It has rained all week, which is rare, really rare, for Phoenix, Arizona. There’s been moments when the rain comes down like a hand letting go of pebbles. But mainly it has been like a broken spigot turned low, showering spritz like, and sideways.

I don’t like being out in the rain. My hair gets fluffy and frizzy, with my pony tail looking like a tired tennis ball. Guy and I had Shi Tzus. Walking them in the rain was painful; their long hair getting soaked and matted. Guy would try to brush them out sometimes with little success. Sometimes he had to take scissors and cut out the mattes, leaving the little dog lopsided. One side long. One side short.

Guy took the dogs when he left. I have indoor cats, so no worries of animals in rain. I do, though, miss the little dogs.

I like being inside, watching the rain come down. I like the dampened days when the clouds sleep low in the sky creating a gray day. Everything feels in place; heavy, but in place. Focused. Unlike the energy of the sun inviting manic moments that leave people dancing with the light, chasing the speed of hummingbirds.

I was thrilled when I left work last night at 7 p.m. that the rain had paused, the clouds not wringing themselves out. It meant that my library books weren’t endanger of ill health and my cell phone would stay dry for the next call. There’s always a next call or text. The magic ting from the phone alerts me to that fact. Another person is here in cyber space, giving me cause to smile. (I don’t know if cyber space is the right choice to words).

I am off work today, able to watch the weather from my bedroom window. It is gray with periodic bursts of drizzle; the broken spigot works well.

I find myself meeting my neighbors in the elevator. It used to be proper to stare silently ahead, the ride from the 5th floor to the basement sacred and anything but a social gathering. No longer do we stare forward, eyes glazed, but rather we converse and smile meeting each other eye to eye.

Sam works at the super market in produce. My grandfather did the same. Grandpa used to tell me that sometimes he was up to his elbows in muck. Cantaloupes and Honey Dews would rot and he would be responsible for cleaning out the crates. He said it was hard to know a banana, the banana’s life short lived. Their age spots in death are darker and more plentiful than the age spots forming on the top of my forearms. It bothers Sam, as it did my grandpa, that customers get friendly with fruit, squeezing apples shamelessly.

Deidre wears wigs. I’ve ridden on the elevator several times with her. At first, I didn’t recognize her when she went from a short blonde bob to a long haired, wavy red head. I favored her black wig with the bangs; it made me think of Cleopatra and transported me for a second to ancient Egypt. I told her that I wore a wig for awhile. I had shaved my head just because. People kept mistaking me for a guy, which I hated. So, I bought a wig. Long black hair smelling of toast. I learned later that when meeting people they thought I had cancer and felt so bad for me that they acted weird, acted with unwarranted reverence. They thought me frail. People were careful not to bump into me or embrace me in greeting.

Jimmy smelled like a terrible mix of Old Spice and cigarette smoke. He rode the elevator with a cigarette hanging from his lips. I imagined his lighter in his front pocket, easy to reach, ensuring he could light up the first second he stepped over the threshold.

Gary, Luther, Pamela, Stephanie, George, Dana, Louise–all regulars who I would also run into in the laundry room on the second floor.

I like the brief contact I have with my neighbors. Brief is just right; a small bit of socialization, leaving me free after five minutes of conversation to walk through my door from the hall, shutting it and then burying my face in the hair of my cats on my way to my desk where I’ll sit and daydream for hours.

There’s a fever in my ear, my lobe bright red the color of poinsettias. I feel the heat, wonder who is talking about me. Isn’t that the truth–a troubled ear manifesting private conversations of people I know, close to my chest, or far from my sight. I consider the chatter well wishing. Do I believe people are talking about me? I’d rather they make a call. As far as “about me,” who am I to think I’m as important as coffee in the morning?

I ran into someone who follows my blog. This blog is dedicated to her. She said, “Kristina, write a blog even if it’s just a small one.” I took this as “stay in touch; I want you to stay in touch.”

Writing has not been easy lately. The kitty litter clumps. The ink of my pen pools as I spend time doodling.

My mind is undisciplined. Schizophrenia ties ribbons around my cortex. I don’t believe you have to have schizophrenia to have an undisciplined mind. Maybe it is required for day dreaming. Maybe it is required to take the stiffness out of life.

Time feels rapid. The new year is here. I’m as excited about it as I was excited about 2015. Change will come in little bursts of motivation.

I welcome 2016. I trust it will be good to me and I good to it.

My ear loses its red. No one is talking about me. Flowers rooted to the ground don’t always need water. It is quiet. No TV. No stereo. No other person. Just the sounds of my cats cleaning each other as they lean against my leg. I am seated on my bed. Light inches towards my window. Mostly my window is in shadow, although it’s clear to see through. A man is walking his dog. Beautiful. Beautiful peace.

Caress my brain with a breeze coming off my fingers, leaving me hell bent on stirring up trouble. I don’t stir up trouble. I’m fairly laid back, passing out peace like a tame rabbit wanting to be stroked. If I did stir up trouble, where and how would I do it?

I frequent the gym, the library (where I work), coffee houses, twelve step meetings, and grocery stores.

At the gym, I could go up to one of the women on steroids and tell her the drug isn’t favoring her, her jaw becoming square and her voice deep like a smoker’s rattle. Or I could go up to one of the half naked women and tell her she ought to cover up a bit more, a brush of belly tucked in by a T-shirt, simple. I could tell a male bodybuilder who has petite ankles that I wish I had his ankles, watch him cringe, his mouth forming a little o. There is the world’s loudest human; her conversation, heard in every corner of the gym, whom I could tell to tone it down. I might tell her to shut up, leaving her standing there, eyes wide, a puppy trained to silence.

At the library, the voices that I hear feed me words to repeat to patrons. The words are dehumanizing. If said, I would lose my job, rightly so.

At coffee houses, I might intentionally tip people’s coffee into their laps, hoping the coffee is not so hot it burns, not wanting to harm, simply wanting to play like a child throwing her sippy cup to the floor, giggling as she does it.

At twelve step meetings, I could tell the speaker to fuck off and sit down, raising the eyebrows of all in the room.

When in the grocery store, I would throw bananas to the floor and step on them, felling their squish like mud that has yet to harden. I could let the cashier know she is ringing up items too slowly, delaying my exit.

I am glad I don’t create trouble. It would leave me feeling bad like an adolescent who pees in his bed. Or like a girl rejected by a boy with a head of thick hair that flops to the side, hiding one eye.