Now I hear nothing. No wind. No wind chimes from the neighbors, and none of that side-purposed torrent to the window. California weather, always cheating writes like me— but then I hear a hint on that spray. Then gone. Goddamnit— why can’t I live through a true storm? What’s “meant to be” for writers like me is experience. I need weather, and in extremities. Storms, blizzards— talked to a lady today in the tasting room that said she lived through several blizzard conditions growing up in Minnesota, going outside with her grandpa when she was younger, walking in the wind, snow, pretending she was on some adventure— then I hear the rain again but it knows I started writing about it so it fled. I slow in my sips, situate in my moment and compose. Contemplative, collected, observant. The rain starts to play with me as it slides up down and in some postmodern circular progression mathematically about the window, the glass door. I’m confused. Not sure if I’m to stop writing and learn, or record what it does. I didn’t expect this, an actual weather condition. Not sure it’s a “storm”.
Couple sips left of the Pinot. Contemplative, as there’s to be a foremost shift in my creative reality. Go with it, create in it. So thankful for even this plausibility, this potential rearrangement of senses and creative honing. No interest in TV, now. Just sitting, enjoying the rain sounds, but of course now that I mention in paragraph it flees. I should talk about something else. Like what. Sunriver…. Central Oregon. Would love to lecture in the state above, write in those Sunriver circles, recollect and rearrange. I feel a wild shift readying itself for prominence. Another storm, one immediate and emboldening, decided in its echo.