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.