Deep in the Ivy.
There's a ruckus outside. A spring thunderstorm is assaulting my roof, bending the winter tired trees, then releasing their wet boughs to whip across my shingles. Whap. Whap. Whap. I'm laying on the sofa, looking 23 feet up to the beam across my vaulted ceiling. I can hear my home's old frame moan, "You're kidding right? I'm too old for this."
It's been a long, stressful week. On top of being sick, getting travel vaccinations which made me feel more sick, having a thunderstorm of sorts at work, and worrying about my upcoming trip to Asia, now I have to deal with the weather mugging my house? Damn.
I pick up the remote, and flip through mindless stations of cable brain rot. Nothing. I grab my iPod and start flipping through the hundreds of artists I keep on tap. Ivy! I forgot I downloaded their new album, "In the Clear". I press play, and just like that I'm fixed. Dominique Durand's voice pours into my ears like warm syrup, and I sink deeper into the couch. I have a long history with Ivy and hearing their sound gives me goosebumps. It jogs a memory about standing by myself at The Point when I first moved here, swaying to the music, checking out the indie kids and thinking that living in Atlanta was going to be alright. Her voice soothed me then and now.
My eyes close, weighted down by the gray shadow of late afternoon. As I fall asleep an effervescent thought bubbles it's way across my inner movie screen. "Dude. Your deep in the ivy." I fall asleep.