Raining Seeds Depression

My favorite researcher tells me that rents are bound to come down around here soon. To check if that is yet true, I searched Craigslist today. I capped the monthly rent at $1,500 for a minimum of two bedrooms, and found many entries in less desirable parts of the city.



My researcher also assures me that the price of cars will come down soon. So I read the "auto section" of my newspaper today and found a new Yaris for around $11,000, with financing at 2.9% APR.



This kind of window shopping becomes possible when you are secure that, however tempting any housing or transportation option might appear, they are off the list of purchases available to me.

Rather, food deals are the ones that matter; those too are now appearing. I bought a large packet of American salad for one dollar and a large bag of fresh baby spinach leaves for another dollar.

At Walgreen's, I surrendered another dollar for three bags of seeds. I'm stockpiling seeds until the rains subside enough to allow a planting -- as you can see, tomatoes, onions, parsley and sweet basil are all here, ready to go to work for me.

The rains, which returned last night, have continued unabated ever since. Though driving the Bay Bridge was stressful, being inside my home with heat, food, water, newspapers, books, seeds and this computer -- my connection to the outside world -- feels perfect.

Here, I love the rain, probably because the place doesn't leak. Lacking any temptation whatsoever to go outside and play, or snap photos for my sister blogs, instead I write, write, write.

Much of this writing is pre-writing, actually, living inside my brain. Every time I need air, I open the front door or the back door and smell the wet air, hear the singing birds undeterred by the rains, or inhale the odors of moist soil and clover rising from my backyard.

Back inside, the words start taking shape, rather like snowflakes hitting the window, or ice freezing in the tray. Each phrase struggles to be born, making me dizzy in the process.

The contractions hurt at times, but I'm experienced at giving birth to stories, so I know it will feel better once they're out, and breathing on their own. Some stories are born like tender, naked, pink beating hearts. These are the ones the writer dreams of having. We don't create them so much as they visit us, who knows from where.

These precious guests, when they arrive, must be hidden for a while before we let them out. They make our eyes hurt, like the blinding sun. There is an awful screech to them, too, like fingernails on a blackboard, as we let them go.

Then, of course, we never know who hears these sounds, squints into this light, and falls back, weakened, light-headed. Because, of course, it is not the writer whose opinion matters. And mostly, readers will remain silent.

Just like the feelings unleashed by the soft rains, the unplanted seeds, and the unspoken emotions, my hope is always that my best stories are yet to be told.