More rain than the rest of May, than April, than April and May together. In half an hour. And me at the open door wishing the lightning to skedaddle so I can go out but no it keeps coming from every direction and I go back to reading a New Yorker article about a writer whose books I bet I could not read because I don’t do particularly well with literary fiction — just like I don’t do very well with complex people who won’t tell you what they mean. Still, she having been a bricklayer for a while sounds pretty interesting but very literary and full of allusions and ambiguities. And then the lightning has moved on enough for me to go out but it is miraculously still raining. I run out into the yellowest sunset I have ever seen to stand in the rain and have excellent rain games like James (“from puddle to puddle we scuddle and jump”*) and then in the shower from the gutter to the rain barrel which is now full to try to catch the rain with the camera. There’s not enough light and everything is shadowy and wet and glimmery and that is just how it is now.
*James and the Rain by Karla Kuskin (New York: Harper And Brothers, 1960)