I may be a pluviophile
Think Sunday afternoon, sometime in the late 70s. Nothing on TV. Nothing to do except watch the rain gently meander across my bedroom window. I turn on the radio to discover another of a similar ilk. He spins the Carpenters, B. J. Thomas, and Brook Benton. The last, I hear for the first time. The middle makes me think of the movie with Katherine Ross on the handlebars. But it is the first, with Karen extolling THAT voice one day prior to an excusable casus belli for listening just for the sake of listening.
The rain keeps its steady tempo throughout the day. Harboring a chill easily transferred via conduction, the rain is almost evolving, almost personified as alive.
And I like it.
Perhaps I am a sucker for the melodic drone. Perhaps it is the endless possibilities of alternate scheduling I have acquired for the events of the day I find attractive. Or it is the permeating resonance of the audio frequencies established by the cold front and warm front intersections that hold my imagination?
I begin to wonder if this is all by serendipity or Soviet style economic planning for me to indulge in the hours it would take to compare and contrast.
Either way, I am hooked by my isolation to my new friend and the singular embrace it offers. I find no competing diversions to my attention span. By now, I am in a world of my own, finding no viable reason to escape.
My trusted Websters confirms what my American Heritage has been insisting for hours. I am an initiate pluviophile with visions of emeritus grandeur. I reign supreme in a world of rain with no plans of departing.
I am content.
That is until I discover the meaning of petrichor.