Dancer

Dear J-

it’s been a soggy week for us and I’ve gotten to ride in the rain the past few days. Eventually you come to the conclusion that you’re not going to dry off as fast as you might have thought so you might as well suck it up and find your way back up and out. There is a saturation limit, in other words. In the last twenty-four hours there has been almost two inches of rain (I checked the precipitation totals at SFO, which is a pretty good match to our home weather) and you’re not going to get much more soaked than that. Today would probably be a great day to get home and change my wiper blades in this respite between storms.

Or maybe this is an eye of sorts; it’s the kind of thing that you could swear wasn’t supposed to happen (rain, pausing before exclaiming hey, I thought I had more than that) in the great scheme of things, but if anyone could predict the future that clearly they’d be lottery winners, not weather forecasters. Everything seems to keep sliding away, just out of reach, just out of sight. That’s the nature of rain, carrying away our sins and secrets while laying others bare for all to see. We are editors and heroes of our tightly scripted narratives, but expediency declares not all of these plot lines will survive in honesty.

Every working day I take a train roughly twenty miles each way, passing through (how many?) twelve stations and typically sit in the bottom level of the Bombardier car, with room for fifteen, though typically on a full day we’re only seating six or seven at a time in the mornings, given that there’s room to spread out. Of all the lives I may have contact with in the course of a day I’m not convinced I want to be forever inflicting myself upon them: mind you , it’s nothing they’ve done but more a constant low-grade paranoia: are these thrift store wool shirts smelly when they’re wet? dry? How about my feet? Should I have washed that? Doubts multiply in the dark; life marches steadily.

Mike

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