rain walk

I sat outside of the Starbucks at tenth and Locust; downtown Des Moines. A thunderstorm had been fluxing in and out of consciousness, the thunder, like an alarming awakening, repeatedly through the night.

My ride never showed.

It wasnt a feeling of abandonement that swept over me, but of opportunity. I'm sure he's alright, but do you really want to call your sister, your brother, your friends, to come bail you out of an easily solved problem.

I finished my tenth froo froo coffee for the evening at work, an empty stomach filled with glass after glass of water, followed by pourings of espresso, sugar, and milks of various origins... cow or not., into my tired body.

I have yet to mention the events of the previous weeks.

No need to. It's obvious. I haven't been writing here.

I stood, making my way acrossed wet pavement, a 1/2 inch of water or more with every step. Man, I wish I hadn't packed all these notebooks in this old courdory bag. Oh well, only 19 blocks.

The American in me said, oh. that's so fucking far. Call for a ride, use your cell phone line to hook someone to pay attention, to pick up the poor girl in the rain. Walking. Alone.

The human in me said. Go for it. How often do you get a chance to walk home from work, in a thunderstorm, on a thursday night.

Needless to say, I counted the blocks, smelled the rain and the rich earth, listened to the splashes of cars tires in puddles. Pondered existence. Moments of caffeinated clarity.

This week. November. November isn't so far away, I think.

A man yells out the passenger window... "HEY IS THAT HOW YOU WASH YOUR HAIR, YOU HIPPIE!?!"

My hair is about three feet long it seems. Heavy. So fucking heavy and hot in the summer humidity. Healing red spots cover my scalp as my hair roots grow used to the doll-dreadlocks that pull my skull taught.

Ukweli's hair.

Ukweli would probably walk in the rain. Girl probably doesn't own a cell phone. Or a telephone for that matter. She probably works nights. At a shelter or somewhere with people. Ukweli loves people.

November. November isn't so far, I think.

November rained on me tonight... The truth that my cinematographer, the lovely and precious, attitude-free G Thomas, admitted to me over a split ciabatta fried egg and niman ranch ham sandwich the other morning.

I'm not free until then. How's the script?

Almost done.

Almost done, I repeat, starring at my let-down of a fruit cup.

November. We'll be ready then. And the nature will reflect the story.

November in Iowa. Desolate, dying. Preparing the upper Earth for Death and Rebirth.

Raining. Like today. Almost snowflakes, minerals unformed by almost cold enough clouds.

This hair won't last. This moment won't last, but we keep treading onward into the barely lit tunnel, which is leading me somewhere. Taking me to my dream.

Manifest. Is that all I talk of in this Blog?

Is anyone ever reading?

I suppose this is record to this experience. Something for me to download and save for my future. Someone's, at least.

I'm soaked.