Weathered

Mile Rock Beach, San Francisco

It's been raining since January.
Not the rain one can see, hear, or touch.
In contrast, it is a pouring that drums and pounds against the temples without ever lifting completely.
A continuous discourse in longsuffering and forbearance.
Absent to eyes.
Inaudible to ears.
A thorn in my side.
Moisture and wetness locked into every passing wind.
Each drop of precipitation takes with it a sample of my skin; each taste a stripping.
There are moments when the rain stops.
Never for too long though.
Just enough for a chance to savor the quiet.  Just enough to swallow the nepenthe; let out a supressed cough; and, with knowing anticipation, seek shelter underneath the weathered, soot-covered awning . . . waiting for the first sign of the rain's return.
Then, like clockwork, the amorphous grey sky opens and a single drop falls from its mouth.
It lands between my lips and I taste it.
It is cold, but familiar.

-August 2015
(edited November 2015)

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Film camera images from Summer 2015.