What We Talk About When We Talk About The Weather
On this morning's early dog walk, I was looking at the dawn-lit clouds slowly drifting across the brightening sky. "There's a flood warning," my partner said as I pulled myself back from admiring the majesty of the firmament and tried to recalibrate my attention on more earthly matters, like making sure my willful dog didn't indulge in her favorite al fresco treat: semi-gelatinized cat shit, courtesy of one of the many community cats that call our neighborhood home.
We've been half-heartedly scanning potential housing options in Long Beach and one of the neighborhoods I like is a pretty firm "no" from me because a map I saw had most of it waterlogged in the event of a Hundred Year Flood—an appellation accelerating climate change will very likely make ironic in the not-too-distant—with some of the streets and homes along the L.A. River subsumed by up to 10 feet of floodwaters. So now every mere mention of the f-word sends me down a relatively minor worry hole in which I take stock of our preparedness and contingency scenarios, eventually rationalizing that there's only so much that can be done, and anyway, doom is likely not coming down that particular vector. At least, not yet.
Years ago I told I friend that I love the rain, and he was infuriated, insisting that no one could prefer rain, which got you soaking wet and miserable, ruining anything you weren't carrying in a waterproof bag and making your shoes squishy and nigh on unwearable. I was somewhat taken aback because of course I hadn't thought of being caught out in a torrential downpour, but of being under an umbrella, or eaves, or an awning, or of the simple pleasure of having a few drops moisten your hair as you hurried your pace a bit to make it to shelter. I think his stance has since softened, but I've kept it in mind, and now whenever I think about the rain, I think about how awful it is to be wet and unsheltered and worried about everything I love being swept out to sea and drowned. But I try not to let that dampen my joy at the sound of rainfall on the trees and sidewalks outside my window, which is cracked just enough for me to hear it coming down.
And I do feel that joy, in spite of also thinking increasingly of the outdoor cats who have to scramble to find a dry place to rest; of the people whose homes may be red-tagged after the deluge subsides; and—so much worse—of the makeshift encampments in the city that offer a modicum of shelter to people already absolutely fucking going through it being razed by cops and smiling politicians who insist that this is what we all want, and no less than they deserve.
The weather is inevitable. Storms come and go. Floods carry away the just and unjust alike, and we ultimately have no capacity to prevent natural disasters; only to mitigate their effects. All of our pleasures are complicated by their consequences, and that doesn't mean we shouldn't ever take those pleasures, but that we should remain mindful of the consequences, and diligent in our commitment to mitigate them, both for ourselves and others.
Song of the week - "You Look Like Rain" - morphine
PS - I didn't intend it when I started, but this Mystery Date ended up being kind of a channeling/tribute to the exceptional LA Weather newsletter by Tess Lynch and I would be remiss if I didn't encourage you to subscribe to it if you enjoyed this.
