wet t-shirt

How entertaining is that title? Sounds so titillating (now there’s a pun to conjure with), but the truth, sadly, is prosaic. tl;dr – went for a walk, it rained.

(scheduled post)

Friends, Romans, pluviophiles and petrichor sniffers, lend me your queers.

It’s lovely when the weather fits my mood, but as with most things, the dark stuff stands out far more than the light. I needed wuthering weather and I got it. The day began with sunshine, my first beach walk was a rather sweaty one. The second one started off cloudy and rapidly progressed to pissing it down. I loved it. There’s that fresh air feeling that the rain  brings and the odd elation of striding along a foggy beach.

Night fell and it rained harder, a lot harder. I battened the proverbial hatches and settled in to enjoy the sound and feel cosy and then, as usual, I checked my privilege. I forget every single time, that I live in a country full of ‘informal housing’ (shacks) and too often they’re on flood plains and get hit hard. While I’m warm and comfortable and fussing about so that my possessions don’t get damp, fuckloads of people are very cold and wet and hoping their possessions don’t disappear for good. I’ve probably said it before, but charities are mostly an inefficient way to help. Better to help within your own community amirite? Well, assuming there are shacks or homeless people anyway. Read Robert Calderisi’s The Trouble With Africa if you don’t believe me. In fact, read it anyway.

I’m skilled at leaping from a soapbox on to a hobby horse and ranting/digressing.

The following day the weather shifted a bit and I had the rainy walk in the morning and the sweaty one at the end of the day. I sat on a rock at the end and picked out tiny pebbles and pieces of glass. The bookshelf Buddha’s bowl is full of misty, smooth seaglass now, I’ll have to find something else to do with the future findings.

A walk in the rain on a beach in a warm country is a lovely thing. Whatever the Mood is like at the start of it, it will be at least a little calmer at the end. It’s the perfect place and time for weeping too. Mister Neruda wrote the poems I love best about the rain and the sea (and a hell of a lot of other things besides). I’ve already blogged two of his sea poems, so here’s a breathtakingly beautiful one about rain.

(My mother spent a day on Easter Island; I say things like that with pride, as though I’d done them myself. She visited Neruda’s house in Valparaiso too, and brought me back a local business leaflet, Neruda Shoes. Me and digressing, we’re inseparable, but there’s a reason for this one…)

I fucking love this poem, even when it makes me want to fucking cry.

Rain (Rapa Nui) by Pablo Neruda

No, better the Queen not recognize
your face, it’s sweeter
this way, my love, far from the effigies, the weight
of your hair in my hands. Do you remember
the Mangareva tree whose flowers fell
in your hair? These fingers are not like
the white petals: look at them they are like roots,
they are like stone shoots over which the lizard
slides. Don’t be afraid, we will wait for the rain to fall, naked,
the rain, the same as falls over Manu Tara.

But just as water inures its strokes on the stone,
it falls on us, washing us softly
towards obscurity down below the hole
of Ranu Raraku. And so
don’t let the fishermen or the wine-pitcher see you.
Bury your twin-burning breast on my mouth,
and let your head of hair be a small night for me,
a darkness of wet perfume enveloping me.

At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain. Sometimes
I think that with death we will seep below,
in the depths at the feet of he effigy, looking over
the ocean which brought us here to build and make love.

My hands were not ferrous when they met you, the waters
of another sea went through them as through a net; now
water and stones sustain seeds and secrets.

Sleeping and naked, love me: on the shore
you are like the island: your love confused, your love
astonished, hidden in the cavity of dreams,
is like the movement of the sea around us.

And when I too begin falling asleep
in your love, naked,
leave my hand between your breasts so it can throb
along with your nipples wet with rain.

(Trans. Anthony Kerrigan)

And here is my favourite cover of a song from my favourite film…

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