storms

All night long the sky flashed and the rain hit upon my upturned window. You’d think I’d get up and close it. You’d think.

I had maybe two dozen bursts of sleep, but each fizzled as the sky crashed outside. Like intermittent love, this was torture that messed with you in the worst way: just when you thought all was good, all was calm, the noise and fury would shake you up again. And again. And there was nothing you could do but hope that this was the last time.

By morning, I wanted to call my friend up in St. Paul and tell her to stay home and not visit as planned. This was an act of kindness on my part, since I want to see her. But a drive down in this hateful weather? Too much.

But she had left already, crawling her way through downpours and cloudbursts and every conceivable Midwestern form of rain.

My occasional traveling companion Ed called for an assist – his little red-with-a-washed-out-pink-stripe ‘93 Geo (which some would regard as too good for the junk pile, but he would see as the best form of locomotion this side of the Atlantic) refused to start.

Storms outside disturb the balance within and thus for some asinine reason I found it absolutely necessary to use this moment to list for Ed all improvements we should be making in our lives, over and beyond helping each other jumpstart cars. Amen.

Surely fighting words.

Needless to say, the attempt to inspire us onto paths of greatness failed, which only goes to show that stormy days and nights rarely provide opportunities for enlightened thought and reasoned discourse. They won’t even let you run through a full cycle of sleep, for God’s sake.

Once Ed’s car was up and running, I waved a less than cheerful good bye and made my way to Whole Foods. It is destined to be a one photo kind of day and so I'm leaving you with the best of the day thus far: wet organic basil, standing bravely on wet crates.