Gentle Rain

Wakes me from a sound sleep. On the sofa. The windows are open and there's a ceiling fan. The house smells of fried onion and kimchee. Rolling thunder and distant flares. I fumble for my shoes, so I can go out and feel the rain. Everything is slick, so I just pee off the deck and huddle back inside, just what I need is to slip and fall. When I get back inside, with a drink and a smoke, a fucking Luna Moth is banging against the window closest to my writing light and I have to go deal with that. I have a Big Lots butterfly net, made in China, $1, that I use to relocate errant moths. If they return, I eat them, stuffed with goat-cheese and shallots. Moth wings are a lot like potato chips. A little sea-salt and Dijon mustard. I'm so attuned to my own rhythms, that I don't pay a lot of attention to the other measures. It's the rain that woke me, that patter on the roof. I was in a fine dream-state, a friendly bear, blackberries and yogurt, and suddenly I'm trying to relocate not just a Luna Moth, but an intrusion. A violation. First hot day in a while, and when I turn on the AC for Black Dell, it thrashes a bit then dies. No more writing in the daytime until I can find another little window unit for cheap. I just have to keep the area around my desk at 80 degrees or below, and that doesn't seem too much to ask. For years I did this with freezer packs and a small fan, but now I'm perfectly willing to pay a few dollars for creature comfort. After a good trip outdoors, any trip is a good trip if it fills a shelf in the dehydrator, I strip off my clothes, pour a gallon of rain-water over my head, soap up (I have a life-time supply of motel soap), then rinse off with another couple of pours, clean light cotton clothes (Dockers and a sleeveless tee), and I'm ready to go. I'd thought about going to town, listening to music, seeing other people, but I blew it off, heated some left-overs, and settled in with an Elmore Leonard western. The power fails and I'm reading by headlamp, distant thunder and flashes far off to the south. It's easy to imagine anything, curled on the sofa, reading a western, with a headlamp, and the thunder rolling outside. When the rain starts again, I stop thinking, turn off the lights, and take a nap. Bare poles and a drag should keep you downwind. I'll run for a while, in the easy direction, because it's simple, and I can ignore almost everything, but eventually you come to rest. Even in these early books it's the dialog that drives the narrative. Later, it's just conversation that supplies every nuance of information.