I just took the dog out and it was drizzling. My dog hates the rain. It didn’t seem to bother him tonight. It didn’t bother me either because the drops felt like they disappeared before they hit. It is humid for October and this day is only an exception. I took the mop out at the studio today and lapped up mounds of clay dust but broke a sweat not ten minutes into it. I felt like it was the middle of August.
The rain was indifferent. I could see it and the sky lighting up in fluorescent flashes like a curtain of little Christmas lights along my boulevard. I wasn’t getting wet though. I even held my hand out to feel the raindrops and not one splat on my upturned palm. I wasn’t under an umbrella, but it was just like I was.
I’m a regular guy of special means, but I never got not rained upon when it was raining before. I remember a story from my childhood when it only rained on one half of the street, but this was different. It was like I couldn’t even get wet if I tried.
To be honest, I love getting soaked by thunderstorms. I remember a few when I was with a soft smelling gorgeous woman under a tree, or sitting on a chair on a deck when getting soaked by the thunder and lightning, feeling the waves of water pounding. I had a real good time. Being wet and in love, for even a moment, kept my spirit alive. It fed it with it’s exuberance. I like feeling that way, nature being the catalyst of my hope.
I can just hear the thunder in the distance now, a lingering reminder of a cloud with rain that just passed. It rumbles, this thunder and even rattles the roof shingles. I am aware and alive that there might be another wave coming.
Sure. Someday, another might come, but in the meantime, I better just enjoy the thunder. It might not happen again for quite sometime. In the meantime, I better just enjoy that I am alive. I think everybody should enjoy being alive, most including me.
I don’t much give myself credit or hope. I maintain an existence of life merely to satisfy my desire to see what happens. That’s a cruel existence on account that I should be making what happens. It’s Zen like when you think about it. I prefer not to think about it and not feel the raindrops and get lost. I prefer dry and found and I would never know either if I didn’t experience the sinking feeling of being wet and alone in a city with no place to go.
I always wonder if people are paying attention to the little things as much as I do. I placate my emotions with excuses and explanations as to why the majority of people I encounter don’t feel the diatribes of existence like me. I figure they don’t have the time or resolve to confront the issues. They are more concerned with living and eating and whatever else we all do.
People. We are each a stereotype, a statistic, a variable, a bigot, a racist, an individual, opinionated, lost, hopeful, strong, afraid, spinning, wishing... we are all.
Waiting for the thunderstorm in autumn to get wet. Wanting to smell like wet, colorful leaves and bonus the olfactory of the goods. We’re waiting to pay attention to that. To find it in our everyday lives.
Not on the inside though. On the inside, anyone would rather deny to the outside what we really feel and hurt about. It’s much easier this way. Presenting any inside to the outside is suicide. It is a bane of existence and something we don’t want anyone to know. Not even ourselves. The inside is.
The rain is starting agian.