Hard rain falling, and you know you need it, water to live, water to soften the sun-baked and cracking soil of your reality. So you rush in, panting, soaked through, clothes clinging to your skin. Hot, summer rain mixing with your sweat. Drops on your glasses playing tricks with the light, distorting the world all around. Standing in a growing puddle on the tile floor just inside the door, you curse the blessing of hard rain in the morning. Soft thunder rolls in from everywhere all around to massage your mind. The saxophone music that shuffled up on the cafe music system fits the weather, as if someone knew. Lightning strikes close, and everyone jumps at the bright flash and the loud boom, but the saxophone doesn't miss a beat. The parking lot outside is an agitated mirror of water, writhing with the impact of every new kamikaze drop. Grey above and below, with wet greens and browns and blacks in between. Cars on the highway ghosted with apparitions from the underworld below.
I don't like to use my windshield wipers when it rains. If you look past the glass to the world outside, it's all still there. It's like driving in a Van Gogh painting. It might be a car or a buffalo, but you should probably not hit it. Slow down a little. Watch the wavy white lines on the road. Turn off the radio and listen to the tapping of the rain on the roof, the hiss of water under the tires. Close your eyes and let go of the wheel. Press down on the gas. Hum in tune with the road wind. Everything will be alright.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
