Rainy Day Muddles

Sheesh. It’s raining again.
Wuz’ the problem, you ask: rain is good. Waters the grass, the flowers. Gets the dust off the trees.
Yes. Yes it does. Dust goes off the trees, right on to my shirt.
But that’s not really the problem.
The problem is: this is Los Angeles, and apart from the “May Gray/June Gloom”, we have not had any sun since April. And it has rained twice this week. Feels like evening when I get out of bed at 7:30 AM. It is still evening at noon. At 3:00 I start craving a nap and need a cappucino (still evening!). Wallace Stevens would have understood.

I’m supposed to be at my table, creating something. A brush-and-ink painter, I work using natural light. That is the problem. There is hardly any light, so instead of painting I bumble around the desk, squinting in the grayness and suddenly notice how messy the workspace has become. Small dishes crusted with old mixed-up watercolors. A lump of quinacridone looks like a tired bing cherry, the yellow resembles leftover scrambled egg. There are chips of dried ink splattered on the felt work surface. Looks like old oatmeal…so now I’m thinking a bowl full with raisins and maple syrup and half-and-half. Forget painting. I want FOOD.

But there isn’t anything exciting to eat at home.

The rain is more like a persistent drizzle. I pull on my Irish tweed cap. This is June, I keep reminding myself. This is the Western Hemisphere. This is L.A. and I’m wearing a wool tweed cap….My hair is short and my head gets cold. Need my cap. Pull on a jacket, too, and amble out to the city street below. What am I doing going out in the raw-and-damp? I notice the crazy crows seem to relish the rain, vying for position on TV antennae. Must give them an opportunity to wash their feathers!

A block away is a new urban mall. The place is hopping. I live in a multi-cultural locale and the mall is the latest centerpiece of Korean business investment. There is a wonderful Euro-style bakery. Pastries: cream-filled, ganache, chocolate-coated, almond wafers, fresh baguettes. The names are written in Korean and English. At first glance they puzzle. Korean writing is phonetic, but English doesn’t work that way. Yohan cake I realize is: Johann – as in Strauss. As in Vienna. Oooh. Mocha cream and a G-clef drizzled in chocolate… that’s the key. Then there’s a ‘ghetto’…hmmm…. I think they mean GATEAU – cake – en francais. I sift into the crowd and select some confections. I’m enough of a ‘regular’ that the staff gives me a cup of java on the house. The paper cup warms my fingers. My selections are sheltered in a white folded box tied with gauzy red ribbon.

Stepping back out to the street, I head home. The drizzle has let up, and the sky seems just a shade lighter.