After months of dry, hot weather, Seattle finally got a good old-fashioned, epic, rage-of-the-gods thunderstorm that went on for six hours straight last Friday afternoon. It was glorious. The sky was all dark and weird and crackling with gloomy electricity, and it poured and poured over all the parched, yellowed landscape, and Seattle felt like my home again.
Maybe it’s just because of the stage I’m in with life right now, but for the last few weeks when I’ve sat down to blog, I’ve just drawn a blank. Life feels like drudgery at the moment, and it’s translating to a lack of imaginative sparks in my mindscape, which is usually rich with material. Then I get jealous of people like Frank effin’ Moraes, who puts up like, eight blog posts a day, while I can barely get in one a week. (Coincidentally, I met Frank’s sister for breakfast this morning. I hadn’t seen her in well over a decade, and it was lovely to re-connect. In a time far away, we were roommates and went to massage school together.) But with the exception of this morning’s outing, I don’t go anywhere except work, and there’s just nothing new happening. I’m civically dis-engaged, so that leaves out writing about politics. I don’t make anything or grow anything, and my rug project has sat unfinished for over a year, despite my high hopes that rug-making would become my “thing” and I would have an online empire by now. But I lack the will to change anything, so if the gods want to rattle the cage of my life, they’re going to have to be the ones to throw down. I’m too apathetic to do it myself.
The thunderstorm was a reminder that cold weather is on its way, and that I have made a pact with myself to read some classics this Winter. There are a number of books I just never got around to reading, and as a writer, it feels irresponsible somehow. I have a going list that includes Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, Of Mice and Men, Brave New World, and the Lord of the Rings series. I want to read them as real books, heavy and leather-bound, while curled up proper-like on the recliner, sipping tea. It’s a nice fantasy, anyway. Hopefully it won’t go the way of my rug empire.
In cat news, Buddy seems to calming down a little bit. It’s fun to have his fiery kitten energy in the house. After he destroyed two expensive cat feather toys, I stuck a wrinkled-up piece of paper into the toe of a knee-high panty hose and let him roll around with that. Hours of pure bliss, and it cost nothing. Which is good, because he decimated it in the course of an evening, and I had to make another one. So my never going anywhere has worked out for the best—plenty of panty hose to spare!