Nov. 14th, 2002

incandescens: (Default)
Rain outside, rain all the evening, rain this morning, rain at various parts of the day. How England. How very England. (Other parts of the world too, I'm sure, but I just think of England.)

I remember one year, coming back from holiday in America, from time in California under the constant sun, and sitting in the train on the way back from Woking (the most convenient railway station to Heathrow airport) and watching the rain through the window. Great blobs of it, smashing against the dirty glass of the railway carriage window, running in streaks across the panes, smearing and streaking the view outside of the damp green trees and damp green grass and damp green greenery. And I thought, yes, this is home, I'm back again. I was tired out of my skull, as I usually am when having got onto a plane at approx 6pm USA time and got off it at approx 6am UK time, and not slept for much if any of the 6-hour flight. In that peculiarly zonked and dreamy state, the rain was exactly what I wanted. I was home.

It would be nice to think of something new to write about the rain.


Yes: I have brought to help your vows,
Horned poppy, cypress boughs,
The fig-tree wild, that grows on tombs,
And juice, that from the larch-tree comes,
The basilisk's blood, and the viper's skin:
And now our orgies let's begin.
The Masque of Queens, Ben Jonson


incandescens: (Default)

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