Rain like water on the roof of the house, dampened through the attic above. Rain like water falling all about outside; wouldn’t be surprised if the ground were wet. Rain like water falling from the clouds, pitter patter on the glass. Rain like water splashing on the grass; wouldn’t be surprised if it were wet. It rains and something as it’s something, that it falls, and rain. As I lie in the house in bed. And earth gets wet. I’m conscious of the weight while rain, instrument playing on the solid, is lightly between the wind and calm with all its range of tonal values on the roof the rise and fall of the sound, the gentle variation, and resting, the range of my mood is smaller still. Rain like water dead again on the solid, its damp chill against the walls. I am fallen. I know it. Take heart. Take all I can, for I may need it more than not. As a matter of fact. I have that I’m alone, awake at night when the masses use pills to make them sleep, have all the means of doing nothing and getting something done, have drugs and games to keep away the rain. Whatever the way it is a soft bitterness, like indigestion, left over from some instant oatmeal, eaten and half forgotten, tightening with a half-purported smile, and some movement in my throat that might have been a laugh. I know it. Take heart. I have that. What else when water will not pervade, only stand outside and wait, making its noises, making its noises. Rain like water soft hammers beating themselves into that liquid. Life at times rains, and like a headache that I’d just as soon forget. I have that I am am heavy, and will not smile for long. I have that, a hunger, hearing wind and laughter like it, desert water and flesh of home. Flesh to the bone. I have that and that I can see it. I have that to see, that I have it. And become that, having nothing more, as a flower dies into its seed. Rain like water every drop. Wouldn’t be surprised.
February 1972