmurs. Murmurs like a contented lover lying beside you. Sleeping away the night in a lazy semisnore, semislumber, semiwakeful way.

I hope that lover, she's dreaming down a concoction of storm drama. But safely in her sleepy head, and out the way of our waking lives. Get it all over there and then, darlin' -- all that stuff what German poets called "Sturm Und Drang". Keep that in your dreams and out of our walking, wakened lives.

Maybe that's what's going on up there. In the world of silent faraway storms. Somebody's lover (or everybody's) draining off all the day's disappointments. Sweetening their wakeup on next day of life, by dreaming the sour drama out, at night. Up there. Out of the way.

Silently, or just softly as a murmur. So as to wake up with more of those blues gone, gone gone. Gone into the inky black blue of the night, where them blues belong. Sometime around the 1:30's or the 2:30am's of the night. All done by the Oh Dark Thirty point of time before sunrise.

You'll wake up safer, saner, more ready to just do the day w/o sour drama hurled all over other folk if you dream it out up there. Sonambulent, that's the word for which I've been fumbling around for. Means a sleepwalker, or the likes thereof. Them's that don't dream it off, they's the sleep walking sonambulent types. The ones you avoid at the office water cooler next work day. 'Cause all they want to do is bitch and moan about stuff still stuck in their guts.

Maybe they don't have no one to lie down next to at night. Nobody to pat them on the rear real soft in the night, stroke their hair. Murmur in their ear, say that it's gonna be allright. Whisper to them to sleep it off, do all that drama in their dream times.

You can take it to the limit out there, up into the night storm sky. Let the ink-night write lines of blues way past your ledger pages' edges. Balance your books with chits from the land of who-cares-where, but do the math away from the two of us joined together, please.

Ain't got no witness to their lives, the water cooler people all soured up like that, the unwitnessed. They wake up sour and loaded for bear. Sleep walk through the day, as a thunderstorm that wants to be heard, up close and nasty real.

Rock-bam-boom, clacka-clacka-doom, the water cooler train wreck yet unhappened people keeps going on, on, on with their... "unresolved issues".

At the office, I'm gonna do me a double radar take on my next approach to the water cooler. Though I do feel sorry for such who sleep walk so sour during the daylight. Them what ain't got no night-witness to watch over them as they send it up to be swept away with the next passing storm.

Heck, I'm among 'em, the unwitnessed, I sleep alone now. Did so even beside that gal I married, towards the end of it at least before that train done wrecked all messy and expensivo-mente boy howdy. But now I take care of mine angst or sturm und drang or whatever in my driveway, and during that drive home to my little ranchito. I laugh, I bark like a coyote, I shout out the window at the silent murmuring thunder show. Thank gawd for rough prairie weather.

With the windows rolled down, I take in the ozone long before I wake up and smell the coffee the next day. I get it out of my gut, mind, feelings, right then and there. I wake up no more that half a bubble off level. Which is.... socially functional and thus acceptable and economically reinforced. It's a social duty for us to do this before we go out to meet the world. To get levelled up and all. At least enough to pass morning inspection at the water cooler.

I can hardly wait for the next storm front to blow through. I'll check the library for some of them other opera CDs, maybe something German. I will expand this new acquired taste of mine for arias. Get me some spicey batch of that German "Sturm Und Drang" stuff I heard of. I want to hear that kind of color, as my soundtrack to the next silent thunder-show. If it ain't too burdensome like that German opry with the fat lady holding a spear and wearing a pointy, two-horned helmet.

But if I must wait for that next thunder show to come, then wait I will.
But I won't wait to live while waiting.
That just won't do, nor will I.