It has been one of those weekends: rain most of the time, and when not raining, windy, chilly and overcast. Something about these weekends makes me slip into a comfortable melancholy. I got out the deck of funk flashcards and drilled myself: What am I doing? What have I done? Even worse, what haven’t I done? Where am I going? Am I enough? Am I happy? What is happiness? How come everyone else is happy but me?
Sounds pathetic, but while it is, it isn’t meant to be. The words in my head sound matter-of-fact. Seems like a waste of time, and it is that, too. Instead, I should write more. The ideas come, but I don’t grab them and shove them in here, or at least onto paper. Instead, I allow myself to work on other things, to get distracted by the technical aspect of maintaining a blog and then never writing in it, of collecting notebooks, none of which get filled. I did some fun things, tho, and I was surrounded all weekend by people I love, and who love me. Smoo was in rare form Friday and Saturday, D an I worked on her room today, mom is chipper and full of March madness (or at least neuroses), and Josh is a dear. They are what make the funk comfortable. And, to be honest, the funk itself was comfortable in a way, but in that way that I am not supposed to nurture. Ah, well.
It is raining outside, and the sound of it on the softened, rotting plywood sounds like it used to when Jeff and I would sleep out back in our tent. It was waterproof enough… that is until you touched the side — just to make sure it wasn’t leaking, mind — and the pressure of your fingers offered just enough [unknown physics word] to cause a droplet to seep through and down your arm. The lesson there? Enjoy the rain. Get as close to it as you need to, but don’t disturb the thin sheet that keeps you from soaking.