Friday, January 18, 2008


Walking down the block, drizzle grazing against skin; in my cheeks most of all, it felt flushed but in a good way. Innocent play for rain. Ordinarily it would’ve irritated me, or at least remind me of what was to come. Irish rain is temperamental, predictably unpredictable. It can, in a matter of minutes, go from dewy caresses, all nice and coy, like it was then, to whipping fury, like is is now, slapping against the panes, chasing walkers into running for cover, any cover. Lashing out at them, whirring terrestrials about – whip, whir, sheet slap – did Joyce mention this? Sure he must’ve. Rain is laced into the landscape, you can hardly talk about Dublin without mentioning it.

Day in, day out it rains, with short stops in between welling up from overactive ducts. A similar condition I have, often waking up with streams down my face. No emotion, just water, though if you were to see me, you’d probably think I was grappling with the infinite sadness yet again. Anyway, as I walked along I felt light. A trite word that ceases to be so when it fits. The sign in front of me aways read “Yield,“ which I took as a prompt.

It happened suddenly. Or maybe it was a long way coming; I just didn’t know it. Like most things in life that end up resonating, it swam its way in, weightless liquid absorption-like, without announcing itself. It was just there, a certain something that eluded definition or even description, and for that it was even stronger. Sensed sideways, peripherally, much like spotting objects in the sky - cosmic modesty perhaps, who knows? Squeezing it into form snapped it shut and out of sight. I smiled, close to happiness.


Banno said...

In this hot day here, felt caressed and stung by the Irish rain, and happy.

Indeterminacy said...

Irish rain has character! And Hamburg's rain is so boring and predictable. We know it will rain, and it does. Today too. I lost an umbrella in Dublin back in 1989. Maybe it is still there somewhere, watching it rain.