Mar 29, 2010

drip drip drip

Written on a wet, dark, rainy day.
Left quite unfinished as thoughts flit between Bangalore, Milan and elsewheres in time.


It pours.

It beats on the roof and down on the swelling puddles. The noise is so much, I can't hear over the rain. I put down my headphones and pause iTunes.

Pangaea Rising
Be the Change

Reminds me of the Great Deluge. Apt.

Clouds roll ahead, like surf hitting the beach. Fluid. They glide. The rain slows down to a simmer, it sounds like static. Little grains of blue, black, grey and white dance in a frenzy. Hypnotising. Numbing. A single drop jumps into an empty bucket, the moment of collision echoes through the room. It jumps, echoes; again and again and again until it exhausts itself.


Cold cold silence. It hangs around me, moist, damp, heavy. There are no ceiling fans here. I stare at the flat white ceiling. The snow continues to float outside in the streetlights. There must be a wind too, the snow isn't falling straight.

I sleep.

The wind makes it seem colder. I put on my yellow raincoat as we step outside. It smells strange, a mix of cold rain and new plastic. My shoes are drenched, they squelch with every step, from the water inside and the slush outside. We trek back to Bison Valley Lodge; I hope the leeches stay clear of me.