Dark Storm

Biblical. Glad I chose to stay home. Last night and then again today, wave after wave of rain, at times an inch an hour. Power out most of the day, finally on after five in the afternoon and the sun breaks out, the cicadas set up. Basho:

a temple bell too
seems to be ringing:
cicada's cry


Hardest rain in years, rolling thunder, sheet lightening, the ridgetop shaking. At 10 AM and again at 2:30 PM I have to light a lamp to read. D calls from the museum, says we've taken on 6 inches of water in the basement, wonders if I have a driveway. I don't know, and don't feel like walking through the tree-rain to find out right now. Tomorrow is soon enough. Read Louise Erdrich's new novel today, "A Plague Of Doves", excellent, her language and her characters, wonderful writing. I'd like to visit her bookstore in Minneapolis, Birchbark Books. Eating tinned or jarred food all day, strange diet. A can of pork and beans, a can of tuna, lots of crackers and cheese, a small jar of artichoke hearts, spoons of peanut butter, bread with a very good marmalade (lime and grapefruit), and several apples, in slices, sprinkled with salt. There were a few moments, mid-afternoon, when it seemed dangerous to be here. Once I walked over to the back door, half-glass, and just as I got there a huge lightening strike on the next ridge to the west blinded me for a moment, and the sound right on top, flash, beat, sound. Just enough time to realize you're not dead or dreaming, and the percussion, from such a close event, is enough to shake the walls. Printed this, because another cell passing, but I judge it south enough to not blow the power again. I need to write. It's when all of me comes together. I mean I can be a nearly normal person in most situations, talk about almost anything, but I feel most complete when I'm writing. This might not be healthy and I don't care. I enjoy it. I take my enjoyment, now, where I can. Fucking Basho, man:

no moon, no blossoms,
just drinking sake
all alone