Weather Report
Rick Neece

Note in the Mid-western section of his map, an Eastlake antique spins clockwise, centering a system building in the vicinity of its crewel seat. Note this crewel seat was his -- was made his -- was given him -- for his having shown some small ability -- in as much as regards what some might call his talent, or what may be more rightly called his having spent enough time in -- or enough money on -- lessons in rotely fingering the vertebraic chromium tube he parallelly presses to the north of his chin. He mnemonically tongues his teeth and spits, into a mouthpiece south of his embouchure, a bit of melodic front -- some whorley humid music the jist of which may be someday stitched to the quilt of history. This hymnotic noise, this sampler, this pressured airish issue's metronomically irregular and timed by toes tapped to inward thundery rumbles.
The key? He's needled toward the east by an inspirational form of tornado -- a whispering kindred; a voracious and twisted potential he's called Sister -- situated to his west and one half-step above him on some chromatically latitudinal scale. The twist? The front's back's an alternative -- the same universe inverted, with most of the cordings, nearly all the whippy thread-tips, neatly knotted -- tied down. Note the difference in this scale reversed is not worth noting, or if worthy of notation the difference in this scale reversed is only notable for its minor directional change.
Sister still spins above, but now wound counter-clockwise her spooky descant howls soundlessly from the East and prevails on him -- urging him toward some westerly address we cannot, at present, hope to tell about. Tahoe maybe? The Great Salt? Here's our problem meteorologically speaking: What can we know of the patterns of shifting wind sections? At best we piece them together. On area lakes we've advisories out. We'll list them in a moment.
Back on the front we find his breeze's threadbare medley unspools with near precision -- and though it's Sister's counting's incommensurate, we see it's he who's called -- caught in the Maestro's eye. The Maestro calls tempo into question. The Maestro questions breath control. The Maestro's breath conveys control, and asks him how he gets around without his counselings. "Class," he says, "Our little mister doesn't count without our counselings." The Maestro tempers the building maelstrom by phrasing this cruel blanket statement: "Class," he says, "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Everybody take five." And now a word from our sponsor.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lAzy dog. The quick Brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quiCk brown fox jumps over the lazy Dog. ThE quick brown Fox jumps over the lazy doG. THe quIck brown fox Jumps over the lazy dog. The quicK brown fox jumps over the Lazy dog. The quick brown fox juMps over the lazy dog. The quick browN fox jumps Over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumPs over the lazy dog. The Quick bRown fox jumpS over The lazy dog. The qUick brown fox jumps oVer the lazy dog. The quick broWn foX jumps over the lazY dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the laZy dog.

Back on the map, we see lines are stitched, and between the lines are spaces. The Maestro talked of lines and spaces. What everything our little mister knew of spaces, he learned from Maestro at an earlier time. Maestro had one time told him, "Two things lie in the spaces." And what the Maestro had said at that time was this: "In the spaces of the lower staff lie: All Cows Eat Grass, and in the spaces if the upper staff lie F-A-C-E." In other words another time, about the lines, the Maestro had said, "On the lines of the upper staff there is, Every Good Boy Does Fine," and later then about other lines, "On the lower staff, Good Boys Do Fine Always." And in the lines of the lower staff there was something our little mister might have hung a note on: It always somehow seemed other boys were good boys, and good boys were always somewhere else.
Given the unstable state of this atmosphere, in the darkening clouds and rising wind, our little mister looks back to see that even young or old, there is something he knows now and something he knew. For instance, consider the time factor of speech and remembrance as compared with lightning and thunder and the spaces between them. With the space between lightning and thunder there is a matter of perspective. At the place where a lightning strikes, thunder is immediate. At the place where lightning is seen from afaroff, that thunder has a space. There is a space between -- a silence, and with the silence, warning? If a flash is seen, and following then silence is heard, then after the silence, thunder. It's somewhere. And with another flash, then following shorter silence, thunder. It's closer. Let's take another quick break, and when we come back, the forecast.

THE quick browN fox jumps over the lAzy dog. The quIck brOwN fox jumps over the lAzy dog. the quick brown fox jumps over the Lazy dog. the quick broWn fox jumps ovEr the lAzy dog. THE quick bRown fox jumpS ovER the lazy dog. the quick brown fox jumps oVer the lazy dog. the quICk brown fox jumps ovEr tHe lAzy dog. the quick brown fox jumpS over the lazy dog. the quIck brown fox jumpS over the lazy dog. the quick brown fox jumpS over the lazy dog. the qUick brown fox jumps ovEr the lazy Dog. the quick broWn fox jumps over the lazy dog. the quIck browN fox jumps over the lazy Dog. the quick brown Fox jumps over the lAzy Dog. the quick brown fox jumps oVer the lazy dog. the quIck brown fox jumpS OveR the lazy dog. the quIck brown fox jumps ovEr the lazy dog. the quick brown fox jumpS over the lazy dog. the quick brown FOx jumps oveR THE lazy dog. the quick brown FOx jumps over the Lazy dog the quick brown fox jumps over the Lazy dOg the quick broWn fox jumps over the lazy dog. the quIck browN fox jumps over the lazy doG. the quick brown fox jumps over the lAzy dog. the quick bRown fox jumps ovEr the lAzy dog. the quick brown fox jumps over the LAzy dog. the quicK brown fox jumps ovEr the lazy dog. the quick brown fox jumpS over the lazy dOg. the quick browN fox jumps over The lAzy dog. the quick bRown fox jumps over the lazy dog. the quIck brOwn fox jumps ovER the lazy dog. the quIck brown fox jumps ovEr the lazy dog. tHe qUick bROwN fox jumpS over the lazy dog. the qUick brown fox jumPs ovER the lazy dog. the quIck brOwn fox jumps oveR the lAzy dog. the quick browN fox jumps over the lazy Dog. the quick brown fox juMps over the lazy dog. the quICk brown fox jumps over tHe lazy dog. the quIck brown fox jumps over the lazy doG. the quick brown fox jumps over the lAzy dog. the quick browN the quick brown fox jumpS over The lAzY dog. The qUick browN fox jumps ovEr the lazy Dog. the quick brown FOx jumps oveR the lazy dog. the quick brown Fox jUmps oveR THE lazy dog. the quick bRown fox jUmPs over the lazy Dog. the quick brown fox jumps over the lAzy dog. ThE quick brown fox jumpS over the lazy dog.

And we're back. Let's remember where it is little mister sits. Shame swirls, rising above his chair. He blows, tentatively, and he feels a heat next to him. It is Sister's warming front. Then comes another feeling. A feeling of looking from the future and being looked upon, and in that moment a bit of knowing, and perhaps seeing himself as from that future, and knowing he is looking at himself, and seeing himself with a perspective of years. Seeing there, him blowing. And seeing there, him stopping and looking to his West. And seeing there in his Westward gaze, the wild heated glare of Sister staring. And as he looks, she speaks. And as she speaks, she glares. And as she glares, she spits, "Stop blowing on my leg, you little queer."
So here, finally, the forecast: Years from this past moment, in a house filled with framed crewel adages and Eastlake antiques, with years to append his abilities of hindsight, he sits with a bit more knowledge and wonders: how did she know before he?

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