The monsoon

So there's a monsoon this week. The mountain that we intended to climb only a few days ago is saturated with snow. It's 37 degrees out. It's September. Tonight's the autumnal equinox. May as well be winter solstice. Rain is everywhere: it's in my shoes, my hood, my skin. I like it, mostly. I'd prefer if it were only raining in the mountains as well. I don't like to wear hats in the rain; I like my hair to get wet, soaking wet so it drips to the ground from strands in front of my eyes. It's even better when my hair is longer, like it is now. I think I see bits of snow in the rain. I'm pretty sure that I do. I was even inspired to write something about it. Sometimes I inspire myself, but lately I just depress myself. It's degrading, really, how unimpressed I am with my own work, my own intentions. Over time I'm sure I'll wade through it all, figure something out. But for now I can't look past the rain.

I'm planning on this rain letting up, and the real post-summer early-fallness taking over. I expect at the very least: 70 degree days, sweatshirt weather, lukewarm nights--the occasional rain is okay too. I expect that, when Joey and Mom come around Amy's birthday next month, we will still climb that mountain, and it'll rain and it'll snow and we will be wet and frozen and have black toes, and once at the top we may see cloud instead of city, but we'll be up there regardless and it might be 1 AM or 7 AM but we'll be there. That's what I expect.

This morning I stopped at a gas station on the way to work. I bought gas, two sodas and some licorice belts.

My word of the day:
rote
: mechanical, learned or memorized as from a crowd, unthinking routine or repetition