(Disclaimer: The purpose of today's post is to share the art of Tomoharu Kairaku and try to coax the rain back to Los Angeles. Oh, to have that power.)
My closet is a museum. The only umbrella we own, an ancient, pop-open compact contraption resides somewhere beneath or beside a navy blue bathing suit, the very model of defeated elastic, overlooked in the recent purge, and a prehistoric flat-bed scanner bigger than a couch cushion. Rain is forecast for Southern California, beginning today and perhaps lasting, on and off, through Sunday. They are preparing the lifeboats. I believe it is foolish to be too hopeful. We stand in costly, dangerous drought.
I hope, if the much-touted precipitation arrives in any quantity, that I get to spend some of the time in bed, like Tomoharu Kairaku's cheek-to-cheek companions below, listening to what I think of as February sounds. Living on the second floor, if the weather is more showery, the sound is tire whoosh on the street. Anything heavier splashes on the walkway and drips from shamelessly patched gutters, plinks against the vent above the stove.
Think good thoughts for us, for farmers in the San Joaquin Valley and all agricultural areas, for ski resorts and lakes in which boat docks and water are dozens of yards apart, for firefighters and native creatures whose quests for food and water have them roaming back yards and city streets.