Today, on this particularly misty evening, I set out to pen my unabridged thoughts on the rain. Rain memories, if you will. And as I started writing these out -- these half-germinated stories about my most beloved form of weather -- this post became...a laundry heap.
Things get away from me.
And I realized, tipping and toppling as the mess was already -- it was only growing. A mass of rain-soaked memories. See them bounce off each other, chase each other, aggrandize. And so there they are -- murky puddles, pulling omnidirectional, pooling in in the low regions of my brain.
And I think some stories -- or the textures that give our stories life, give them that hit of verisimilitude -- deserve their own piece of paper, so to speak. (Or to blog-speak as it were! I sense an Orwellian tangent coming on, which I'll kindly jettison for now.)
And so, for me, rain is...actually, I don't know. I guess that's the point of part one: to not pretend to know the ending before I've trudged through bad weather and writing to get there. I'm not entirely sure there's a word for what rain is to me. I know what it is to have a lover, and a friend, and a feeling, a burning story, but I don't know about this one. Rain has always been this unspeakable force of nature around me, and to me, and in me.
This: I can only write in the rain.
But to write about the rain feels unattainable to me. It is too close to me, too much a part of me that I find myself becoming increasingly distracted by my feelings about it which get too mingled with descriptions and the whole thing starts to feel...
Dear rain, for you, I have a thousand admirable opening lines, and a thousand more pithy closing lines. But the middle lines get all mixed up, they start to move like you -- dripping, and beating, and cascading until
you have slipped away from me. Entirely. A truly untenable thing.
For me, riding that very rickety, precarious line between a story with just enough disorder and a little too much is the single most difficult feat in writing. But I will stand by that -- every story needs just enough disorder. To push toward entropy but not quite get there.
And below this line, right here, are the starts of five, ten, twenty, infinite rain essays. My mother in the rain. The flash flood that destroyed the yard. He proposed in the rain. It is like this. I am at sea. There is no place for us here. It is good to imagine things from the outside now and then. I have a distinct memory. The great metal sidings. Maybe you see a man trudging down the lane. White paper window coverings.
Ab, but like my Orwellian tangent on linguistics, I shall save these beginnings (or middles) for another (rainy) day. And now, take note. Because what this is, is a warning. My personal history of rain, part one, is, in summation: to not pretend to know the ending before I've trudged through bad weather and writing to get there.
Take this as a harbinger of messier essays to come. Now raise high your umbrellas; stay tuned for the static.