Listening to Iron and Wine, letting my tea go cold and reading How We Are Hungry, again, while my washing hangs limp and dripping on the line in the dark. Dave Eggers inspires me to write and create and live deliberately. So I put an enormous flower in my cropped, newly clippered hair today, cycled up King St in the rain and sat in a cafe pretending I was a traveller, writing and listening and watching gauzy rain wash the street, having one of those days where everything you see appears as a photograph and you want to run away, become a poet, get on the first plane, join the circus and start an experimental folk band.
I think it’s the rain. Whatever I’m feeling, the rain seems to take it, magnify it and cause it to be beautiful. Even if that’s an absolutely ridiculous and in all probability unsustainable attachment to a person on the other side of what’s been termed ‘a fucking large landmass with an inconvenient diameter’. Bicycle tires make a better sound when your shirt’s getting drenched, staying in bed all day with your lover is infinitely more indulgent if there’s rain lashing the windows, and a reckless mood can be in some way satisfied by spinning circles under a grey sky and jumping in puddles on your way back to the real world after a day spent pretending you’re an artist.
Photo from mimihlvst‘s Rainy Day Women series. Check her out, she’s adorable and talented as fuck.