Thunderstorm good. Thunderstorm: good.
Speaking of windows. I was suddenly at an open window to Takky Park tonight, for a coupla hours. By the old-fashioned means of landline. That window was a window of restful ease and magically thoughtless comfort. A surprise gift, with good timing. Spillover into now? Some, yes, I think, yes. Fading as I fade, deeper into the night, and let go to what darkness comes. It's really too cold for these literal windows to be open, and it's coming down hard out there. The kind of hard rain in which you can catch your death. The air off it is cold with wet-cold cold. Why I don't batton down and take cover, I don't know. Or even put some sleeves on. Under the featherdown should invite. But. It's like Drench me with the air of it, at the very bloody least.
In flurry of texting last night told friend am feeling urges toward the drastic. Not drastic as in offing self. Drastic otherwise, but (otherwise) unclear. I have to do something with this energy. Too much of it is skittering around in whatever feels like me, unable to go where it wants, nowhere else to go. And this great rain and this dark night are too cold for drenching in transformative soul-cleansing saturation, and living to tell the tale.
Maybe what's to do is to let go of living to tell the tale.
That river--- they changed the direction of the river in Chicago. How did they do that? Somebody tell me. In very simply expressed, clear step-by-step steps, adapted for the home version. Somebody tell me a. s. a. friggin' p., already.
'Cept I can't promise I'd do it if I could.
The rolling thunder makes long, long spells of crescendo - decrescendo - crescendo - decrescendo. Rumble. Roil. Cauldron bubble. Trouble trouble. Trouble.