I love the beach during a storm--the rain, thunder, lightening. My daughter was more impressed by the wind this afternoon, and not just because of the terrific waves. She liked the sound of the wind on the sand, the sand storm; she said it reminded her of the noise of desert movies. There was a whispy rustling. I was just annoyed because anyone who walked past me ended up spraying me with sand. The folks from the SRO across the street are standing in the entry, watching the storm. It's weird: I don't remember storms from when I lived in NYC--and I lived here eight years. I recall snow, rain. But no real storms, no thunder, no lightening. Is it climate, urban life, or what cathected with me at the time?
Relatedly, or not, as Lee and I talked about blogging, and I mentioned Paul's Old House, she noted something about how the blog functions for me, or for Paul and me: namely, it starts to play a role in our intersubjective economy. I don't get all pissy, sarcastic, or nasty about his continuing work on his house. Things that might bother me--unjustiably, I should say, since it isn't my house--become a shared topic for possible inclusion in Paul's Old House. We can both take a certain distance toward a project that is really quite stressful. It's like the blog provides the opportunity for a third person perspective that we might otherwise have a difficult time finding.
I wonder how this kind of distance or perspective functions for other bloggers. It's not the same as relating to one's life with an audience, per se. There is something different about something, something about the explicit presentation or even performance of an element of one's life.
I really like lightening. And storms at the beach.