I have my humidifier turned off and the windows open, because rain finally arrived a few hours ago, after promising to arrive all day, like a good friend who is never on time, and I want to hear the wind and the chimes, and the choppy water in the pool.

I find the sound of storms to be both restful and inspiring. Yes, the two should be somewhat contradictory. Somehow, however, they are not.

I’ve spent the vast majority of the last two days, and indeed, as much of the past week as possible, asleep. There were vivid dreams and fever dreams, and some were the same, but not all. There was also a desperate wish for a breeze, but it was unusually warm, and when there was wind it was blowing across the window rather than in.

Tonight it is blowing in, and while I should be closing the blinds against the too-early morning arrival of the Pool Guy (the pool is just outside our bedroom window), I cannot bear to seal myself off from moist air.

I watched Becoming Jane earlier, and quite liked it.
I am watching Dedication now, but I do not understand, have never understood, why people think it’s arty to live in bleak surroundings. I find the sets depressing, and am having a difficult time moving past them to the actual story.

I want to spend a week writing in a lighthouse.

I should go to bed now.