The rain and wild wind take me back to younger days under looming clouds. It was a world of upholstered walls and CRT monitors, of earth-dusted siding and crumbling bricks overlooking matted lawns. These are echoes of a world where the perfect angles of our day had not quite taken hold, when we saw the truth of the world as it is.

My heart yearns for an old Ohio with its crooked lines and rough textures. Let me see these again, for they are the true shapes of the world. Show me the howling wind whose impossible speech never utters the same syllable twice. Give me the blowing rains that tap their variegated tones on the windows and the dark thunder speaking gentle fury from the heavens. Let me feel again the deep lore of trees whose roots crack the pavement in their eternal defiance against the blight of civilization. As they twist and tangle their arms toward the heavens, they show us that all our right angles are blasphemy against nature’s purest forms.

No matter how sleek your lines or how square your boxes, this world is a wild place. From chaos did we emerge, and unto chaos shall we all return, and our every attempt to impose our notions of order upon creation shall be subject to inevitable decay.

Witness, then, the storm, and revel in it.

This bit of meandering nonsense is brought to you by delightfully cold rainy days. Support this work on Patreon for a dollar a month, or follow daily writing updates on Facebook and X! All proceeds go toward remedying the pejoration of the name of Ohio. Really.