Full of holes

July 6, 1980

The storm is over.

At least the one on the outside is.

Life inside and out is a series of small squalls, each tossing me this way and that like a tiny boat out in the depths the sea, while waiting, looming above in the gray sky, and below in the even grayer shopping water, monstrous storms brew.

We watched last night’s storm from the shelter of the Music Pier, admiring the intense beauty, the sharp tinges of color that slash across the dark, cracks of electric blue brilliant against the black backdrop of billowing clouds, lightning (followed by roaring thunder) revealing each crevice of that alien landscape, painting planes far better than even Cezanne could.

But the real pleasure in watching the storm is feeling safe, secure as we were under the roof to a porch that if did not keep us completely try, kept the worst from us, allowing us to survive and make our way back to more secure shelter as one squall left and before the other arrived.

This morning, I hear the street sweepers clearing the debris the storms cast about.

I keep thinking today is Monday when it is not. The Fourth and its deceptions play havoc with my sense of time.

Or is it that we are caught up in such habits that when they get disrupted, we are lost at sea?

These storms deprive us of habits that have become – like shells for hermit crabs – homes, and when the storms pass we must rebuilt them, sorting through the detritus of ruined clothing and furniture, reconstructing floors above and below, putting in new windows we can stare out of and still feel safe as I do now, upstairs, looking out at the street and the sea, as my girlfriend wrings out went clothing left on the porch during the storm, just as I did earlier when I woke.

We get the water out, but not the sand, and we will travel north with the grit still gnawing at us until we can do a more thorough job, at cleaning, at rebuilding our lives, perhaps replacing the clothing the storm and sand has shred or punctured. I feel so full of holes sometimes, and ache for storms if only for the relief of feeling safe at surviving this storm or that, and not caring about the aftermath.