Saturday, June 19, 2004
Dumaguete is drenched.
It looks beautiful that way. It's been raining for several days now, but always in a gentle tease. It's not the hard kind of rain because water doesn't come down in sheets -- more like a watery massage for earth parched after a long summer. I don't remember June being this cold for some time now. This is like a return to familiar climate, and for someone like me who hates the narcotic overabundance of sun, I am suddenly happy. Rain becomes my own Prozac. The rain begs to be made sonnets of, but there's no time for that. Besides, I feel silly enough as I do, loving the rain, letting the gentle cold bring back memories of better times. I look at the gray clouds, and I remember winter. I haven't seen snow for a long time now, and I know I miss it. Who cares about the slush that comes later? I can endure slush for another sight of snowfall: imagine the whiteness that drapes over the landscape overnight. I told Mark last night that I celebrate Christmas in June. That's when I take out my old records and sing along to Christmas carols, which must confound the nosy neighbors. But let them shake their heads in puzzlement!
June's cold is too perfect to waste time over such things as approriateness for calendar holidays. This morning when I woke up just before lunch, I played Bing Crosby. Later, I liked the way the cold air blasted onto my face when I left my apartment, cumbersome umbrella on one hand, while the other hand balanced a bag full of books as fingers also grappled with key and lock. Spatters of rain did get past beyond the flimsy defense of my small black umbrella, but I didn't mind. I just took a deep breath and wondered how air could be so cold, and so fresh.
 This is Where You Bite the Sandwich