Carlsbad Art and Culture

Shadows on the damp street stretch eastward as an angry storm surges over our village. Flowers, dry and sunburned, stare impatiently while dark clouds tease. Long hours under florescent lights give way to slippery roads and tired workers. Clouds tumble as fast as cars speed and give way to leaks only when undesired. Tiny drops splatter against my cold window. The wind howls and my shoulders shiver; I grab for a blanket.

Each day I watch patches of clouds roll past my window, each highlighted by the sinking sun. A clear day is like a canceled show and a storm is like a long awaited premier. The television remains dead and the radio sleeps. Lights await the evening’s book and remain patient. Unlike the sounds of a trickling creek or the soothing crashes of rolling waves, deep moans of the surging storm wails wildly with anger and agitation. Crisp silhouettes of window pane decorations sit motionless like the stagnant sunflowers of a Van Gogh still-life. Frail flowers watch from within; each thirsty but safely content. The window’s surrounding white wall acts as a frame or a tightly held  curtain raised high above the wood planks of a stage.

As the sun escapes and glowing highlights fade, the sky falls dark. Random taps of escaped showers grow in volume and strength. Stars stay hidden and the distant glow of a full moon creeps through stubborn clouds. A flurry of tears collide with the window sending a resonating chill up my spine. Debris meanders through the cold streets like a lost orphan. Gutters swell and sandcastles melt.