(no subject)
There's something surreal about a good thunderstorm. It can wake you up at 5am or keep you up until 3; it can strand you indoors or invite you out to dance in the parking lot. It inspires fear and awe and wonder and excitement all at once. Standing out on my third-floor balcony tonight, staring into the inky sky slightly polluted by the noise of the city lights, I found it quite familiar. Just 364 days ago I'd done similar, enjoying a lovely little waltz outside in cloudy Winter Park, Florida, hardly noticing the pinched-garden-hose-velocity rain -- rain that didn't bother with my light cotton roadblock but took the direct bypass through to my already goosebumped skin. The thunder blasts paced our steps as we slid and skipped around, quite content to ignore the world and find each other's eyes, despite the difficulty posed by the localized flooding across our glasses. Out in that pouring, penetrating rain, you sort of lose your sense of connection with your body, much in the way that a dip in Lake Superior will jarringly remind you of that connection.
And when you stare up into that sky, waiting, expecting, hoping for a fork of lightning to slice it in pieces like shattered glass... now! No, but there's a flicker in the distance; you look around afterward at the little street lamps with their whining yellow-orange glow, the headlights reflecting off the moistened asphault... and the following thunder is like a voice in the sky saying, "Step aside, kids; let me show you how it's done." And then that expectant breath escapes you as the sky explodes again. Just soak it in. More than the drips from the overhang above your head, more than the puddles at your feet, more than the cold, damp concrete gripped in your palms, just soak in that sight.
I could stand out here for hours.
I have been standing out here for hours.
Every streetlamp is a misty geyser, every street is a river, every tree is a waterfall. When every speck of my field of sight is part of an elaborate canvas, what can I do but observe, and marvel?
And when you stare up into that sky, waiting, expecting, hoping for a fork of lightning to slice it in pieces like shattered glass... now! No, but there's a flicker in the distance; you look around afterward at the little street lamps with their whining yellow-orange glow, the headlights reflecting off the moistened asphault... and the following thunder is like a voice in the sky saying, "Step aside, kids; let me show you how it's done." And then that expectant breath escapes you as the sky explodes again. Just soak it in. More than the drips from the overhang above your head, more than the puddles at your feet, more than the cold, damp concrete gripped in your palms, just soak in that sight.
I could stand out here for hours.
I have been standing out here for hours.
Every streetlamp is a misty geyser, every street is a river, every tree is a waterfall. When every speck of my field of sight is part of an elaborate canvas, what can I do but observe, and marvel?