It’s an extremely windy day. The sun in blazing and the sky is as blue as the azure waters off the coast of St. Croix. I’m at the Patio Cigar Lounge (Open 24/7). The cigar you see me smoking is almost making me sick. It’s beyond full-bodied. But the flavor is too rambunctious for me to let it go. I feel in a daze. Stupefied with sensory overload.
Even the wind can’t break through this cigar’s bodacious bouquet. It swirls back to me mixing with nature. A robin is bathing and splashing cooling water sprinkles everywhere. No towel needed. I study the bird. It possesses the air of insouciance. What else is there to do?
Looking at two turtles in a photo I was sent, gives me more to ponder. Are they so slow due to the small legs? Or the heavy shell?
This cigar is making me nauseated. I need to toss it. But I don’t. There is that distinct flavor that I want to explore. What? Tree bark? Licorice? Powdered black pepper? Blackstrap molasses? All oozing out of each draw. A critic’s nightmare. It has a toothy wrapper. Each Lilliputian bump carries more of that flavor I want so badly. There’s only one way to get it, smoke the cigar – burst into those nodules of nature. Sacrificial. Do I allow my heart to continue to race? Apparently.
I’m stunned into contemplation.
Why the turtles? Turtle soup is soup or stews made from the flesh of the turtle. The dish exists in some cultures and is viewed as a luxury or delicacy. (Google) Bad thought? Musings. Maybe an ortolan would be a more acceptable delicacy? Barbarism both.
Is this cigar causing me to spin out? I move to another chair. Less sun. Under the swaying umbrella, the shading helps my nausea subside. Just a few more puffs? This is a luxury. Legal. My head is swimming. I drank all my Dew. A volatile mix? Perhaps.
Crow by Blackbird Cigar Company. Dominican. One size. Gran Toro. Closed end. Infinite flavors. My son’s band is practicing in the basement. Gig tonight. An added growling of aural sensations. A silent bash to the head. The Yardbirds (1963) smashed their guitars before The Who (1964). Holy mackerel. I take what’s left and toss it into the bushes.
I have to sit still. The wind continues to pummel the garden. Warm air, which weighs less than cold air, rises. Then cool air moves in and replaces the rising warm air. This movement of air is what makes the wind blow. (Google)
I have to get into the air conditioned house. I pick up my notes that had been held down by an ashtray. Ashes are everywhere.