rain and picasso
this weather is incredible. we need more words for rain: in the past eight hours or so it has sprinkled, misted. there's been a downpour. it has thundered and done several shades in between each.
there isn't a word for what is going on outside this morning. the same drops of water have been hanging from this branch outside my window for a quarter hour, perched there catching the light of dawn and defying gravity while a cleen light sheet of moisture gently pelts the ground.
this sort of weather makes me want to throw away my umbrella, to stomp in puddles. it reminds me of that oddly safe feeling one got as a child when strapped into the back seat of a yellow subaru, lulled into quiet, secretly enjoying the smell of wet sneakers while you contemplate the thick gray length of nylon seatbelt and absently appreciate the consonants that make the word "buckle" what it is, the sounds of the wipers and the fat raindrops splattering across the windshield as your parents safely navigate sodden roads.
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on a day very much like today my father and i drove to the kimball museum. i was probably eight years old or so. for some reason or other this painting appealed to me. i don't remember too much from my childhood, so the things that stand out stand out.
kind of like this guy's eye, his pipe. what i think is a page of sheet music, or perhaps a book.
there isn't a word for what is going on outside this morning. the same drops of water have been hanging from this branch outside my window for a quarter hour, perched there catching the light of dawn and defying gravity while a cleen light sheet of moisture gently pelts the ground.
this sort of weather makes me want to throw away my umbrella, to stomp in puddles. it reminds me of that oddly safe feeling one got as a child when strapped into the back seat of a yellow subaru, lulled into quiet, secretly enjoying the smell of wet sneakers while you contemplate the thick gray length of nylon seatbelt and absently appreciate the consonants that make the word "buckle" what it is, the sounds of the wipers and the fat raindrops splattering across the windshield as your parents safely navigate sodden roads.
----
on a day very much like today my father and i drove to the kimball museum. i was probably eight years old or so. for some reason or other this painting appealed to me. i don't remember too much from my childhood, so the things that stand out stand out.
kind of like this guy's eye, his pipe. what i think is a page of sheet music, or perhaps a book.
