The house is a ship sailing through rain

diary 6

1.

It is raining, but in a way I’ve never experienced before: I am inside the actual cloud.

Clouds are different from fog because they have sort of raggedy edges. They look like whisps of cotton batting rather than a gradient, smudge, or blur.

Because they have edges, you can also see that they’re moving—often moving quite fast.

When you’re inside the cloud, it is raining, but the rain is less of an intrusion, more of an eminence. In the valley, rain falls from above. In the mountains, rain is is-ing. It is itselfing. You are rain. It doesn’t start or stop. It exists.

it’s like living inside a lantern

I am totally divided as to whether I like this or don’t like it. On one hand, there is a tremendous amount of relief in not having to go outside and tromp around in rose-cheeked healthful splendor.

Sometimes, in Southern California, it feels like the sun is an anxious, toxically happy doTerra MLM person. The rain feels like a visit from an old friend, one who likes my sarcastic remarks and wants to make tea and listen to the same Velvet Underground record that has been in the background since college. Rain just listens. It doesn’t tell me to do anything.