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August 8, 2022: Monsoon Season

This must be what it is. The water continues to pour out of the sky. I asked Pete how the water got up there in the first place, and he gave a scientific explanation, one that I did not fully understand. I then told him what I came up with yesterday, saying that the community service workers (former angels) were carrying water from various sources up into the clouds and the dumping it.

Pete then really tried to be imaginative, saying something about a large hose being fired upwards, then speculated that maybe the water is sent upward via a rocket.

People who think logically have no need to use their imaginations. Their imaginations are soft and flabby, from disuse. But their reasoning powers (as is in the case of Pete) are hard and firm, from use.

Pete and Hrimmi riding up Murphy road

I would not be at all surprised if I saw, in a break in the clouds, some guy wearing an orange jump suit, peering over the edge of a cloud, then tipping a full bucket earthward. Imagine it, and it comes to be.

I try to keep a check on my imagination because as I can think the best, I can think the worse. This is a good reason as to why I am best staying off airplanes. Right now, thankfully, airfares are out of sight, so both feet are remaining firmly on the ground.

Tonight, I went into the horse pen to pick up poop. It was raining hard, as it has continued to do now, for a few days. The mares came out of their shelter to greet me then quickly retreated back into the shelter, where they pawed the ground hard – this is their way of letting me know that they are hungry.

They usually have something to say, once I feed them. Not tonight. All their ears were back. And all were swishing their tails. But signs were indications that they are not pleased with the current weather situation. I told them all, “neither am I.”

I just want to be riding; however, I am not going to ride in weather like this. Most likely the horses would not mind it, but even wearing raingear, I’d soon be sodden.

Instead, I was inside, sorting books at the Meeting House. Pete came by with the Saturday haul, and there were books there that made their way out into the world (they went to Friday Fling) then made their way back to the Meeting House. I think of them as literary parvo puppies. Speaking of which – I have four boxes of animal books that I hope will be taken by a veterinary clinic.

I’ll get to this when I resume calling places in September.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. At least this time, I didn’t feel bad about it being nice out and me being inside when I should be outside, riding.

Tomorrow the weather is going to be much the same. It’s going to be déjà vu all over again. Maybe I’ll just post this, the same dispatch, twice.

Next: 216. 8/9/22: Hunting Season

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