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2001-08-04 / 9:42 p.m. ~Outside~ Sitting outside, but all I want to do is write. Every sound I hear, every flash of light is words inside my head. It's being written as I experience it and I can do nothing but come back in to write it down. The sound of cicadas singing, constant and hypnotic, rumbling and distant thunder a constant as well. Gladys sits and watches the sky as the light fills it with soft glows every few seconds. A helicopter is flying somewhere nearby, a car alarm is going off, the noise of the cicadas is becoming deafening, and all is sound and light and sensation. Just a brief walk, just to get mail, take out trash, and people are in shadows, people with dogs, a man walking slowly, looking suspicious in my mind, people out amongst the flashes of light, and a breeze so soft it feels like the breath of a lover on my face and neck. A drop or two of rain, but I wonder if it will really rain, or if this is just a tease. Inside, writing, and the electricity goes out and stays out, and what's written is lost. Then another try, and all of it is written again. Rain falls and it was no tease, it's raining hard and the lightning is no longer soft and muted, but harsh and the power surges, and suddenly it's not like it was only moments before. It's violent now, it's dangerous now. An urge to be out there, earlier, camping, staying out there, farther out there, not just in the city. Or maybe on a porch, a big front porch of a big house, on a rocking chair, in the country, someplace where all there is is outside. It's officially a storm now. Entering text into a computer during a thunderstorm is really difficult. Cost of the War in Iraq
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