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Jun. 27th, 2011 06:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyOkay, so picture the word clammy.
Only you've got to say it right, not clammy, not with a kind of a bend in the middle, 'cos that implies some kinda rigidity to it. You've got to say it slower, sticky, make the tongue come out all big over the 'l' so the 'me' at the end is almost like you're just trying to swallow it back down again, like one of those freaky frog tongues on nature shows.
A little less decisive than a bare foot peeling off lino, a little less fricative than a sweaty shirt brushing past your ears as you finally get to close the door and peel it off. Clammy's the shirt still stuck to your skin with the sweat you did no honest thing to earn but live, and maybe breathe a little, the air sticking to the sides of your throat like a badly made soup with the oil separating out of it.
Clammy's good for nothing, won't stand for other people, hates anything that feels any better than a glassful of ice water (but nothing feels any better than a glassful of ice water). Clammy's no time for beginnings or endings; clammy's stuck securely in the middle of the story where there's nothing much to do save sweat and listen to the crickets sing.
That was what the weather was like, when all of everything started and the better part of it went to shit.
Clammy.
Only you've got to say it right, not clammy, not with a kind of a bend in the middle, 'cos that implies some kinda rigidity to it. You've got to say it slower, sticky, make the tongue come out all big over the 'l' so the 'me' at the end is almost like you're just trying to swallow it back down again, like one of those freaky frog tongues on nature shows.
A little less decisive than a bare foot peeling off lino, a little less fricative than a sweaty shirt brushing past your ears as you finally get to close the door and peel it off. Clammy's the shirt still stuck to your skin with the sweat you did no honest thing to earn but live, and maybe breathe a little, the air sticking to the sides of your throat like a badly made soup with the oil separating out of it.
Clammy's good for nothing, won't stand for other people, hates anything that feels any better than a glassful of ice water (but nothing feels any better than a glassful of ice water). Clammy's no time for beginnings or endings; clammy's stuck securely in the middle of the story where there's nothing much to do save sweat and listen to the crickets sing.
That was what the weather was like, when all of everything started and the better part of it went to shit.
Clammy.
