rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Thick clouds concealed the sky with its the meteors this morning. They lingered most of the day. Late afternoon brought a breeze that cleared them away and filled the town with sunlight, and even a brief warmth, but I was away shopping so couldn't open my windows to catch any freshness. I returned to the stuffy house as the clouds began to form again, casting a new chill. There has been no rain yet, but it is apt to begin at any moment. The dusk feels damp.

Watching the houses fade and the trees become silhouettes, I wish I had wood for the fireplace. This would be a perfect night to drink tea and eat shortbread cookies by a fire. In a while I'll turn on the television, which must serve as my substitute fire. The clouds rush, the dark trees loom, and the houses are almost gone. Time to close the drapes.

Sunday Verse

Why It Often Rains in Movies

by Lawrence Raab

Because so much consequential thinking
happens in the rain. A steady mist
to recall departures, a bitter downpour
for betrayal. As if the first thing
a man wants to do when he learns his wife
is sleeping with his best friend, and has been
for years, the very first thing
is not to make a drink, and drink it,
and make another, but to walk outside
into bad weather. It's true
that the way we look doesn't always
reveal our feelings. Which is a problem
for the movies. And why somebody has to smash
a mirror, for example, to show he's angry
and full of self-hate, whereas actual people
rarely do this. And rarely sit on benches
in the pouring rain to weep. Is he wondering
why he didn't see it long ago? Is he wondering
if in fact he did, and lied to himself?
And perhaps she also saw the many ways
he'd allowed himself to be deceived. In this city
it will rain all night. So the three of them
return to their houses, and the wife
and her lover go upstairs to bed
while the husband takes a small black pistol
from a drawer, turns it over in his hands,
then puts it back. Thus demonstrating
his inability to respond to passion
with passion. But we don't want him
to shoot his wife, or his friend, or himself.
And we've begun to suspect
that none of this is going to work out,
that we'll leave the theater feeling
vaguely cheated, just as the movie,
turning away from the husband's sorrow,
leaves him to be a man who must continue,
day after day, to walk outside into the rain,
outside and back again, since now there can be
nowhere in this world for him to rest.


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