With some luck, all of the rain and thunder smacking and moaning and suggesting disasters and the seemingly apparent death of a plant, leave no actual disaster. Fallen and fractured in the rain. Stood up with a gesture, the vase. Death no more. Just wet feet. Just rain. Domestic tragedy avoided. 

How lucky am I, that the wind didn’t blow the bottle into the bedroom (not possible) or off into the crashing shatter that might as well be in the bedroom. Or to have to crawl into the wet blades to finish it, properly.

To avoid the shatter. To want that drink so badly. How lucky am I.

Warm wet socks on feet. In Northern California, these days, we wear them. In June. These days.

And yet, I imagine spiders in the bed as I approach, speak to demons in the head, look at legs and heels on the phone, a terrible scroll, imagine a gothic novel with leaves that bleed. I continue to wonder.

Mornings continue…

In times of rain, in times of rage, I wish for Arizona. It being so much closer than Spain. Spain where I can hang my heart eternally.

But if you are looking for ME. Go to Arizona.

Arizona me. Desert me. The heat and sultry dream that simmers beneath the tectonics. The sun falling like hell and opening up like heaven.