Rain, rain, eternal unrelenting rain.
Dampness beyond imagination. A cold, bone-gnawing chill penetrates the house even when the temperature rises..... even on rare days when the sun dares to shine. What happened to those days?
Today again, again, torrential rain, death-inspiring dampness. My only solace is hot tea, hot chocolate, hot coffee, hot soup......and burrowing myself under a sheltering cocoon of blankets in bed.
The clothes hanging in my closets are damp. The clothes tucked away in dresser drawers are icy, nearly wet.
The garage - piled high with possessions that I have no room for - is now a burial ground of lost treasures: everything destroyed by dampness. Wet, pasty, infested with mold.
And outside: mud. Oozing, soppy, sloppy, slippery, soggy mud. Mud up to my ankles - sucking the boots off my feet when I try to walk. Mud covering a once-beautiful car.
The two wooden porches - which I carefully painted a year ago - are now ravaged from dampness and look 100 years old.....much like myself.
Am I complaining?
Hell, no. I'm merely thinking out loud. Which is one of the very few beneficial things this paltry blog allows.
I had planned to write more Hollywood posts. Nobody gives a flying fig about my Hollywood years..... but I do.
I write about my past solely to appease my present discontent.
I write about my past to gently remind myself that there was a time when I was alive, young, attractive, desirable, amusing, charming, adventurous......
healthy, warm......dry, dry, dry....
I write about my past because it was infinitely more interesting than the present. Hell, why shouldn't I? My past was fascinating.
Right now I'm going to feed the cats. Clean their litter boxes.
Make dinner and hot tea.
Then crawl into bed and read.
And listen to the eternal rain.
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That doesn't mean I no longer love you. It means that this is a private conversation with myself.
