Donna and I walked around in the rain in Northwest, ate Thai food and went to Powell's. We were all dripping from the rain, wandered around and shared carrot cake in the coffee room and read books.

Lately music has been giving me this feeling, like taking off.

I'm looking out the window, Sandy Blvd at night, and the headlights going by are reflecting on the wet street, the sides of buildings, and the wet windowpane, like a vision. Donna stands up in the living room and the lamplight hits her, and her reflection in the window covers up the dark scene outside.

You know that feeling of driving fast over an old iron bridge at twilight, that feeling of rising up?

You know that feeling when you're singing under your breath and stuck in traffic and your car stalls? But you aren't worried and keep singing, until it won't turn over and you think, I might be stuck here. You come to terms with that thought. Then the engine barely turns over, like a miracle.

You know that feeling when it's dark and wet and your shoes are wet, you're starting the car and it's sputtering and keeps reversing when you have it in drive or driving when you have it in reverse? And you think, there must be something seriously wrong, probably my transmission is just going to fall out of the car onto the ground. But it doesn't.

I don't know why I'm writing about driving so much. I drive a lot. I bought my car exactly two years ago, for $800, and I still can't believe it's still running. How is it that I'm holding this thing together?

That's how I feel about a lot of things.

Also, how big it all is, everything, and how it seems to carry me along, hand to hand, or like a river.