High Humidity.

How it isn't raining right now strains the bonds of credulity, if there are such things. It should be at least laying into one of those morning-long tomato rains, steady gentle rainfall and ten degrees too warm to be comfortable and ten degrees too cool to get the A/Cs to kick on, leaving you stranded inside your house sitting on damp upholstery and watching the books swell and wondering if things would be better if you poured your coffee over ice. That or it should be dropping hailstones the size of hen eggs down on us. Something. Instead, the sun's breaking through once every twenty minutes or so, but for the most part the western sky's so gray that I'm checking the radar, checking the radar, and still there's nothing.

Left the windows down in the truck yesterday during a very brief puppet show showing. The sky was blue when I went in. While I was enjoying the sublime vagaries of undergraduate thesis defense, It poured for twenty minutes and then quit. Damp ride back home. Metaphor? Lesson from the gods? Simple meteorology? I've got the windows down now, trying to dry it back out. Coming soon to a forecast near you: a longish discourse on the vicious cycle.

I keep orbiting away from this, from everything, really—it's been a hard week for no good reason, and I find myself looking for ever simpler tasks. Six bags of cypress mulch around the new azaleas back there at the shed. Lawns to be mowed. Ferns to be hung and straightaway colonized by the house finches. A thing like sweeping appeals. Lining up the spoons in their drawers. This is the late spring. This is the between.

They've got our storm chances lower than I'd have them. Supposed to be 70 on Friday with all the gloriousness and rights and privileges attending thereunto. It ain't that now. Sometime between now and then, then, storms. Maybe today. So: truck windows. Something's going to have to get done about that, one way or the other. Somebody's probably going to have to pay attention to the weather.