This is for Libertine and the others who have admitted how sad they are; and for those who haven't, but are, as well...

She walked out onto the porch.  For three days now, the sky had been every possible shade of grey with myriad textures of clouds.  Out one door, the mountains were draped with dusty grey shrouds; peeking out from behind the peaks were thunderclouds of off-white, the last vestiges of fair weather that are often so deceptive.

Countless threads of darker grey virgas sent their moisture to the hills below, speaking to the possibility of rain, yet still not promising it.  Dark stratus-cumulus leviathans crept slowly toward her, while lower streams of vapor above the river marched westward below them.

An occasional rumble of far-off thunder meant rain somewhere; a tease, really, as only a spritz or two of drops had materialized so far.  At least the raging spring winds of dust had finally ended, and some blessed rain had come.  Her skin was still parched from that time: the faint tributaries of a desert-dweller's skin could be smoothed by lotion, but that ritual was often forgotten in the midst of her increasing unease.

So much to do this time of year as the garden hit its peak, the fruits and veggies calling to be picked and preserved for the coming long winter.  She tried to pay it all enough attention, although lately some days it all took second place to her other life...her oddly more necessary life.

She hugged herself when a full-body shiver took over her body.  She was aware that changes were coming, and wondered if she could face them with equanimity and dignity.  She chuckled to herself upon thinking that, and asked her self, "Since when did you ever worry about dignity?"  Ha!

She was exhausted and depleted by recent attempts to be heard; to translate the pictures within her mind and body into language accessible to normal humans.  She knew she was in a way an oddity; thinking took place in pictures and images, then had to be turned into words, and back again.  It was an inefficient and clumsy way to communicate; with the coming loss, and other unease bordering on fear, she felt like an idiot, ready to bang her head into the wall.  Feh!

Impending changes were often little deaths; God, did she know that!  If only the storm would break...then she'd cope better.  Maybe go through the stages of grief a little more elegantly (riiiight.) 

She sat back down at the computer and read her messages.  A frustrated sigh escaped her nose, and her lips pooched in consternation.  She booted up her Realplayer to play one of her favorite Dylan poems set to music; it always made her feel brave and full: the line about "using ideas as our maps" caused her heart and mind to get bigger, but the back-story offered a poignant pain behind it.   

As she tried to formulate answers to one, a blast of wind lashed rain into the row of windows at her elbow, the huge drops crashing into, then streaming down the glass.  Without conscious effort she went outside to let the torrent wash her personal dust away. She sniffed the air for salt; this storm had migrated north from the Gulf; she fancied she could smell the sea, and loved the pictures it brought to her mind. 

The rain followed her into the house, and her face grew wetter and wetter; she futzed around with chiles and tomatoes, then sat back at the computer...stared at all the words...questions and answers dueled in her mind...words...so many words, and thoughts; no way to keep them crashing into each other...no way to let them settle into images...she attempted to answer some messages...failed...and walked out into the rain again.

 "Fuck it," she thought.  "What does it matter if my face is wet all day long?  It's not as though anyone will know...

She gazed west, and noticed the queer angle of the sun spiking through the layers of ridged clouds, and went to the open door on the northeast side of the house.  A strange, broad rainbow lit the foothills with bands of color, the flattest arc she'd ever seen; not in the sky, but along the ground.  An omen, she wondered?  A strange portent seemed likely, though she didn't really believe in signs...But in unusual times, a person's mind could meander into strange territory.

She went about her chile-work, slipping the blackened skins off the plump fruits, still fighting a headache and the lump tightening her throat.  Images of the Café window closing mirrored the closing of the window of good change so many of us had hoped for, yearned for, just a couple very long years ago.

Hell, heartbreak didn't last forever...she knew that, but it didn't stop heart-rending images jamming through her consciousness...dark images of the future relentlessly weakening her.  She finally surrendered to the rain. 

She read a couple more emails; so many last-minute considerations...threw in a couple comments at the Café while the rain continued to quietly soak her face.

Ach; it would be so hard that there would be so much to write about, and no one to hear, no one to share. 

Torrents of rain that soaked the ground and her skin, refreshing all; when the rain stopped, it was as though her windshields had been wiped clean.  She'd think about finding shelter in the storm tomorrow; or not.  Maybe a break would be good.  Waiting is.  Maybe I'll make a big old pile of words and smash them with a tenns racquet...  

Fuck it.  Time for some dance music!   Who knows what tomorrow may bring? 

She slept.  And dreamt of corn and travel in muddy places, and of clothing made of wood and metal.  (Never mind.)    ;-)

Notes:  Please; I'm not looking to be fixed here; just trying to express grief through a metaphor some may have needed and may appreciate.  Or not...    ;-)

 Check out this blog of Watt Childress's at Firedoglake; it looks like another place open to temporary refugees:

http://seminal.firedoglake.com/diary/69824

* Homeless was referring to virtual homelessness; got a nice 12-sided roof over my head still. 

I love and have long-loved the Cafe, and most all of you here.  I hope it returns in another form.  See you then if it does, and I wish the very best to all of you in the interim. 

For any wandering refugees, I'll try to create a Refugee Space on my Posterous account in the next few days so we can keep in touch. 

http://wendyedavis.posterous.com/