I awoke to the sound of the rain hitting the window, and I welcome the change. It’s been warm, it’s been cold, but it had been dry on both occasions on my recent days off. Now, it is raining and it is pleasing. I think of the rain that used to fall hard on my humdrum town, as someone once important to me sang. But I started the day repeating the words written by their former musical partner about the opposite effect that rain had on them as I went walking in the rain just to get wet on purpose.
It only rained enough to cover the ground, and to have a series of drips nestle in my unruly hair, like a bird in amongst its mismatched branches. But it took the sting and the oppression out of the atmosphere.
I think about the times I have wasted a good rain by not being out in it. There are things you can do in rain, and things you can’t. Taking pictures, for one. Electronics tend not to like rain, nor does it look good on the lens. And then there’s writing, as paper also tends not to like water. I mean, unless it’s watercolour paper then then it absolutely needs it and only comes to life once there are waters on the page. But this is a journal for writing, not for paints. It’s been a long time since I’ve had one for paints.
I have two journals currently in use, for different reasons. One fits in the pocket, and the other doesn’t. I’ve ripped pages from one, and not from the other. Surely it’s a crime to rip pages from your own journal? Perhaps.
Walking in the rain is a cleanser for my soul, I tell myself as I step further on the wet grass, my pair of converse conversely getting the underside of my soles dirty. I’ve walked in deeper waters, and stepped in unforgiving puddles, once the back of my flares scooping up water and dumping it down the back of my heel.
The rain stops, just as it was getting interesting and a silence descends before the birds realise they can fly once more without getting wet. I hear those birds, revitalised by the absence of the rain. I approach the bench, pulling out my bigger journal, the one that pulls the fabric of my jacket and stretches the fibers of my being. I sit down, the length of my coat providing just enough padding under me from the dampness of the wooden bench, and I cross my feet, heel under ankle and open the book.
But what to write about? What was my prompt? I had an interlude through some pictures and many unfinished drafts late last night, and it seemed apt to write about one about a window next to a bed. I don’t know where I saved the image from, but I hadn’t written anything about it. Yet. It was a blank slate, an empty bed to lie in and write on. The open window, open to nature and the elements, all from the safety and solitude of a bed. Open, to life. The screen on the window, catching wayward droplets blown inwards, congregating on the square mesh, gaining traction as they collect and become unstoppable on their way to the window sill, where they will merge with the others.
I scratch the underside of my fingers with the embossed manufacturer’s name which is on the pen. It catches, ever so slightly, a microscopic lip of skin, withered and weathered by the changes in temperature, being pulled by an equally miniscule bit of ink. I rub it until it no longer catches, either my skin has been worn away, or the ink on the pen has sandpapered out. Which of us is mightier, I ask it, knowing full well how fragile I am. I breathe in, but I caught my body unawares how deep I planned to inhale and I feel a pop in my throat. Was it oxygen? Has my Adam’s apple cracked? A mystery cracking noise. How exciting. Add it to the list of noises my body makes. Can’t wait for my anxiety to remind me about this one.
There is no-one here, and I watch as more leaves fall on the ground, rustled and wrestled by a confident wind, but there are no benches near that tree, otherwise I would sit under it and feel the leaves and the droplets fight for who gets to land on me, being blessed by nature. The pines have dropped from the trees near me, bursting with the most vibrant red ochre or burnt sienna colours.
As I walk over, I pop open the three buttons keeping my jacket closed and crouch down, putting my hand into the pines. It is wet, but it is nature, and it is nice. I hear a scuff on concrete from behind me, and my armpits decide that they too, would like to get like nature and be wet. I turn my head and formulate a plan. I nod and rub my palm, opening my journal and scribbling “fuck” into it as they pass by, looking at me. I meet their judging gaze. “Morning?” they say with a question mark. “Morning” I reply, without one. I hope that they aren’t inquisitive enough to ask what I am doing having put my hand in the ground. I don’t want to pretend to be a forensic detective, nor do I have any laminated or shiny badge to back up that word. “Everything good?” they ask, a glint of fear in their line of questioning. “Just getting in touch with nature.” They continue their walk and I stay, putting my knee into the ground and taking a picture of the colours, for I will always have a weakness for complex beauty of reds in nature.
Balcony coffee 