I have such an affinity to listening to water.
It makes me silly, and occasionally wasteful.
I extend bouts of washing dishes and bathtime.
I extol over sorting through laundry as I hear suds and water slosh against each other.
When inconsolable, I head towards to beach to toe my feet in sand and listen to crashes that carry the heft of violent experience that is at once so beautiful and so accustomed and comfortable with their own volatility and energy.
I sleep best when I hear hard, sincere, and purposeful rain pound hard overhead at night and on roofs.
But my favorite, dear favorite, are warm summer rains. Something that living in the bay, provides precious few of.
Instead, summer rains in SF surmise an experience of sneezing and accidentally having our nipples, so impacted by the fridgity and any followon sneeze, to tear through your angora sweaters as if they were diamond tipped razors slicing through tissue. This is both highly embarrassing and quite costly. I stopped buying angora in ’95.
And tonight, perhaps I’ll listen to the sink leak just a little bit until I can fall asleep properly.