Squid Days of Summer

God awful weather here in Maine. Rain. Rain. Rain. I want August to beat me about with its hot weather not for me to have beat it up. Things are rotting in the wet and there is gathering mildew. A rising damp of discontent is about me.

It’s squid weather. Rheumy clouds squirted with clots of ink. Tentacles of rain. And this oppressive, jelly-like nimbus of turbid gunk as if everything that matters is unthinking and pettifogging.

And I should know because yesterday at lunchtime I went cephalopod mollusk fishing. I didn’t catch a one but my friend caught 6. The lure to catch them is brutal, like something the Spanish Inquisition would have used on squid. And they don’t half squirt some ink, more than the magazine I work on.

Amazing creatures, too. So celluloid and toy-like. But tough with their deep-sea monster tentacles. Sad, too, with puppy eyes of green that stare in rebuke when they pulsate with their last breath in a foam of changing colour.

Not that tasty, though — sauteed one with garlic, lemon juice, and pepper. Too rubbery. I blame my Welsh palate: too much faggots, chips, steak and kid, and the occasional curry.

I like being regular in my habits and I try to avoid pointless activity and pointless clutter. But it’s hard. It’s either an electron too much one way or a electron too much t’other. (I think that was Ben Jonson.) But my writing does at least take me to a better place.


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