an old man in suspenders and dickies, off work, beating the rain to the next bus, said to me in a quiet, crinkled, speculative voice: it’s god’s weather; and he knows what he’s doing.
a young man with an ecstatic smile asked me, at a bus stop in the rain, how my day had been. when I said the day had been beautiful (damp breeze, full sun): every day is beautiful.
I laughed. that’s true. when I asked him how his day had been, he beamed: can’t complain. I laughed. that’s true. that’s the truth.
and comparisons between new orleans and venice–the sinking cities, those romantically doomed shanty-towns with mildewed cobblestones and processions of ghosts; the ephemeral islands intent, with all their resident romantics, on going down dancing. all this with talk of real estate and climate change.
and how much of that densely-packed, winsome rhetoric unravels when we try to distinguish between an act of god, our own failures and our fables; when we try to make sense of the rain and the floods and the sea level and sinking cities and real estate prices and why the bus is always late when it rains?
someone, surely, knows what they’re doing?
I turn 29 in two weeks.
I’m trying to restore order visually, conceptually, by writing in my planner and making collages and measuring how much cereal I put in my yogurt.
the rain and the real estate, however, I will leave to their own devices.