This December and January I am sitting inside as much as if I lived in the northern hemisphere, where winter is keeping people indoors. Here it's rain.
Grass is dying, from having stood in water for weeks already. And this is without the flooding the weather bureau is forecasting. Yesterday Toowoomba in Queensland. Today, according to news bulletins, Mullumbimby in Northern NSW.
Except that the rain has held off, so far today. Okay, we might have had one or two little showers. But it's the real, 25mm-an-hour rain, falling steadily and without hold-up for hours that I'm talking about. And it's windy now. Some old timers would say, too windy for more rain.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed. If we have real rain, we will flood. The ground is sodden. In December we had 583 mm; in the last ten days we've already clocked up 206.5 mm. Am I impressed by these numbers?
Only so far as they tell me the story of our rain this summer. Stories can be in whatever can be read and interpreted. In fact, reading numbers, or facts, or clouds, or observations of nature in my backyard all become that much more interesting when string them together and I make them into stories.
It's what we all do with the bits and pieces we come across. The data, dust, factoids, facts, observations, words, lies, truths. As always the study is how we tack everything together. How we make the story. I haven't started to put things up yet. When it starts I'll be too worried to do anything else.