Who'll stop the rain?

While I normally love the sound, the smell and the whole romanticism of rain - how better to feed the "Tortured Writer" persona, I ask? - June 2009 is really getting to be bullshit.

Question: How many days have been sans sans sunshine so far?
Answer: Too many to count.

Aside from the repeated monsoons of this summer so far, I love how great the weather's been because I do so loathe heat-stroke hot summer weather. I've loved sleeping with my fleece tiger cover since the nights are so comfortably cool.

But it is getting pretty hard to fend off the depression that comes with the territory of multiple dark days.

{I feel like I should take up smoking again as I scribble furiously in my journal like some sort of tragic film-noir heroine.

Or, at the very least, take a Xanax.}

Where the hell am I?

I pride myself on having a pretty savvy inner compass.

I can bark directions to just about anyone as their First Mate in the Passenger's Seat (just as I learned by watching my beloved Mommalah). I can figure out how to get us out of wrong turns easily and I proudly can find my way around Manhattan as viciously as any NYC cabbie.

So what the hell was I doing getting lost on Thursday, not only on my way to an interview, but also on my way home?



I got all sorts of confused going up Interstate 81 and saw my exit pass by on the side of the median I should have been on. Ended up going to Jessup by way of Dickson City, Peckville and whatever other town Main Avenue takes you on.

Finally met interviewee at her house - after calling her twice to find out how to get there because I clearly did not write the directions down properly.

Two hours later, I left her house and proceeded up the road the way I could swear was to 81.

Like a desert oasis, 81 never appeared. Instead, I found myself driving with a nearly empty tank of gas. In a torrential downpour. On a desolate country road.

Finally, like a beacon of hope in the wet sheets pounding on the Bitch pod, a stoplight appeared out of nowhere.

In front of me, was the on ramp to Interstate 84 - the exact opposite of where I should be at this time. I looked left and recognized the remains of Joe's Market, where I used to go grocery shopping with my Pop-Pop as a child. I was damn close to Hamlin.

Sighing, and on the verge of tears, the Bitch pod and I trudged through the horrible storm homeward. The rain was terrible to drive in and if I wasn't so exhausted, ravenous and pissed, I would have pulled over to wait it out.

As I neared Campbell's Ledge, it was the weirdest thing: I drove out of the black storm and into the most beautiful sun I'd ever seen. It was like a welcome wagon.

Finally got on 81 South and breathed a sigh of relief.
To my left, just over DeNaple's Junkyard, was the most gorgeous rainbow - a double one in fact. So brilliantly ROYGBIV against the black background I had just left behind. I could see both ends of it - it was exquisite.
{I was almost tempted to stop to take a photo of its glory, but given the day's past incidents, I opted to not get out of my car until I got home, just in case.}

Near the airport was another double rainbow, and I felt like both of them were put there just for me.

Long shadows and gunpowder eyes.

Blasting Neko Case's "Middle Cyclone."
Despite its "long shadows and gunpowder eyes,"* it makes me happy.
Comforts me.

Just as I'm comforted by this day that is seemingly getting brighter than the dreary morn I woke up to.

The rainy day's drear
slowly drips from the wires
going house to house,
our only connection save
for a curt nod, or nothing.

* A delicious line from my favorite song on the album, "Prison Girls."

Ramblings on rambles on.

Sitting here deliciously half blitzed from two vodka-heavy martinis.
I love how I get that teeny bit lit and all of a sudden I feel like Doing Things.

Like organizing my home desk at last. And making my calendar kosher with my day planner, which I just updated yesterday. Never mind that I never look at said planner because I fully believe in the sticky system and/or e-mailing myself reminders, but I will feel more Efficient if I do so.

Switching Gears

It is so windy here in Northeastern Pa. tonight.
It was a crazy day of darkness, sunlight, pouring rain, misty rain and wind on and off. Seeing such black black skies against sunlight made me think it was the end of the world or something.

The house was rattling so much before that I cautiously peeked out through the blinds to see if houses were flying about.

Instead I saw something gorgeous: an abandoned umbrella dancing in the wind.
It was like that plastic bag that the creepy hot kid next door in "American Beauty" filmed.
If I felt like putting my galoshes back on, I would have gone out and taken video of it to share.
Instead, use your imagination.

Switching Gears

Sometimes I get so angry I just want to scream.
Or break a pencil, if I used pencils and not solely blue PaperMate pens.

I chalk it up to being Sicilian. Or psycho. I'll go with the former, thank you kindly.

Switching Gears

Sometimes I think I'll never get it together - then I remember that nobody has their shit together. And if they do, they're a God damn liar. That's comforting.

Switching Gears

It's safe to say that I think about food way too much, and exercise way to little for how much I like to eat.

Switching Gears

I hate being an insomniac. The worst part is I just lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, instead of getting up and reading or writing.

OK, now about that calendar project.
It's an Anne Taintor joint.
I shall leave you with April's fitting quip, as I got blonder just last night.

Rainy night haiku.

"Dark and stormy night" -
my loneliness is cliched
just like that damn line.

Thoughts from a wannabe-vagabond.

Just at the end of my street, beyond the overgrown weeds and gravel that line them, are train tracks.

I've lived here four and a half years now, and I'll never get tired of hearing the trains go by.

It's such a darkly romantic sound to me, especially when it's raining.
It conjures up a foggy image of a deserted depot in the middle of nowhere.
She sits restlessly on the bench having a cigarette to pass the time until his train arrives. He'll step down onto the platform, definitely wearing a chapeau and they'll stand there gazing at each other for a moment before embracing. The months and pain will fall away, and the train will chugga-chugga on to the next depot, the next ...

There's a loneliness to trains too. I always feel wistful when I hear that whistle blowing, like I'm missing out on where ever it's going. Like I want to be a vagabond stealing away in one of the freight cars, seeing the world, nature and America whiz by.

Tonight I was walking the track when the 6:45ish went by, just on the other side of the chain link fence. It was only a few cars, maybe 20, but as it whizzed by, I fought the urge to hop that fence and have a Dylan-esque journey of my own. But instead, I pensively formed this blog in my head and await the next train, the next yearning.

Will I be able to silence that one? I don't think I can forever ...

Oh my galoshes!

Given the torrential downpour today, I am super glad that I bought my new pair of black and white polka dot galoshes over the weekend.
Not only did they keep my feet dry and warm all day, but they looked adorable.

Best off all, they fed my insane love of smelling things: These galoshes smell like a tire store, that's how pungent their rubbery scent is.

I smell everything I come in contact with - and I mean everything - but since I got them on Saturday, they've really pushed me to my scent limit. They were so strong at first that I had to put them in the stairwell!

But I got used to their heady odor after a few days and now I find it comforting.
I love that I can literally say "Oh my galoshes!" and not have it not be a lie because I finally, at age 31, have my very first pair of galoshes ... now if only I could find a yellow pair to match my Paddington slicker!