Wilma thrashes my home of the late sixties, Cozumel, possibly speeding up the impermanence of things as well as kicking my recollections of a simpler past there into endless kaleidoscopic shards. Miguel, donde esta usted? The last few days have congested my angler's muse: lowered skies, rain, a postponed trip to the Bahamas, and a lightening strike last night that set off hundreds of alarms that screamed like tortured electric machine-wolves. Hot coffee, soup, blankets, TV, and a cascade of regressive pleasures are called into duty to ease the pain of waiting for another pinwheel, all amidst wondering and cynically chuckling off the B.S. of an "it's just a cycle" explanation when confronted with numbers of hurricanes never seen before. The chilly pain of knowing these water witches are the werewolf progeny of a warming world. It's okay, then, to linger longer over a ruby-colored glass of Pinot noir and enjoy a pasta dish tucked cozily in the fragant shadows of a new cafe in Hollywood Circle-thats a fine way of playing the watery, gray-skied cards that have been dealt!
Jan
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