Rainy Night

Last night it rained like I’ve never seen up here on Puncheon Camp road. Winds came off the holler from the south like a tidal wave and crashed down delivering rain that slid up the porch and soaked all the wood. The winds yanked off the plastic sheeting I had scrounged to keep the wood dry, and slid down the pasture like water skis.
 

That night I made a nest of a bed on the floor of the future bathroom so I could lay prone and flail

Out my arms above my head like I so love to do. Too many nights on the sofa in front of the ole “Warm Morning” affects my sleep. The cabin is built on stilts, and the back end of the house is almost butted up to a bank. This gave me the impression of sleeping on the ground, except that I could hear the steady stream of water running underneath my back for the night’s entirety. An unusual feeling, to feel like you are being propelled by a current while in bed. I dreamed that I was on a soaking ship where I knew no one. When I realized that we were going to drown I panicked, and was simultaneously disappointed by my response as though I was watching, testing myself to see what would happen if I was in such a situation. I said to the captain, “But how will I cure AIDS if this happens?”

Next thing I know I was on the top of the ship holding hands with a few strangers while we sat cross legged paring down into a swimming pool that got higher and higher, acting as some sort of calendar to our deaths. Someone said out to all of us, “You can never pick your time.” For some reason that seemed comforting, and I woke up with a jolt. The rain hadn’t carried me away to Barnard Bridge, nor had I drowned in a lonely way. I tried to go back to sleep. I really wanted to know what it felt like to drown, but the moment had passed, and it was time to stoke the fire.

I can sleep for about three hours at a time before it’s time to feed the coals once more. I have a fire baby.