This is an excerpt from my new journal. I write as to a friend….because I like having someone nearly sentient to write to. And this is like writing to myself. Except I am strangely taciturn and silent in response. Ah well.
This is how I wish my world was right now.
The weather, for many a day and night, has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman’s axe can make no crash or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires, where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a back-ground for the falling rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock’s own windows is alternately a lead-colored view, and a view in India ink. The vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall, drip, drip, drip, upon the broad flagged pavement, called, from old time, the Ghost’s Walk, all night. ~Bleak House
You see, it is depressingly hot this season. Nearing the second longest run of 100+ days on record. I guess we should feel proud…but somehow that’s exceptionally difficult. As a body of air conditioning dwellers, we stay indoors watching telly or reading or writing, as I am, and fancying days of cool rain and high winds and shaking treetops and lots of raindrop snakes on windows to watch as they eat each other.
No fanciful daydreams of long bike rides or walks in the park and whatnot. Just lots of ice cream and getting by degrees too cold and too hot.