Storm

Before the rain started, the wind came on fast and strong. Gulls, sometimes in flocks of twenty or more, sailed the currents silently past our window. Their grace belied the wind's fierce buffeting.
Soon the rain began pelting the windows, making clear shots impossible, washing out almost every bit of color, and rendering the morning a stark view in black and white.

The storm finally arrived.

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Can I admit something, just among the few who stop by here to say hello:

I don't understand Facebook. I don't know what function it serves. Is it a public conversation? With everyone? What are the gifts we send there? What does it mean to poke someone?

I'm not completely happy with Obama. In your heart of hearts do you believe he is working to serve our interests or theirs? We watched Bill Moyers interview Simon Johnson, and it doesn't look good for those of us interested in representative democracy.

We are temporarily living in a family home on a cliff above the bay. It is more than a million dollar view, it is a multi-million dollar view. It bores us to tears. We feel like misfits in the leisure class. We don't understand the concept of escapist second homes. The cliff has eighteen homes; they are empty most of the time, visited only by gardeners and housekeepers.

We dug up a small piece of the yard and planted carrots, beets, onions, shallots, kale, and spinach. It feels like defiance against conceptually polite flower arrangements and fountains.

We are too old to be this unsettled.

It feels like a storm.