WordPress Discover did me the honor of sharing one of my recent posts yesterday, for which I’m grateful. I’m happy to say Hi! and thanks for reading my work. It means a lot when my words or images connect with people. So, thank you again.
As a number of you’ve just arrived via the portal of a recent Thunderstorm*, I searched through the archives to find other posts that have a similar tone, timbre, or general feeling. Below— a few bits n bobs that may also resonate.
Enjoy! Also, if you like drawings, urban / rural photography, explore the rest of this site.
*It is odd timing that a post I wrote about a thunderstorm gained a wide new audience so shortly after the dreadful Hurricane that has done and continues to do so much damage in Houston. I’m sure the last thing anyone there cares to think about is rain, or storms, for a very long time— my heart and sympathies go to all who’ve been affected there.
Right now, after a very highheat index day (that’s how we talk about hot, humid days now), there’s a thunderstorm happening outside in the dark.
I missed the first hour of it. When I arrived home I took the day’s second shower, and then dinner. The air conditioning has been on, and music— distractions. So I’ve had only the barest awareness of this summer storm.
But the record just ended, and I let it end (though it’s not even really a record, but a stream, a subscription, which is how we talk about music now).
I let it end and the thunder sounds big and powerful, like the things we used to know from stories.
I love the things we used to know from stories, and I want to bring them back. Stories are the reason we ever made it this far— as individuals, and as a species. Stories are powerful, like thunder and lightning.
(A summer storm sounds like the world existing, as it does, with or without us.)
Human history is riddled with cursed repetitions, but goddamnit the unabashed presence of nazi white-supremacists who claim also to be patriotic Americans is as anathema as it is indefensible. It’s been less than 60 years since the Civil Rights movement; less than 80 since WWII— the atrocities of which are tattooed on the flesh, stitched into the fabric of collective memory; survivors of which are still alive to witness this terror, this evil, these cowardly acts of fragile men.
These are not acts of free speech; this is the fomentation of deadly hatred.
This morning I woke to find a black bird walking around in my kitchen. When I walked in, she startled and flew smack into the window a couple of times. I opened a screen for her, but she flew into the living room and affixed herself to a screen before I got another one open to allow her out and free.
As the contractor sealed up the roof yesterday, I wondered how a building can be watertight but not bird-tight.
Her nest, it turned out, had been in the space between the ceiling and the roof, just next to where the collapse occurred, and there was found a small opening beside a drainpipe on the exterior wall. That, too, has now been sealed, and I feel bad that she’ll have to find a new home.
I remember not long ago having a dream in which I found a crow walking around in my kitchen. I think he spoke to me but I must not have written it down, as I’ve found nothing of the sort in my archives. Anyway, the bird this morning reminded me of that, and my search in the archives brought me back to the dream of the crumbling apartment, and the hidden room! (But in this case, a bird’s room.)
I suppose, if I’m going to have the occasional vaguely-prescient dream, I’d do well to start having altogether more delightful dreams.
You guys, let me tell you that life in the Big City is just one crazy adventure after another, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Why, this very afternoon, some crazy, impromptu shit went down! Or rather, came down, I should say.
I was weekend-chillin’ in my apartment when I heard an alarming sound from the kitchen, followed by a second, even more elaborate sound. And like a fine wine, that second sound had a long finish—of pebbles bouncing on the floor, a trailing off kind of sound.
Here are some images from a few months ago that I came across recently. Serene, the bright kind of overcast with a fine mist or drizzle. It’s a lovely thing to wander through neighborhoods I’ve wandered so many times before and see something in a way I never noticed before; or, literally, in new light.
I’ve still been drawing more than writing these days, though it’s not for lack of words. Things are percolating; they’re not ready yet. Day to day concerns and occupations monopolize, and everything less greedy or immediate must wait below decks. Cargo all but forgotten until the bills of lading come out and the crates are hauled up into daylight. Some of what’s below the surface traces back to winter and early spring. The day I shot these was a fine one, but there was so much going through my head and I wanted none of it, was sick of it, so I gave over control to the senses, and found new details in things I’d walked past and even photographed many times before.
I think I’ve not been walking enough lately. Long wanders always help— to quiet the mind; to solve or to resolve, if only for a little while.