The Chinese term means “wind-water,” as I can best grasp it a reference to the shaping forces of nature and our surroundings upon our daily experience. Skeptics may wait in the saloon bar while we contemplate the notion that the color of one’s kitchen or the view from one’s commode may influence the course of life toward the smooth or rocky. All I know is that the wind-water whacking around out there right now is doing me out of a night’s sleep, and it’s not because of noise, which here west of DC barely exceeds the average spring rain. It’s that fucking funnel of low pressure and EM distortion making its way along the radar maps like a big rainbow-colored vibrio, eating miles of beach and low-lying crossroads as it goes.
My legs have been playfully suggesting they might like to fall off since late last night, the big toe I nearly wrenched off on the garden hose is saying things you can’t print, every deep limbic faculty is on red alert. Comparing notes with the Twitter feed, I decided I couldn’t stand it and finally got back out of bed about the time National Airport registered a 60-MPH gust.
At least I have power to get a Twitter feed.
Wind scatters Qi and water retains it. Out there the Qi doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind.
Maybe a Benadryl with a whisky chaser will work. Melatonin isn’t making a dent. News as I get it.