storm in my house

Maybe it's some last vestiges of picket fence American dreams when I've wanted a place of my own, when I see for sale signs for little 1920s urban cottages in my neighborhood with stained glass windows or century old Victorian-era rowhouse townhomes with slate roofs and wild roses growing up the porch within walking distance of the water in Lakewood, knowing that with no credit history (no credit cards, no debt, no car payment), and little income, this would be almost impossible, and I'm not the world's greatest maintainer of things. Keeping an apartment clean and the garden weeded is hard enough, and I live alone. I really don't need all that space and hassle and wouldn't want to have my life and money tied up in something that seems to be more of an albatross than equity at this point in history.

So I went into the kitchen this morning, and realized that not only is it raining outside, it's dripping in my kitchen. A plastic bucket and some pots and pans on top of the fridge, going up to the attic to find the source, which looks like piles of insulation and boards of dubious stability. I'll leave this to the experts and my landlord, and head to the empty house I grew up in to do laundry and drink coffee. Plans of seeing Scrawl tonight look like they'll be derailed by both inclement weather and family functionals. It won't be so bad.

blues and greys

A phone call from a fellow DJ in need of a fillin means I'm playing reggae and world music here at the station and looking out the window at the swirl of blues and greys over the stark silhouettes of factory smokestacks and church spires. I wish I was out there with the camera but instead I'm providing West African guitar intricacies and apocalyptic roots reggae for the masses as the sky darkens and the rain begins again.

mention something, mention anything

A cup of coffee sans snark of family members or fellow peons, errands run, doing the Typical White Person in Gentrified Area Activity of drinking fragrant and rich caffeine in a classy local establishment after buying homemade bread and a cucumber at the farmer's market, wondering if sarcasm is an adequate counterweight to the inevitable caricature as I notice quite a few Priuses with stickers that read "I Heart Yoga." My old station wagon had a Fugazi sticker and such, but somebody stole the FU part of it off while it was resting in the Rapid station parking lot.

The garden is yielding more squash and herbs than one skinny girl can consume, next year I'll make room for more peppers and the like, the sun has returned, and these afternoons of basking have elicited yet more wrinkles in the mirror this morning. I don't fear gray streaks and crows feet like some women, but to watch the process engrave in my skin is strange.

The rain and sun are welcome, though the storm plus unshut windows put in jeopardy my admittedly hodgepodge stereo equipment yesterday (what's up first world problems!) and attempts to beat the storm were late on my part, standing under the Towering Slab watching the lightning strike across the street as streams of water flowed down the streets, shedding shoes to move drenched and barefoot down sidewalks and across streets thankfully not getting hit by errant drivers under the shelter of the fellow peon's umbrella and a plastic bag, driving through the streets of Clevelandia exultant in the cleansing power of water and lightning and rocking out to the dulcet sounds of Faith No More, enjoying the traffic jam because of the pyrotechnics of the sky, sculpting clay, sharing dinner with good people, reading until sleep comes, the sense of anticipation is beautiful.

cleansing

As the temperature dropped, we came to conclusions brought on by asking questions and sometimes it just clicks, we could feel the breeze come through the front door and we went outside to see the wind and the heat lightning above the houses across the street. Windchimes and car alarms set off by vibrations and noise, airplanes circling looking to land, the thunder rumbling but never shattering, the rain misty as we split a bottle of porter three ways and ate chips and salsa, watching the rain intensify and the lightning bounce from one end to another.

My dad and I used to pull up lawn chairs in the garage, drink Coca-Cola out of a two-liter bottle and listen to classic rock as the storms rolled in. I called him to wish him a happy birthday and that I thought of him and he says he remembers those times and he thought of me too.

When the rain steadies and the lightning ceases to be interesting, we don't need to say anything and can watch, the planes descend and I'm ready to sleep, hoping for more nights like these.