rain and stories
Apr. 17th, 2006 10:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iridiumi'm back in the yellow room, up high where the sun reaches in like god's own sharp pointy stick to wake me up in the morning. my body had forgotten the heat, the tangible weight of it here, the way it slows words and walking and waking. i walked back along the road by the harbor this afternoon, watching the egrets in the marsh, the oysters and jewel-green moss, leaning into the river-breeze to lift a little of the weight of the sun. i forgot that people honk or yell out their car windows here, at me. it's...disconcerting.
today i took my Waltzing Matilda to the mechanic, went through all of my frets and worries, pointing out oil-spray and divots on hoses. they say they've looked her over briefly, and will give more thorough attention tomorrow morning. they say it'll be no problem to have her fixed by the end of the week. i'm keeping my fingers crossed.
and tonight, the evening quiet, it rained. the sky was a soft, deep red-purple, and wet palmetto fronds shone with cold reflections of streetlight lamps, and the heavy drops fell fast and thick, pushing warm rain-washed air up off the pavement. i was talking to a friend on the phone, so i didn't go out walking in it, but i sat on the porch swing and watched the Charleston rainstorm pass, the sudden torrent with low thunder far off in the distance.
stories, for telling later:
Jim Riley, a man of many talents who also happens to be a barber. his story of cross-country travelling, a stolen car, three dozen .357 magnums and five thousand dollars, what you do when you leave Denver for South Carolina and the morning sun rises in your passenger-side window, and all of this in 1969; conversations on life and work and how to live happy. driving, dewberries, open fires by the road -- one, people outside a church lighting candles for an Easter vigil, and the other, people out with a grill on a creek-bridge, most likely frog-gigging in the dark. following headlights through a tunnel of trees. a large herd of small deer. Evergreen and Mobile, Alabama, family and roots and the stories that come with it. the advice my grandmother's father gave her when she went away to school. small town stories. crawfish sushi and other decadence. happiness is a cold snowcone. more thoughts on Matilda, on family, on med school and the future.
and now is time for sleeping. tomorrow i'm up early to go to the hospital with my dad. if i remember right, he's got two cases in the morning with a friend who's an ENT doc, and blocks in the afternoon. should be very interesting...
today i took my Waltzing Matilda to the mechanic, went through all of my frets and worries, pointing out oil-spray and divots on hoses. they say they've looked her over briefly, and will give more thorough attention tomorrow morning. they say it'll be no problem to have her fixed by the end of the week. i'm keeping my fingers crossed.
and tonight, the evening quiet, it rained. the sky was a soft, deep red-purple, and wet palmetto fronds shone with cold reflections of streetlight lamps, and the heavy drops fell fast and thick, pushing warm rain-washed air up off the pavement. i was talking to a friend on the phone, so i didn't go out walking in it, but i sat on the porch swing and watched the Charleston rainstorm pass, the sudden torrent with low thunder far off in the distance.
stories, for telling later:
Jim Riley, a man of many talents who also happens to be a barber. his story of cross-country travelling, a stolen car, three dozen .357 magnums and five thousand dollars, what you do when you leave Denver for South Carolina and the morning sun rises in your passenger-side window, and all of this in 1969; conversations on life and work and how to live happy. driving, dewberries, open fires by the road -- one, people outside a church lighting candles for an Easter vigil, and the other, people out with a grill on a creek-bridge, most likely frog-gigging in the dark. following headlights through a tunnel of trees. a large herd of small deer. Evergreen and Mobile, Alabama, family and roots and the stories that come with it. the advice my grandmother's father gave her when she went away to school. small town stories. crawfish sushi and other decadence. happiness is a cold snowcone. more thoughts on Matilda, on family, on med school and the future.
and now is time for sleeping. tomorrow i'm up early to go to the hospital with my dad. if i remember right, he's got two cases in the morning with a friend who's an ENT doc, and blocks in the afternoon. should be very interesting...
