It’s blowing a hoolie

February 15, 2020

The storm’s coming in off the coast. It’s been christened Dennis by the Met Office. Wind howling round the standing stones, abundant rain across the moor and cold as the Ice-queen’s heart. There’ll be more trees down before this day is out –

walk in this unknown rain

January 28, 2020

I listen to the sound of the water falling in my sleep. Words fall like water, I fall. I draw in my eyes, the shape of my eyes, and I swim in my waters: I tell myself my silences. All night I wait for language to configure me. And I think of the wind that comes to me, that dwells in me. All night I walk in this unknown rain. I was given a silence full of forms and visions (you say). And then you ran with regret like the only bird in the wind.

Alejandra Pizarnik
The musical hell
Trans. Peedeel

I will die in Paris, on a rainy day,
on some day I can already remember.
I will die in Paris – and I don’t step aside –
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.

It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down
these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on
wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself
with all the road ahead of me, alone.

César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him
although he never does anything to them;
they beat him hard with a stick and hard also

with a rope. These are the witnesses:
the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,
the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .

César Vallejo


November 28, 2019

I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it.

Hanamoto Hagumi
Honey and Clover

Alone in the Rain

October 28, 2019

Rain falling on me.
I am naked and awash
with the rain that wakens
your scent on my skin.
Cold, too.
Pointless to try to warm up
as this night my soul
is a thunderstorm of chills –


This was a dreadful time, rendered the more dreadful by the gloom of the weather and the country. I was never warm; my teeth chattered in my head; I was troubled with a very sore throat, such as I had on the isle…I would be aroused in the gloaming, to sit up in the same puddle where I had slept, and sup cold drammach; the rain driving sharp in my face or running down my back in icy trickles; the mist enfolding us like as in a gloomy chamber — or, perhaps, if the wind blew, falling suddenly apart and showing us the gulf of some dark valley where the streams were crying aloud. The sound of an infinite number of rivers came up from all round. In this steady rain the springs of the mountain were broken up; every glen gushed water like a cistern; every stream was in high spate, and had filled and overflowed its channel. During our night tramps, it was solemn to hear the voice of them below in the valleys, now booming like thunder, now with an angry cry. I could well understand the story of the Water Kelpie, that demon of the streams, who is fabled to keep wailing and roaring at the ford until the coming of the doomed traveller.

Robert Lewis Stevenson

Meanwhile the sky had turned quite thundery, and, with nightfall, huge raindrops began plopping down, bringing relief from the harshness of a torrid, airless day. The sea was loudly raging, out roared by long rumbles of thunder, while flashes of lightning, bright as day, kept brusquely revealing the two pleasured cunts of the now silent girls. A brutal frenzy drove our three bodies. Two young mouths fought over my ass, my balls, and my cock, but I still kept pushing apart female legs wet with saliva and come, splaying them as if writhing out of a monster’s grip, and yet that monster was nothing but the utter violence of my movements. The hot rain was finally pouring down and streaming over our fully exposed bodies. Huge booms of thunder shook us, heightening our fury, wresting forth our cries of rage, which each flash accompanied with a glimpse of our sexual parts. Simone had found a mud puddle, and was smearing herself wildly: she was jerking off with the earth and coming violently, whipped by the downpour, my head locked in her soil-covered legs, her face wallowing in the puddle, where she was brutally churning Marcelle’s cunt, one arm around Marcelle’s hips, the hand yanking the thigh, forcing it open.

Georges Bataille
Story of the Eye


March 16, 2019

It was a rather blustery day –

Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day
animated film from Walt Disney Productions


We’ve had the rain, enough to drown poor old Noah’s soul, and now we’ve got the wind – blustery doesn’t cover it! It’s blowing a feckin’ hooley, boys & girls!

Last night the wind was racing like a feckin’ express train through the sky. It was so strong we thought the hills would come untethered and flap free across the moor like giant vampire bats. Dustbins overturned; metal lids rattled – windows and doors rattled too; slates parted company with roofs; and a neighbour’s dog began to howl like a feckin’ banshee.

Nothing now for me to do but curl up on the sofa and watch “Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day” And wait for the storm to ease –

14th March 2019


Ten Lines

Come closer. So close I feel you,
how easily you breathe.
Imagine that I lead a life,
which consists of moments
and blows away in a moment
if the wind turns imperceptibly
when the door’s still open,
enticing you outside,
where there’s nothing but the others —
turning round and round with the wind.

Karl Krolow,
Field no. 78, Spring 2008

one of those March days

March 13, 2019

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold; when it is summer in the light and winter in the shade…

Charles Dickens
Great Expectations

It was also pissing down with rain: a torrential deluge of biblical feckin’ proportions. The windows awash; pedestrians rushing by like big black birds dripping rain. Time to take up boat building, for sure –

Tuesday 12th March 2019


January 3, 2019

A wet day. And I am glad of the rain, because I have talked too much.

Virginia Woolf
diary entry May 1929