When words are all we have...

Coming home this evening, I looked to the north. The clouds were an astounding mix of lavender and grey surrounding the thrust of the tower of the cement factory, so stark, etched against the evening. Slightly west, still cloudy, the sky shone white hot against the grey, none of the reds of sunset here, just light. Hot white light to burn the eyes and soul in a body.

The day has been long. Productive but numbing in its infinite shifts and stumbles. Two auditions, one a talent I want to hire; the other someone so filled with her own brilliance she cannot perform; hadn't even the nous to correct herself with an "I'm sorry, I'll read that again" when fracturing a sentence beyond understanding. I have three more applications in: two men and one more woman but I'll deal with them on Monday.

Next week is already full. Interviews for Monday /Tuesday/ Wednesday afternoons. People calling and asking to be part of my show. And in between I need to pull a hundred songs and watch at least two films to do the reviews. And I need to record and produce another six hurricane hints. The show for tomorrow night is ready. Running order set, the features all pulled together and edited. Ahead of the game.

The new announcer will go solo tomorrow - without me there to hold her hand. I will be asleep. Dreaming sultry dreams of treasures deeply buried in my subconscious waiting to be routed into day. Or not dreaming at all. Tossing in a tangle of overheated sheets and pale green mesh that clings to sweat damp limbs like ivy, like fresh mown grass. The night is still, is hot and even moving just my fingers here, sweat pearls and slicks me down with salt, shorn hair doing its utmost to tendril on my nape. Perhaps I should let it grow and curl itself about and see just how draining total silver will be against my skin. I'll think on it - at least two weeks before I will feel the urge to rake it back down to my skull again.

I thirst. And hate the bland non-taste of water in my mouth. I yearn for spice, for tang and texture, not just thirst but hunger a need almost, for...what? I ate a meal, adequate if uninspired, drank tea, drank water, ate some cheese and still I feel an empty wantingness within. Or would that be a wanting emptiness? Semantics breed a world of trouble for us, words misused, misunderstood, destroy the world piecemeal. They could be the cement that makes us strong, cohesive, clinging one unto the other cleaving close, comfort in our grasp at last. Poor humans. Let's look north and see the clouds. There is such beauty in their grey-tinged lavender. I can almost smell its clean perfume.