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2003-04-02 - 3:03 p.m.

There is a special and strange wind that blows from the South and its name is Santa Ana.

A hot wind that disappears the winter chill, lifts girls' skirts, and turns the skin dry as a desert bone.

Dust swirls, eyes water, noses run.

Some say this is an evil wind, a hard wind that changes personality and behavior.

There is a similar wind that blows through the South of France an its name is Mistral.

Legend has it that the Mistral has been used as a successful defense for murder.

Some say it's the positive (or is it the negative?) Ions that cause a temporary form of madness.

But I never feel more sane than when the Santa Ana's visit:

Thoughts are more sharply defined,

Objects come into focus with microscopic clarity.

Tactual awareness likewise comes to the fore and rubbing lotion into my chalked palms has a sensuous, ritualistic immediacy.

The commonplace is no longer so and all things become possible.

Sitting in my courtyard like a king upon his throne, the Wind whips high through the palms but I sit calmly in the eye.

A seed, the size of your clitoris, falls, drops, and plops silently next to me on the blood red cement creating the perfect existentialist Newtonian lightbulb over the head moment.

When the sun becomes too hot, I slip shirt off into the long shade like a dip into the cool Pacific.

Floating in the shadows, a breeze tickles my bare skin like a lover's breath, nipples get hard.

The air wafts sweet with the smell of herb . . . .

Time stretches.

My depression lifts and drops, disappearing like a pebble into the Dead Sea.

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