watching the rain from very far away
Sometimes there are things you think about saying, but it’s best for all concerned that you don’t.
On Monday morning I got up and looked out my window. I was in a state of undress, but that’s beside the point. I could see the rain breaking – a circumscribed, lit-up ladder of it – from far away.
In my state of undress (although that is still beside the point) I thought to myself: all I want to do is write about how the rain looks. A bright long ribbon of a sun shower in the middle of the harbour. So out of sorts with the rest of the greyasgrey sky. The rain moved in a seamless stream of light, striated, a million delicate particles, slightly wind-borne. An ephemeral, milkyish curtain.
But anyway. Then I put my clothes on and got the fuck to work. There’s not much time in life to ruminate on the way a contained outbreak of rain appears, out of nowhere, on the water, of a morning. Ruminating on that sort of shit is not the sort of thing your career counsellor talks about to you when you’re about to sling your rucksack over your shoulder and brave your way in the world.
Sort of like how the cautionary tale as a wet-behind-the-ears arts student back in the day was that all the best philosophy students made the best milkmen&women.
Tonight I have been thinking about commerce and the written word. Because I have to. It makes me wretched in a lot of ways. But, still, like I said, I have to.
Some other things I thought about on this funny old rollercoaster of a funny old week:
How the meek shall not inherit the earth. [But only in an abstract way. I wasn’t thinking about the plight of shy aliens overtaking our watery planet or anything.]
How staying at home and doing nothing is the new chicken soup for the soul. [Ugh. It felt a bit gross even writing that, the chicken soup/soul part, but you know what I mean. Or you don’t.]
How I have an overwhelming desire to live outlandishly outside my means. [Why is that? And why is it that I’m so convinced that I would be (and sort of am) completely brilliant at it.]
How I am not a good dancer. Maybe because I hardly ever do it any more. Maybe you just become shit at the things you forget about.
How I shouldn’t drunk poetry-write. Sort of like obsessed jilted lovers shouldn’t drunk-dial. [Oh well, at least I’ve only got myself and some typed babble to deal with in the morning – it’s not like a restraining order or anything.]
Tomorrow is Friday. Fridays never lose their sweet, sweet charm.
I am looking forward to Waiting for Godot in June or July or whenever it is. One day I am going to memorise the entire script, just because I can. I am going to sit inside a window with a view of the water, waiting for the delicate, passing magic of sun showers, and commit Godot to memory.
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