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I wrote this: 'some things sound better with the rain turned on'

Are you still listening for it? The incessant splashing against the glass on a dark afternoon Whilst inside you bake bread and mend holes in old loved clothes, Warm cat on your lap, Later you meet your warm lover in your bed. Do you still listen for the beginnings of the shower before you know for sure it's even in the air? You check your weather app eight times a day And never wear open toed shoes if there's ever a cloud above you. Are you still packing an umbrella into your little bags? You know it never rains when you have it. Why does it never rain when you have it? You start to believe that maybe you are magic and so you always carry an umbrella and now it is shining. But why are you still waiting for it to pour? To make up for the burden of protection? To make the effort all mean something? Can you still smell the storm before it arrives? Does your blood still run in tune with the currents of the air? Do the hairs on your arms stand up when it is coming? Are you bracing yourself or do you still love it? The excitement of the electricity and wetness and risk all around you with each loud flash. Don't leave the house lest it strike you down Because if it were to happen to anyone, it would be you. Does your heart still sink when you open the curtains and see the gloom? Even though the sun was shining on your worst days because the sun always shines on your worst days and pathetic fallacy isn't real. You're not living on a flood plane. All the trees are waving, In that, all the trees sound like waves in the wind. The rhythm of this water is in the leaves all shuddering their bodies against one another And it is not raining. There are so many weathers and it is not raining Though it will come again and the shuddering trees will be thankful for it. It will spill down their green palms and spiny fingers, Caress their planted bodies on its way to the earth And they will be filled with all of its life. You remark that you are waterproof, fireproof, bombproofed like a spooky horse You drink three litres of water a day lest your body shuts down and you don't know how it feels to have your feet in the grass whilst the rain falls on your skin. It flows around your house through the pipes and the gutters and you sit inside and listen with some degree of anticipation Or confirmation or validation or something something that you knew this would happen, That you knew it was to be expected to come again But the house you have built channels the water away from you And the bricks are still standing And you're inside where you have all of your things And all of your loves And the anticipation of the downpour never made it stop.

@caskeyc

Sep 21, 2024

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date idea

The sharp scent of rain tumbles clumsily in as you tease window-hinges wider with the pads of your fingers. A siren trails close behind, uninvited, sears your eardrums, dies off down the block. Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitment… like yesterday, like the day before. You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone else’s sheets.  It’s five o’clock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers. You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before. Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last — now empty — jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip. You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting. The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken. A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment. Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store. Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.  You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home. It is no one’s fault. You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number. That night you eat too quickly, knowing you’ll wish you’d saved some leftovers. I come over once, then again. We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh. We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be. You don’t mind. We talk for hours. We agree, ballpoint pens are better. I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles. I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you. I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter. I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer. I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes. You call in sick for work too often. I hold you, and you know my callouses well. We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other. I hold you, and kiss your hair. You smell like candied oranges. The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds. You say you feel uninspired. Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.  You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering. This time, it’s different. Sleep escapes us ‘til the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop. I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but don’t know why I stay. We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in “Charcoal Baby”, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings. I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you. Will I see you next week? Yes, if you text me. You forget, just like we’d both hoped.

@ad

Sep 17, 2024

😃

Tank

The usual run. A mile or so, I weigh myself on a scale. I tilt to see the resemblance of a shadow walking by. It is who I think it is, I am blinded by fate. It is all too consuming to know everything but at the same time I find transitions self explanatory. Who are you and why are you here for me. This is the place to be, If everything is left out, who is going to live in there. It is not going to be us. We are far too homey. It is cool until it is not cool, then everyone decides what to say and what to do. We are besieged by indescribable forces. They turn the key and we sit and idolise, sympathise and equivocally or non equivocally try to set the stage for a stronger generation, mount a head of a bison and eat the meat that came with it. This is part of it all, a plan to starve us and watch us weep for left overs. We don’t want. We just want more. The world is a dirty place for business but we deal with guys like you all the more. Even now, the time it took to set things straight is not equivalent to the time it took to replace all the things that were put in place. Take it out, put it back in. So you say you want change, Is that what you want, is that going to be enough, for you, for me, for all of us. We are stuck here with tear gas falling from the sky, it is bound to cause havoc and loneliness. I can’t think right now, This is too much for me to bear, I am weak. I can not take another second of this.  Subliminal ways.

@gk

Oct 26, 2024

Top Recs from @spasi

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Make acceptance your mission

Resistance to inevitable change is a common source of suffering. Making a conscious commitment to acceptance can help you to reduce the resistance you embody every day. It can also raise your awareness of how and when you resist change. Accept not just the truth that a breakup has occurred. Accept how you felt about the relationship from beginning to end. Accept the people you both were and the people you are now. Accept how you’ve changed or failed to change. Accept the pain that comes with vulnerability and need to remain vulnerable to grow. Accept your mistakes and their consequences. Accept your loss. Feelings are often like clouds. If you run away from them, they may follow you for longer. If you sit with them, they will pass. Accept your clouds. They are impermanent.

@spasi

Feb 16, 2025

👚

Mokuyobi

Lots of playful color that always gets compliments. My favorite is a button-up top with paint splatter.

@spasi

Feb 16, 2025

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On and on - the national Forest

concise, upbeat indie folk. This particular track has a popular form and progression.

@spasi

Mar 8, 2025