I WILL THE RAIN

Tuesday evening: I stand at the bedroom window, close enough to touch it with my toes, almost darkness. I see the miasma of rain illuminated by the buildings’ lights against the dark clouds. The distant ones hidden, the closer ones in sharp relief. I will the rain to come. To come to me. To pour down, to flood, to pelt the windows, to pelt the ground, to rend the air. I will Thor’s hammer to make the thunder loud, to shake the building. I will the lightening close, to stand my hair on end, to throw the room into brightness, bare unapologetic flash of light in an almost darkness. But only for an instant, and then to let darkness fill the space again. Create a softness in the torrent, this place where I stand.

I long for the power of it. The change from dark to light and back again, from quiet to incessant staccato on my windows, from dry to wet in puddles and rivulets and streams. Change, a change, any change, a thing to ponder, to take me away, to be swept away; to be Zen-whacked-on-the-side-of-the-head —command my attention; let me know that I am alive. I will it. And it is so.

But it is correlation, not causation that makes it so. Still, I smile. I breathe deep. Rain is life for me tonight. I am the rain.

More than life itself I want to be alive and well on the other side of this pandemic. That thought makes me cautious; me, a risk taker—reaching for the heart of life, living off its beat. At the edge, on the edge, edge of a great happiness, a sublime contentment.

Wednesday afternoon: The rain comes. I dare it. Come to me. The wind blows horizontal carrying on its slant, great waves of rain. Heavy and dense in the air, driving across my window. I want it to wake me, to sear my senses, to provide clarity of mind, to ignite with a fire that which is sleeping. Fire in the rain. I want the thunder to come from inside my ears. I want to feel the air rend with the pulse of lightening electric. Desire, satiation. Below the surface wait.

This is the driving rain that I wanted yesterday, when it came down heavy but straight to the ground. Ragged scud clouds sweep overhead, yet the horizon is white with sunlit fluffy clouds, a Dutch master’s painting. A pause in susurration. It returns on cue from the lightening, with huge drops. And there it is, the crack electric—sight and sound simultaneously. I contract towards my center, know myself at the cellular level. I am alive.

Thursday morning: It rained in the night, waking me around 2am to go to my window and watch the lightening in the darkness. The rain called me. I answered.

This morning I see the rain in the distance, to the east. It is coming. I do not call it, I acknowledge its coming. The buildings of downtown and along Sukhumvit seem small, the colors of the day are muted. It will rain. I will wait.

But it does not rain. It gets sunny, the air clears, the sky is almost beyond blue. Part of the city in cloud shadow, part in full sun. So be it.

Friday: It rained early this morning. I woke at 7:30 to go to the window and watch. Then back to bed.

The rain is coming. Coming from the southeast. Coming at 5pm. Buildings being cloaked in a grey-white mist as it comes. I neither will it nor invite. I watch. I watch its progress. The color of the rain matches the color of the sky. It may pass me by, to the south, down along Sukhumvit and Rama 9.

The rain subsides. The buildings reappear. I subside. I reappear.

Saturday noon: I hear the thunder. I get up from my desk. Standing, I press the side of my head against the glass pane, 32nd floor view. I see the rain in the distance. It is the color translucent. I am removed. I cannot deny that the pandemic is having a psychological impact. I cannot deny the loneliness, the pockets of profound loneliness in the solitude. Solitude—space-time I nurture in my life; a-lone-ness, not lonely. Sometimes I feel I will crack. Sometimes I think r d laing was right, insanity is a normal response to the situations of the world. I am lonely. The rain my companion. A conversation with myself.

It rains. I open the windows as far as I can. I strip. I stand, naked on my balcony, 32nd floor view. Wash me away. But it does not. Though the balcony is wet I remain dry. The rain. Stopped.

Sunday morning: It rains. I see it coming but not in time to leave before it arrives; I chose to remain. I wait it out. Go, I say, go, be done with this raining. And it does. And I go too.

Monday morning: It is sunny out. The crispness of the morning is delightful. It is sunny all day. What a joy the rain is. I await its return.

text early-August 2020, images late September, 2020 | if you click on the image it will get bigger