Saturday, June 3rd, 2006 • 2 Comments on Contemplating the Rain on a Saturday Afternoon
The rain has been falling steadily since this morning, watering the parched flowers and rabbit-nibbled vegetables, raising the humidity, frizzing my hair, drenching the poor birds and the lone squirrel who dares try to steal food from the feeder. I fled the quiet, empty house, leaving the dog to guard the cats and my warm bed, knowing I’d only nap and watch old movies on television if I allowed myself to stay home. There is no Puritan work ethic in this soul, but there is a need to shake off the sadness and meet deadlines.
The bookstore cafe is alive with laughter and conversation and the rustle of wet umbrellas and the smell of coffee and the whir of the blender making frappuccinos for high school girls wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing. The old man who is always here watches the young girls and I watch him, loathing him for stealing a bit of their innocence with every snickering leer. I’m sitting by the window, laptop plugged into the only outlet (the other outlet is reserved for a rather ugly and wholly inefficient wall sconce) because I used all of my battery life two hours ago and the writing isn’t done. It’s never done.
Five hours into a work day—it doesn’t matter to a writer/grad student whether it’s Saturday or Wednesday—and my soul is as gloomy as the weather. Chris Isaak is singing in a continuous loop, some familiar songs, some not so. His voice, crooning and melodic, is the perfect accompaniment to the rain. “Somebody’s crying,” he wails, and it’s a song I know and a feeling I know. I write, write, write, casting out the demons like so much birdseed for the mourning doves who can’t escape the self-fulfilling prophecy of their name.
I’ll cry later. Right now I must write.