Storm pleasure.
A storm is brewing. Could there be anything more delicious in the dog days of summer than a wicked, knock down, drag out thunder storm? There’s the relief from the wet-dog-fur-coat humidity implicit in a good storm. There’s the forced nesting – something we have too much of in the winter, but not nearly enough of in the summer. I have a compulsion for being outside when the sun is shining. If I’m inside, I feel guilty, like I’m frittering away a precious commodity. We have all the windows open and the lights off. Devil Baby is scampering about naked. The wind is picking up and the trees are whispering in agitated voices. The drumbeats are starting up in the distance, a portent of the tempest fast approaching. Baby, it’s time for a show.
