dipso

it wasn't that he had bad dreams.

like that's the way to start something by saying what it wasn't but it doesn't matter since that's how it goes. he was starting to have trouble discerning between what happened in memory and what happened in dream. this is probably due to the fact that he drinks way too much. this is because he does not know what else to do.

this is probably untrue but it doesn't matter since that's how it goes.

"The Drinker's Dictionary," by Benjamin Franklin.

Nothing more like a Fool than a drunken Man.
Poor Richard.

'Tis an old Remark, that Vice always endeavours to assume the Appearance of Virtue: Thus Covetousness calls itself Prudence; Prodigality would be thought Generosity; and so of others. This perhaps arises hence, that Mankind naturally and universally approve Virtue in their Hearts, and detest Vice; and therefore, whenever thro' Temptation they fall into a Practice of the latter, they would if possible conceal it from themselves as well as others, under some other Name than that which properly belongs to it.

But DRUNKENNESS is a very unfortunate Vice in this respect. It bears no kind of Similitude with any sort of Virtue, from which it might possibly borrow a Name; and is therefore reduc'd to the wretched Necessity of being express'd by distant round-about Phrases, and of perpetually varying those Phrases, as often as they come to be well understood to signify plainly that A MAN IS DRUNK.

Tho' every one may possibly recollect a Dozen at least of the Expressions us'd on this Occasion, yet I think no one who has not much frequented Taverns would imagine the number of them so great as it really is. It may therefore surprize as well as divert the sober Reader, to have the Sight of a new Piece, lately communicated to me, entitled

The DRINKERS DICTIONARY.

A
He is Addled,
He's casting up his Accounts,
He's Afflicted,
He's in his Airs.

B
He's Biggy,
Bewitch'd,
Block and Block,
Boozy,
Bowz'd,
Been at Barbadoes,
Piss'd in the Brook,
Drunk as a Wheel-Barrow,
Burdock'd,
Buskey,
Buzzey,
Has Stole a Manchet out of the Brewer's Basket,
His Head is full of Bees,
Has been in the Bibbing Plot,
Has drank more than he has bled,
He's Bungey,
As Drunk as a Beggar,
He sees the Bears,
He's kiss'd black Betty,
He's had a Thump over the Head with Sampson's Jawbone,
He's Bridgey.

C
He's Cat,
Cagrin'd,
Capable,
Cramp'd,
Cherubimical,
Cherry Merry,
Wamble Crop'd,
Crack'd,
Concern'd,
Half Way to Concord,
Has taken a Chirriping-Glass,
Got Corns in his Head,
A Cup to much,
Coguy,
Copey,
He's heat his Copper,
He's Crocus,
Catch'd,
He cuts his Capers,
He's been in the Cellar,
He's in his Cups,
Non Compos,
Cock'd,
Curv'd,
Cut,
Chipper,
Chickery,
Loaded his Cart,
He's been too free with the Creature,
Sir Richard has taken off his Considering Cap,
He's Chap-fallen,

D
He's Disguiz'd,
He's got a Dish,
Kill'd his Dog,
Took his Drops,
It is a Dark Day with him,
He's a Dead Man,
Has Dipp'd his Bill,
He's Dagg'd,
He's seen the Devil,

E
He's Prince Eugene,
Enter'd,
Wet both Eyes,
Cock Ey'd,
Got the Pole Evil,
Got a brass Eye,
Made an Example,
He's Eat a Toad & half for Breakfast.
In his Element,

F
He's Fishey,
Fox'd,
Fuddled,
Sore Footed,
Frozen,
Well in for't,
Owes no Man a Farthing,
Fears no Man,
Crump Footed,
Been to France,
Flush'd,
Froze his Mouth,
Fetter'd,
Been to a Funeral,
His Flag is out,
Fuzl'd,
Spoke with his Friend,
Been at an Indian Feast.

G
He's Glad,
Groatable,
Gold-headed,
Glaiz'd,
Generous,
Booz'd the Gage,
As Dizzy as a Goose,
Been before George,
Got the Gout,
Had a Kick in the Guts,
Been with Sir John Goa,
Been at Geneva,
Globular,
Got the Glanders.

H
Half and Half,
Hardy,
Top Heavy,
Got by the Head,
Hiddey,
Got on his little Hat,
Hammerish,
Loose in the Hilts,
Knows not the way Home,
Got the Hornson,
Haunted with Evil Spirits,
Has Taken Hippocrates grand Elixir,

I
He's Intoxicated,
Jolly,
Jagg'd,
Jambled,
Going to Jerusalem,
Jocular,
Been to Jerico,
Juicy.

K
He's a King,
Clips the King's English,
Seen the French King,
The King is his Cousin,
Got Kib'd Heels,
Knapt,
Het his Kettle.

L
He's in Liquor,
Lordly,
He makes Indentures with his Leggs,
Well to Live,
Light,
Lappy,
Limber,

M
He sees two Moons,
Merry,
Middling,
Moon-Ey'd,
Muddled,
Seen a Flock of Moons,
Maudlin,
Mountous,
Muddy,
Rais'd his Monuments,
Mellow,

N
He's eat the Cocoa Nut,
Nimptopsical,
Got the Night Mare,

O
He's Oil'd,
Eat Opium,
Smelt of an Onion,
Oxycrocium,
Overset,

P
He drank till he gave up his Half-Penny,
Pidgeon Ey'd,
Pungey,
Priddy,
As good conditioned as a Puppy,
Has scalt his Head Pan,
Been among the Philistines,
In his Prosperity,
He's been among the Philippians,
He's contending with Pharaoh,
Wasted his Paunch,
He's Polite,
Eat a Pudding Bagg,

Q
He's Quarrelsome,

R
He's Rocky,
Raddled,
Rich,
Religious,
Lost his Rudder,
Ragged,
Rais'd,
Been too free with Sir Richard,
Like a Rat in Trouble.

S
He's Stitch'd,
Seafaring,
In the Sudds,
Strong,
Been in the Sun,
As Drunk as David's Sow,
Swampt,
His Skin is full,
He's Steady,
He's Stiff,
He's burnt his Shoulder,
He's got his Top Gallant Sails out,
Seen the yellow Star,
As Stiff as a Ring-bolt,
Half Seas over,
His Shoe pinches him,
Staggerish,
It is Star-light with him,
He carries too much Sail,
Stew'd
Stubb'd,
Soak'd,
Soft,
Been too free with Sir John Strawberry,
He's right before the Wind with all his Studding Sails out,
Has Sold his Senses.

T
He's Top'd,
Tongue-ty'd,
Tann'd,
Tipium Grove,
Double Tongu'd,
Topsy Turvey,
Tipsey,
Has Swallow'd a Tavern Token,
He's Thaw'd,
He's in a Trance,
He's Trammel'd,

V
He makes Virginia Fence,
Valiant,
Got the Indian Vapours,

W
The Malt is above the Water,
He's Wise,
He's Wet,
He's been to the Salt Water,
He's Water-soaken,
He's very Weary,
Out of the Way.

The Phrases in this Dictionary are not (like most of our Terms of Art) borrow'd from Foreign Languages, neither are they collected from the Writings of the Learned in our own, but gather'd wholly from the modern Tavern-Conversation of Tiplers. I do not doubt but that there are many more in use; and I was even tempted to add a new one my self under the Letter B, to wit, Brutify'd: But upon Consideration, I fear'd being guilty of Injustice to the Brute Creation, if I represented Drunkenness as a beastly Vice, since, 'tis well-known, that the Brutes are in general a very sober sort of People.

The Pennsylvania Gazette, January 13, 1736/7

so drunk.

and yet, somehow, even with that 11th hour pack of smokes i bought, i managed not to overdraw myself & even ended up with $3 to my name.

ditched three separate sets of people in my errant drunkenness. told 'em i was just going outside to smoke a butt, when in reality i was actually leaving without saying goodbye.

what'd we used to call that?

oh, right:

ghosting.

memorial day with sun, then clouds

there's always a space between me & the thing. a safety zone. i am, right now, at risk of further mythologizing that space.

for once, i will have noticed it & not picked it to threads with analysis.

yesterday: big out-door gathering. had nothing to do but sit, drink beer, and smoke butts. clouds antagonized those wearing sunglasses around four in the afternoon. i don't know; i took my watch off when i realized i didn't want to be aware of the time. the sun drowned in their gray swaddling, and sank futilely into the horizon without our being aware of it. the hours culminated in a drunken bike-ride home.

new bar, located on the fringe of the old port, nestled into a strange little culvert. iron bars on the windows. an eleven-page beer list, spanning the globe when it came to their country of origin. had a calvados from the UK. some dry, spicy sopressata and gorgonzola. some olives, both moroccan dry-cured (not my favourite) & provencal. some exceptionally sour cornichon pickles. excellent music, not too loud. i'm keeping it a secret. it's my new plan. less of the downtown lounge, and more of having a beer or three at ______. seems i can get drunk in a variety of interesting ways with a variety of interesting drinks. next up: the Cantillon "cuvee de champion," which is a lambic. it will be nice to learn about new things.

in the between-time, there are many things i need to do.

also: there is a mourning-dove outside my window, tucked somewhere in the eaves. there is no word to describe the weird ululations that come out of them, nor the pulsating rhythm to which they perform.

sui generis

S stayed after E went to E, and for awhile we yelled at one another over the music. she was drinking Guinness. i was drinking a lot. it's very easy to lose her voice to the din, a lot like my friend ryan, who speaks so softly so as almost not to be heard. ryan has chosen not to smoke marijuana as of late, due to an increasing paranoia while high. he has also taken to drinking vodka with tonic as opposed to beers upon beers. i have, as of late, taken to drinking shots of whatever with my beers. doctor macgillicuddy's. i've been staying away from whiskey. edging away.

last night (dare i return to it), a shock to the system in the form of old friends. i am a different person, i feel, than i used to be, yet i am standing on the rickety stilts of the past. sometimes the ground gives way beneath me. i wish i'd handled it better: instead, i had a strange panic attack. later, after they'd left the restaurant, i felt that old blackness settle on the insides of me, that disappointment. having reviewed my actions of the past hour, i was sickened with myself. i kept telling the story to everyone i knew who cared enough to listen, as if trying to explain to myself my actions, trying to rationalize that i'd freaked out and basically hid from them the whole time they were there.

Q: What were you hiding from?

A: a lot of things, actually. i didn't want to talk to them. didn't want to engage them in any kind of conversation. didn't want to have to, didn't want them to.

Q: Why not?

A: well. old patterns, i guess.

Q: What do you mean?

A: it wasn't them - it was him. i could've handled it had it just been the two of them, but he was there too. -- and, he said "good to see you," said this master of the genuine, said the honest, flawless trickster.

Q: So what is it about him that scared you -- or sent you into panic mode?

A: unresolved conflict, maybe? but everything is always unresolved. you lose someone, it's not like you can tie your relationship with them up neatly or succinctly.

Q: What do you mean by "lose" someone?

A: i've gone through a lot of social circles. i've known a lot of people. and i've fucked up in every single one of them in a major, awful way, and ended up crashing out of their orbit like an asteroid. those are the people you don't generally get back.

Q: Sounds to me like he wanted to be your friend. He said it was good to see you.

A: and he's not the kind of guy who would have said it and not meant it. or at least, that's who he purports himself to be. maybe he didn't mean it.

Q: Sounds like he did. And didn't she text message you before they even showed up?

A: yes - but she asked me what days i had off. i assumed she, and she alone, wanted to hang out. -- you know, i kind of feel like i was invaded. i feel like they deliberately came to the restaurant, probably high as shit, thought it would be funny, and thought i'd be fine with it. well, i sure showed them it wasn't. i wasn't.

Q: You did? By hiding from them?

A: yes.

Q: It's possible they didn't even notice. Maybe they just thought you were doing work elsewhere in the restaurant.

A: i was conspicuously absent.

Q: Are you sure?

A: well, no. i felt i was.

Q: They don't know that.

A: this settles nothing.

>>>

so after last call, S and ryan and i went to johnny's house. she got too high and i walked her home. may have come off a little creepy. i'm developmentally challenged. sorry. man-child.

days like today, in the backlash of last night, with an empty stomach and no goal in the windshield, make me kind of miserable inside. but the sun is so warm - !

i am wearing my watch again. it makes me feel like a different person.

the apocalypse came, and i did not have a good knife.

dreams of a violent, jerky nature. the scene is dark. a piney scent musks the night. we are underground, a small and determined troop of mole-like men and women, clawing at the walls with our tools. the hole we have found and dug gapes open like a wound in the earth, sagging inward, seeming to moan. it will draw the attention of the Others, being pinned by the white light of the moon as it is.

the ones of us who were desperate before the end are now determined. the ones who seemed to lag slightly behind, or who existed in a different place than the others, are now the leaders. johnny forges ahead with determination. he has a good knife.

confusing transitions tumble the scene into a store, where everyone spreads out, looking for their own personal weapons. it is deserted. fluorescent tubes dangle from the ceiling like stalactites. i am looking for a good knife. i find some kind of gas-powered burner that flares up unexpectedly high when i turn it on. ryan is there, in the corner, pale face hovering as if disembodied in the flashlight's halo. he has found a small pack of arrows, and explains he can craft his own bow. he will shoot the birds down from the trees, he tells me.

i can't find what i'm looking for & now i'm the last one left in the dusty cave. turns out the whole thing was a mirage. or a hallucination. someone has slipped me a palm of some orange, powdery drug, which i refused, but it was on my palm when i wiped my face, and now i don't know if i'm tripping or not.

i remember ryan aiming his arrows at the trees. small sparrows falling to the earth - dull grey thuds. i remember johnny hewing at a tree with a small hatchet, having little effect, but straining to cut it down anyway.

>>

the back of my left hand: smeared with faded ink. a stanza of something that came while at the bar. shots & beers, shots & beers. meaningless conversations with big-cheeked girl whose hair was darkened artificially. all in black, with a black leather jacket. i imagined cherries. fuzzy white dice. red stilettos. she smiled and took a shot with us, chatted about something i couldn't hear over the pounding music, and left to dance with the guy at the juke.

i couldn't get drunk fast enough, and so missed my chance, but - in all fairness - spared my wallet.

then, talking with johnny crazyeyes at his house. taking knife hits of weed, standing around the stove as the coils turned neon. discovering that it's obvious to him that i talk about myself, and that's what i tend to do. he defends it for me, saying that it's simply a result of how i've learned to deal with shit. once again, i am further convinced that the negative opinion i hold of myself is true. corroboration, verification.

abruptly, just pausing to think about it, i am vertiginously sad, plunged down deep inside of myself. then the struggle back up the throat, to drymouth harbor, and back outside of myself again. i am told i look 'angry' when i walk down the street. i defend it with 'listening to music' or 'thinking about something'. generally awkward when confronted with it.

back on the caffeine train, too: seems that once you pop, you don't stop. red bull barges its way back into my life. the toreador is gored. same on other fronts, too. like i never even made any progress.

momentary assessments: my stomach is empty. my right eye is dry. my breath is shallow. my heartbeat is rapid. my mouth is dry.

it is windy, today.

mud. crows.

last night: muddy in unexpected places.

frustration at two disparate social situations, leading to a hasty exit from both, predictably more intoxicated than before i entered. also predictably more frustrated. the night was unwinding far faster than i thought it would, with a rare and unexpected turn directly after work, away from the bar. so suddenly, of course, it was much later than i thought it was.

then, of course, in a desperate effort to get a grasp on the slippery rope of time, i ended up with two red bulls in my stomach. a wire coiled, uncoiled, inside of me. i clenched my fists, intermittently. there was a party: people stood on the patio, shadowed by the fog that had rolled in early. the dim spark and suckling sound from a bowl being passed around. the muted clink of beer bottles against one another: secret victories unknown to me.

the eventual departure, the walk back. not chilly. the air, damp, near-prickly to the skin. the declaration of the all-nighter, fueled by more of the same, whatever we could get, devolving into, lapsing into silence. this, followed by my announcement of departure. questioned querulously, but my resolve was firm. and so, the weird walk home, at four in the morning.

>>

this morning, on my walk to where i am now, i saw a crow astride the crumbling corner of a brick building. i kept my eye on it and it kept its eye on me, even as i passed and walked backward down the sidewalk.

felt like if i looked away first, i'd be in some trouble.

dis orientation

hard cider: a sweet compromise between beer & wine.

i began with cider at about three in the afternoon, out on the front stoop, reading "harry, revised." pretty much ensconced in mark sarvas' story, i failed to notice that my roommate had returned, and had somehow found a seat for the spare bike hanging up by the back door. that, with lock & key, meant mental diversion. as much as i wanted to know exactly what was going to happen to the unlucky Harry as possible, the sun was extraordinarily warm, and there was enough of a breeze to make me long for the outdoors, for the whip of wind shearing over my face. my chance came with an invitation to go meet E's friends: S & C, nearby. so i stowed the book in my bag along with some other things, and off we went.

portland is a small town. and when i say small, i mean, it's a tiny weird curve of a peninsula, a fingernail clipping, in the atlantic. it is crowned by the east end, munjoy hill, which drops off at the eastern promenade, a street of large, Victorian houses with pillars & huge windows. beyond the promenade (and the small, sandy beach) are the islands, extending for miles: rocky clusters that, from above, look like pieces of the ocean have been torn out of the world.

all of that was to illustrate the fact that we biked about five minutes, maybe less. two? it would have taken ten to fifteen a pied. the exhilaration of the rabbit overtaking the tortoise. so, of course, sped by this new frenzy of motion, i ride home after a cider, try to read a bit more, but am consumed by new distractions. now, i can feel the alcoholic buzz creeping like electric moss over the surface of my brain. on the bike ride, the cuff of my pants was snagged in the frame of the bike. i was ill-dressed for such activity. i needed to change clothes. but what? then my train of thought completely derailed, and with a sigh, set down "harry, revised" again. it took a few minutes to decide, based on this new criteria, what to wear, and as soon as i was dressed, i was tugged out the door, back to the street. i was so tugged that i walked quicker throughout the house, although my steps inside are always sort of rapid and flat-footed.

the dismount is going to be a problem, i can tell. i like everything i do to appear practiced and smooth, even if i myself am not eighty-two percent of the time. i struggle with the bike, unfamiliar with it. i realize as i am unlocking it from the wall of the house something, a little darkling in my brain, about the way i treat things, which communicates into how i treat other people. i realize my discomfort - or at least, cautious hesitance when it comes to this bike, this thing that operates in a way i am familiar with and knowledgeable about, but if it broke, i would have no idea how to fix and it would become another rusty thing left behind somewhere in the trail of apartments. either that, or wait for E to be able to fix it, which means relying on someone else -

the dismount is going to be a problem. i stutter to a halt, applying brake pressure with my left hand, and ramp up onto the curb, tilting a bit to the right, and stepping down. then, i swing off of the bike, right leg rigid and awkward. this is something i am going to need to practice doing. i have very poor balance as it is. when the bike slows down, i find that the front tire wobbles, that i become very bad at steering. i do not ride with confidence: i am unaware of traffic patterns beyond the markings on the road and the lights in front of me.

so: hard cider. then a little whiskey, a red bull, beer .. none of these things are things i should have done last night, due to winter still being stuck in my craw - and quite literally, i do sound hoarse, i am congested and strange-sounding coughs scrape out of my throat. i am finding that my thoughts tend toward the why of alcohol lately. last night, i enjoyed the vague blur that occurred. events, people, conversations, drinks, cigarettes, all phased into one another, bled from bar to bar. i was able to converse (or at least, perceived that i could) comfortably, relaxedly.

eventually, 1AM came around, and i turned into a bit of pickled pumpkin. M. was one of the bars - the darkest one, with the dim pulses of red and blue, with the frizzy-haired bartender who always sees me at my drunkest. M. was dancing on the floor, white shirt unbuttoned halfway down. though he appeared intoxicated, his eyes remained steady. i found it very easy to pick him out on the dance floor, though the alcohol in my system had reached a boiling point. i needed to chill out.

i could hear the sound of tiny things, cracking, in my ears.

a few cheap beers later, i stumbled up the hill to the bike, where i'd left it locked on a NO RIGHT TURN sign. surprisingly, somehow, lit a kretek cigarette (bummed from - or donated to me by - B) pressed play on my iPod and shot off down the empty streets. i became exhilarated. took the long way home. circled around the block, around the deserted playground. sped around the west end until i became disoriented, chose a street that looked promising and sped off down that one. i'd chosen the wrong one, of course, and was headed in the opposite direction of home - although it doesn't matter. everywhere goes everywhere in portland. you can't really get too lost. just keep going, and you'll either see the ocean, the park, the highway, or congress street.

maybe that's why i chose this city to become a drunkard in. you can't really get lost. there's no real danger. you can ride your bike down the streets at two in the morning and there's no one to say different. you can ride your bike drunk down the streets at two in the morning. as long as you watch out for the shiny gloss of police cars gliding their way by, like weird white eels in the inky night.

supposed to rain today. i am watching the clouds roll in.

Oarsman

this morning i woke up and decided to (at least in these pages) take responsibility for (at least some of) my actions, my thoughts, my life. the amorphous, vague "us," "we," and "you" will be seen only when appropriate.

last night, the chill melting around the edges, encounters with Ruth, encounters with others. Leah on the piano at Empire, before i knew it was her, but almost-guessed, even with the drink flooding my veins & making a traffic jam around my heart - her voice, something i didn't suspect but maybe should have. she has notes tattooed on her. the bar was almost empty, and so few patrons clung to the edges of it, all silent, listening to her play. we were loud on the way in, but i stopped short just past the doors, staring at the organized loops of her blonde dreadlocks. was it the music that raked the coals inside of me, or was it her? was it a sublime convection of the two? could i have been so affected by one, but not the other? later, she came by the table and said hello - there, in her regular speaking voice, was the singing i'd heard, but had somehow missed before. she was kind, quiet, and reserved. Ruth, a little less drunk than i was, raked her fingers through my hair & down my spine. she observed, "you need some creature comforts."

all week i have been thinking about fucking. so of course even in my altered state, wandering like i do haplessly around someone else's house (i live here, but somehow i don't allow myself to) i pick up henry & june by anais nin. i storm through it and trip over the unsatisfactory ending somewhere around ten in the morning. all week i have the images in my head: the girl i saw on the street in the saggy, shapeless knit hat & the frayed jeans. the cautious look on her face as she crossed State, as she passed behind that mammoth tribute to Longfellow, as she

i make up lies. in that last paragraph, the girl was an amalgam of a few i have seen, a few that i know. both girls that used to work at the secondhand record & vintage clothing store beneath my last apartment. one with flashing, startling blue eyes & the other with a kindly, near-grandmotherly face. both different animals, somehow the same sex ... the same pulse, beneath their white skin.

but then, it's the brazen girls that i love, the outspoken. the ones which conduct themselves in a hortatory manner, which leave themselves for frantic, Delphic moments, and then come back to themselves. i love the two-faced, the grimaced, the angry, the insouciant, the dispossessed, the crazed, the hurt, the willful & the wanton. i want them to hurt me so that i do not have to feel the guilt of wanting to hurt them in the first place.

about nin: her book was so full of peregrinations concerning 'hurt.'

i feel that i could not write, cannot write, because i cannot be honest with myself. even here, i am lying, i am deceitful, i look for fragrant ways to cloak the distinct odor of my true self, the piss, the banality, the shit. i am ashamed of who i am. i detest who i am.

Ruth's fingers are strong and knead out the knots in my back. i wonder who i am to everyone else if i don't know who i am to myself. she comments that i have a lot of knots. i tell her i keep my stress in my back. i have heard someone say this before. i do not know if it is true of me.

there is one more thing: i would name him if i could, but i cannot, so i seek other ways to reference him. "a guy" fits awkwardly. "a boy" makes me seem like a girl due to the polarity. "a man," which he is not, although moreso on first glance than i, and then i fall short. i spent a drunken amble through the aisle of lust, making eye contact with him. he enjoys kayaking, and sea kayaking most of all. these adventures are thrilling to me. i am thrilled by the passing dream of playing a comfortable role, the newcomer, the beginner, being taught, instructed, educated by him, learning how to work the paddles (the oars?), watching his fingers and strong hands conquer the water around him. i would like to be that image, i think to myself - i would like to own strong hands, i would like to be a man. but somehow i am not. in all my thinness, in all my exacerbated eccentricity, i have disgusted myself, i have fallen short of my standards.

i would like to see him again. i feel as though he could be a friend, a comforter, a solace i could go to. i do not know how i know this. perhaps i am wrong. i can also feel a chilly distance possible in him. i can see in him a determination that is marred with laziness, perhaps confusion, perhaps loneliness. i can see in him that he is bored with this city and its people. i can see him living quietly in the pines of a big mountain with a big sky. i am willing to bet he has hurt people before, and carries it around inside of him like broken eggs, unwilling to relinquish the shells.

meanwhile, the delusion continues, but only around the edges, lapping at me like dark, hungry waves. i can hear it rumbling as an empty stomach would, or a faraway storm threatening as it inches closer...