ph_logs | i heard the thunder [open]

i heard the thunder [open]

Who: Phil and you!
What: May/June open
When: Late April and through May, probably June too
Where: Around town, the skies over the island, the Library, the hot springs
Warning(s): nudity in the hot springs prompt

but i find i got the question wrong [exploring]

A whole town. A whole island. Imagine that.

It's almost overwhelming, honestly, but Phil figures he may as well start big and wide before getting into the real nitty-gritty of it. So once things are slightly settled, once he has the time, he takes off. It won't be so unusual for people to see his silhouette soaring in the sky. If something fascinating catches his attention on the ground, perhaps he'll come down to check it out; his eyes are fit to see detail miles away, so distance is hardly a problem. Perhaps he'll land near you, or you can find him freshly landed someplace else. This is a lot more flying than he's done in years.

i was trying to run away [around town]

And of course, there's the glory of having more than a couple dozen other people to talk to. Phil makes himself a real neighbor's neighbor; he introduces himself to as many people as he can, he chats up anyone who seems free enough, he wanders place to place in the town, invites people to lunch or a drink or what have you. Sometimes he'll just be sitting around, pleased to be people-watching.

but a voice told me to stay [library]

Ah, weather. His old friend.

He's got to brush up. Get back into the swing of it, you know? And he's got to figure out what sort of currents and forces are acting on the meteorology of the island. Phil schleps down to the Library then, and spends long days tracking down research material for the case: he cross-references reports in the newspaper archives, digs up a scientific textbook on the global climate and its impact on the island, and even fishes up a few academic papers of... uh, dubious helpfulness, but it's fine.

Exhaustion catches him more easily these days than it used to. He's not terribly proud of it, but more than once he dozes off him his chair. Then shakes himself awake, then... dozes off again. At least he's not drooling on the books.

put the feeling in a song [hot springs] (cw: nudity, artistic nudity painting the link)

One of the things he'd spotted from above was, of course, the hot springs. There's even some signage nearby, so this is definitely both a public space and safe to take a dip in. Not saltwater, not chlorinated... jeez, it feels like it's been ages since he's been able to take a proper soak without having to take on some shape that got rid of his feathers. It's a relief. A good place to keep in mind if he has a particularly awful flare, too. (Although getting here would be tricky if he's gotten that bad.)

One day or another, Phil stops up there by himself. Undresses. Sighs a long sigh as he rests in the water. Lounging below the water or up on the grass, anyone is free to encounter him (and his shockingly sculpted figure), although he'll certainly hear you coming.

(And of course, do mind the wedding band he's wearing as a necklace.)

wildcard

[ hit me! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's weather. All of it, weather. Among the open pages of meteorology books, old newspaper reports, and maps, Phil has sheets of notes on the local science with dutiful notation of where he's gotten all of his information. On the table there's a map with the elevation topography of Marrow Island, and Phil has copied it onto his paper, with arrows and circles pointing to various scattered points both on land and in the sea. A label nearby reads, ?? tower locations ?? - talk to Tarantulas. Above that, bold and double-underlined, radio - talk to Cecil.

Cecil, of course, knows that there are no towers in these places. Especially not at the top of the Bluffs. He'd have seen them by now.

"Huh, I've made that awfully convenient, haven't I?" He points to his name and offers an easy smile. "Radio? Talk to me?"

Phil jolts. Apparently he’d been half-asleep.

He whips around to meet Cecil’s eyes immediately, and it’s another two seconds before his brain catches up with the rest of him.

“… Oh! Cecil? You’re Cecil. Hi. Uh—“ He runs a hand through his hair, “—people kept telling me to talk to you. Hi. Phil Connors. I’m a weatherman. I do the weather.”

"Oh?" The first is a startle response, eyes going big and round, all of him drawing up like a Studio Ghibli character that's just tasted something sour unexpectedly.

"Ohhh." The second, the sound of processing. He wrangles his demeanor, and his demeanour, gaze flicking down-up Phil rapidly, taking in as much of the man and his situation as possible in the span of one mid-series joke post.

"Oh." The third is revelation in all it's glory, quiet and profound. He licks his lips, aware that on the third 'oh', one generally has more to say, but there's a large part of him that's still sort of reeling at the fact that people are directing a Real Weather-Man to him of all people.

"Um. When you say you do the Weather--no, wait, you had a lowercase weather. Um, what do you mean, precisely?"

“Oh, uh.” Give him a moment to continue getting his brains together like a wind has scattered all the pages of his 300-page report that he needs on the boss’ desk five minutes ago.

“I’m—I’m a forecaster. I forecast. I mean, I predict, I don’t actually make any weather.” Faintly, he recalls another old employer asking if he could. “And uh, I know unpredictable stuff happens here out of nowhere all the time, but I’m sure it’s got to help sometimes. It’s not like you have just, hah, the same cycle of clouds on a conveyor belt or a fake wind that always blows in one direction or, or don’t even have atmospheric pressure as a concept. Right?”

If he sounds a little hysterical, it’s because he is.

"Well, there's the barrier, which is experienced as horrible fog and storms that doesn't conform to standard atmospheric conditions. And there's people with abilities that...um. Sorry. But, yes, the. Yes. A meteorologist would be capable of the work of meteorology, most of the time."

There's sheepishness, hesitation, and perhaps even a measure of guilt Cecil's got going on here, but the basic news he is delivering is good news, right?

"And if one wanted to make public the results of such work, say in the newspaper or on the radio, I would generally be the right person to speak to. Also, Celestine's going to love you. She probably already does, deeply. Like, you're going to be her blorbo, or maybe her scrungly."

“What’s a ‘scrungly?’”

"Imagine a very young, very fluffy kitten, one that's in the bumper-car cat stage, where the tail sticks up like the little flag at the back. And then it falls into its water ball and becomes a miserable sodden mess of fur and too-large eyes. That is a scrungly."

"................. And I'm a scrungly?"

That's not disbelief there, that's genuine ponderment.

"To a goddess of the skies, patron of those who look up at them in wonder? Oh, definitely."

Cecil's aware he's also a scrungly, from where Celestine sits, so.

There's an awful lot of CPU processing going towards drawing the lines between "sopping wet miserable cat" and "him" and "beloved to a sky goddess."

... Mostly he just hopes this doesn't activate any divine cuteness aggression response.

"And I'm also a 'blorbo?'"

"Someone whose activities she'll take interest in. A favorite. A parasocial beloved. The one you rest your chin in your hands and watch with heart eyes. Not to be confused with a 'bouba'."

"And I'm not a bouba."

Cecil glances at Phil's hands. "Not physically, at least. Metaphysically...well, that'll take more time to discern. Just be glad that's the linguistic experiment in question and we're not labeling you a wug."

“You know that I’m just going to keep asking you about these things.”

He’s gotta Know, see.

“Have you ever watched The Partridge Family?”

This is relevant, really it is.

“It ran a little before my time, but I caught some of the reruns growing up, sure.”

"A wug is a little bird drawing that looks a lot like the birds from the intro animation for the show. It's used by linguists to test grasp of how to form plurals in children. 'This is one wug. This is another wug. There are two...'"

They've gotten well off the topic of what Phil is, clearly.

And yet Phil has either completely lost the thread or he just cannot bear to tear himself away from Cecil's meandering explanations of wugs and scrunglies and perhaps, even, plinkos. He knows that last one though.

At some point the actual purpose he had of finding Cecil catches up to him. "Oh, uh--not to take your own show away from you, but... forecasting's only half of my job. I'm a broadcaster too, I'm a public speaker. Do you think that I could, you know, ever host something on your show too?" A beat. "Actually, what do you usually broadcast?"

"Traffic, sports, public interest stories, rambling monologues, business openings and closings, portents of doom, The Weather--which is not in no way related to your work, but is not going to interfere with it--and propaganda on behalf of the town government."

Well. At least he's honest.

He'd be surprised if there wasn't, honestly. He's also not sure how Cecil managed to speak in a fashion oddly reminiscent of bold uppercase.

"Yeah, see--that sounds great. I'd be happy to help manage the station and co-host if you ever wanted to shove off some of the work on someone. Or add some more segments, you know."

He bites his tongue from suggesting too much more, not wanting to come off as overeager or controlling and scaring the guy off, no matter how badly Phil wants to get back into the game. He's got the only station in town, after all.

"More segments? What exactly do you have in mind?"

...on the one hand, yes, Cecil is very enthused about the idea of more hands. On the other, he is suddenly being hit with the realization that he is now Station Management, and what that might mean in the long run.

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