Fools rush in, so here I am
Awfully glad to be unhappy
I can't win, but here I am
More than glad to be unhappy.

Rain in the desert is just a trifle apocalyptic. Perhaps that's a personal hallucination of some kind provoked by the unusual atmospheric moisture or disturbing lack of crushing, soul-sucking heat, but there you go. Might have something to do with the clouds in Tucson, too. They get kind of menacing and world-ending when monsoon season starts.

I don't think I'm the only child of my generation to be obsessed with searching for magic in the world. In fact, if my conversations with my contemporaries are any indication, I think this may be the defining quality of our generation. I find myself looking always at the corners of things, peeking under leaves for fairies, idly arranging gravel in neat circles and sigils in the hope that light will leap up and, blazing, transport us to a world where the mystery and shine we try so hard to see isn't so damned elusive.

There was a time when I was able to convey that. Not even convey: to evoke it for a few people, even for one person. There was a time when I held her hand and jumped into a puddle and when we opened our eyes we were in a new world. We saw the difference - the raindrops were a slightly different shade, the earth a different consistency - and couldn't for hours be certain that we'd returned.

The problem is not that I've stopped seeing these things. As vivid as ever, our invisible companions from junior high linger in doorways and lean against walls. When I stare at one point I can see them on the periphery of my vision. What I've lost is the power to express what I see in words.

I have less and less confidence in my strength with language these days. It grieves me because for a great part of my life I believed there were only two things I could do flawlessly, without fail: talk or write a mean streak that would blow you away, and be a good friend to her. In the last three years I've failed at both.

Years ago I wrote here that the only way to redeem loving poorly is by loving well. I would hope that someday I'll discover enough sense, serenity and syntactic talent to not always be making up for something.

I'm sad, and worried... but I'm also very content. I suppose, in the same vein as my yearning to find magic in the world, I wouldn't be much upset if those incredible clouds fell like rocks and cracked the earth, releasing a plague of zombies. Apocalypse would suit me, I think. I would go get my jeans and my leather jacket, learn to drive by stealing the first truck I saw, and head to Home Depot to pick me up a sledgehammer to bash in some undead skulls.

I'll take the end of the world, if you've got it. I'll take a portal to a magical dimension if that's on offer. So I suppose in that spirit feeling ashamed of myself and as if everything's a little bit unstable is a state I relish.

In other news... I downloaded a shit-ton of the Mamas and the Papas. I haven't listened to these guys since I was thirteen. I could sit here and look out the open door at the rain and listen to "California Dreamin'" for, oh... six hours.

I think I will.

Labels: Apocalypse, Hope, Magic