Oh perfect day. I woke up to the wet street sounds and the ping of raindrops on my sleeping air conditioner. I love the rain. And today is a gentle rain, umbrella optional, hoodie required.
I have always approached Boston rain in the same fashion: hoodie up, walkman on. Today I'm listening to Wheat's Hope and Adams, which I've been listening to a lot, even though the third track makes me cry. It's a perfect rainyday soundtrack.
I've been going to the Someday Café every day before work for an hour or so to sit and write. In the past I rarely afforded myself the luxury of cafe mornings -- maybe not since high school. I love the enormous windows and the view of all the people who are shoving each other to get into the subway. At night the little white lights in the trees in Davis Square go on and complete the view.
But this morning it's dark and dripping, and they're playing Radiohead, and the slamming of the espresso maker is comforting.
The past few days have been slow motion, living in each second, not sure of the next. I flip between skim and plod, sometimes hacking my way through the day and sometimes slowly gliding. I feel underwater.
I finally got an office at work and I sit at my desk with the lights off, playing CDs in the dark and sinking into the words on my computer screen. When I leave that warm little womb and pass into the rest of the fluorescent-lit office I blink and shirk, stunned.
I'm finding comfort in warm darkness. A little sensory deprivation. Walking down Billingham this morning, a tree had dropped most of its leaves on the sidewalk, and I shuffled through them, smiling. I could smell their dampness -- it's almost fall. Fair Isle sweaters and cemeteries and sleeping with the windows open. Running along the bike path in the early morning chill with the crunch of leaves under footfalls. Sky blue cotton scarves and rustcolored hair. Apple bread.
I'm greasing up the pumpkin carvers.
Enjoy the rain, my friends. It's a flawless August gift.
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