~ And then the rains came….

It rained last night in Albuquerque.  It rained hard, not the “hard rain” of which Dylan warned, but a heavy rain nonetheless, at least for Albuquerque.  The rain was also not the “monsoons” of New Mexico, not a “persistent wind”; if the winds were persistent then they would be monsoons; they’re not persistent, they are more erratic and unpredictable; they do not come from the southwest (Texas and the gulf is southeast).  No, the rain is not the monsoons at all.  Words and rain are axiomatic.  You know them both (like water) by their leaks.

My wife made potato-leak soup the other day.  Joy of French Cooking as they say.  The soup was good, very good.  But then leaks beget leaks; which is water mostly and the pot becomes like the roof - one holds the leaks, the other lets them go.  Books wet with water are never the same.  The pages warp and crinkle and the inks run and the glue of the binding comes unglued and one is left with an unholy mess provided that one easily may forget that books themselves are the works of God, rooted in trees, and one knows who is the only one that can make a tree.

In the old days I would weep at the untimely loss of any book.  I have two small books two hundred years old from my great-grandparents or older.  The words are in Swedish, Bible verses, higher thoughts, words to lift the hearts of men and women when it rains.  Rain is a metaphor for rain; for rainy days; for times that are trying and filled with loss and leaking books - ink running across the floor, words left in ruin and even the pages left in ruin from where no one ever again will read them.  Which is worse; the words left forever unwritten or the words once written now left in ink smeared ruin?  It is a quandary for the gods.  For both I weep; meaning for both categories of books.  The gods weep for themselves alone.  And the rain that falls might be best regarded as the tears of God.

There is always great portent written in each rain.  The high pressure lifts, the low pressure falls as measured by barometers - by the barometers of men, rheumatism; rheumatoid arthritis.  It is what makes the joints hurt, reduces flexibility, rain upon the window and no wiper blades to push it off - the metal arms just etch the windshield with ever deeper groves in glass.  “You needed new blades long ago”, someone will one day say.  “I know”, meaning “I knew” will be my answer; but for today the windshield is lost for lack of free money for just the blades, thin strips of rubber too complex and costly to easily replace.  Buy my Saab (born of jets); there is ack-ack in the air.  Are we going down?  Can’t see.

I don’t think a car roof ever leaked.  A convertible roof maybe, but not a real roof, not a hard-top made of metal or Plexiglas or carbon fiber like atop the real (fast) jets.  My first car roof was a fiberglass affair.  It bolted on over my 1952 MG-TD that had a soft-top once; not still around when I owned this car.  For fresh air the roof came off, stored it in the garage on edge (less space) or in the backyard where it served as a sometimes shelter for the dog.  She was not impressed.

For real fresh aire the windscreen folded down.  Two wing nuts on the windows sides, chrome-plated guide bars too, could have the windshield half up if I chose to do so.  That was when there was real choice in America; ones car windshield half up or half down; it makes a statement about who you are.  The government of course did away with all of that.  Riding goggles could no longer be the rage, no flying scarves, no leather jackets like bombardiers to keep one warm and the constant splotch of insects “off”.

My MG had side-curtains.  They bolted on to either door, simple metal frames covered in canvas and a window of yellowing cellophane (think scotch tape, but only thicker).  The canvas was torn and badly worn so I would not use them.  The word was pride.  I was young and it was easier to withstand the bite of cold than the bite of scorn.  I was always an aviator at heart.  MG - born of prop-planes, Spitfires, Red Baron and Blue Max - is that not what it’s all about?  Rugged individualism, individualists - hero or terrorist of the sky, you decide.  But I think both were cold.  I was cold in the winter in my MG, windows always open even when the top was on; but, the top never leaked.  The snow and rain merely blew in each side.

Does one really need a windshield on their Saab?  Mine may be gone soon.  Should I buy another or is the windshield “just fat”.  Fat is what we have gotten used to but do in fact not need.  Fat is the excess.  Fat is the luxuries of life when life without luxury would be so much better; more invigorating; more rewarding.  Fat is what makes an otherwise good story, bad.  The meal is ruined by the vintage of the wine, not the color.  Fat is the fear quotient in every deal; the “drop dead” consequences; the price too high to pay.  Fat is having to say, “I’m sorry” (whether you actually do say the words is not the issue).

I’m 61 now; the flip of when I was 16.  Maybe the windowless society is coming back; windshields unnecessary; the wind is at your back or in your face and maybe the winds blow and the rains come and the snow is blowing as in a gale and it doesn’t really matter because “I am alive” and the world in alive too and the times they are a’changin.  Mary Travers was alive then, too.  Concert at UN (UNR).  I posted about it once.  Drove my MG there and back.  The top was off.  The windshield was down (I think).  Or maybe that’s just how it must have been; it was so long ago.  Can one ever go back, or would one really want to?

This post was going to be about the economy; Part 2 of “Ben”.  It was going to be about getting the fat out of everything, of slimming down, about doing with less and being happy.  America can live a long time off its savings; unemployment hurts, but for most there is a check; food stamps; food pantries and thrift stores and uncle Joe’s garage.  There is always a car around; an untrashed clunker, good roof if nothing else.  We fight for the good life that never comes.  There is always rain.  And the roof will always leak, French soup or no.  We once asked the Japanese people to endure the unendurable.  We felt that the expectation was reasonable under the circumstances.  Maybe we did the islands a favor.  Maybe we need the favor returned.

A Great Austerity never hurt anyone.  It is wealth that’s weakness.  If flood is followed by fire; then next time they will not burn books, but only drown them - plastic bottles of water emptied over curling pages, ink running, glue dissolving, covers rippled by the wet.  It will be a nasty sight as the heralds of text messaging and I-pods and “I read it on the web” mentalities adjust the color of their screens and say, “I told you so, about the sudden demise of books”.

I will be patching my leaks tomorrow.  It may take days or weeks or quite possibly forever.  I think cement roofs may very well be the newest fashion.  The best apartments have them, why not a house.  As I tire in my efforts one question will drive me on.  Are the tears tears of joy, tears of sorrow, or just tears of pain?  Rest in peace Mary Travers.  And Thank You.

[2009.09.17 / Thursday - Fat City]