The rain now is that rain we associate as November rain in the Northwest. It has its own aspect, like no other. It is not a rain to be fucked with, and comes on hard and fouls up the roads, turning everything to slush. Last night we watched it pool off the gutter but on the inside of the gutter (against the house), remarking how glad we were not to live in that old place in West Seattle that always flooded.

Then I had a flood dream, in a house I’d never seen before with a bunch of people and water gushing down the steps, starting to make stuff float. One of the senior managers from my last project appeared and I was trying to get something through to him and he was stroking his beard (a Ulysses S. Grant beard) wearing those BlueTooth, wireless ear buds. I told Dawn about it in the morning and realized the symbolism, the flooding juxtaposed with work.

These mornings are charmless and dark. Today, I put the Tom Waits CD Rain Dogs on, for obvious reasons. It starts right off with the Kurt Weil inspired goose-stepping staccato, and Tom’s lyrics about dwarves, hookers, and drunks. Our friends Jim and Heather live in a town near San Francisco (Sebastapol) where Tom also lives, but say it’s uncool to approach Tom if you see him around town. I’d have a hard time resisting.

Not far from work there was a smudge of indigo in the sky suggesting distant sun, and like I always do, I turned the stereo off as I exited the freeway. I’ve been the first one into the office for several days now, turning the lights on after badging in. And then I set my laptop and mouse down, my tupperware for lunch, my headphones, like a concert pianist with no audience. And I catch myself in the mirror and think how old I look, and bat back that feeling by sitting up straight and spewing out what testosterone I still have left in ways probably no one but me notices. So much of work is in the appearances.

Throughout the week I’ll remark what percentage done we are, and text that to Dawn. Like, Wednesday at noon is 50% exact: end of day Thursday is 80%, pretty simple math. Remarkable how fast it goes. I send her the percentage with a thumbs-up emoji, but she’s stopped responding. It’s the time of year it all goes into a dark slush, a waiting room between fall and spring that doesn’t have any openings until January, at best.

Categories: Memoir, writing

Tags: aging, autumn poetry, existentialism, humor, identity, journal writing, Kurt Weil, mid-life crisis, pacific northwest, Rain Dogs, Tom Waits