After the Rain
7 March 2006
Rain rattled on the rooftop and beat on the window panes, then stopped. P.U. opened the glass door onto the courtyard after only a brief argument. The newly cut grass stubble has not yet put forth fresh shoots, but there remain a few untouched tips of old blades, still good for a light snack. I step carefully across the stubble, stopping to greet an earthworm here, a spider there, old friends from before the long annual cold spell.
Behind me I hear JJ checking out the rainwater, P.U. cautioning him against drinking it, as though we do not understand the concerns caused by Marco’s recent demise. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, there arises a once familiar sound: the twittering of newborn birds. JJ is aroused. Too bad he just got his legs run off during his morning exercise session… :->
P.U. leaves the doorway; I follow to supervise the writing of this blog. Too often of late I fear I have been misquoted, misrepresented, misunderstood. One must speak one’s own mind if one desires understanding.
Take the Oscars — no, seriously, take them. Take them off the air. Take away all commercial-interlaced programming that insists on blaring and subsiding, blaring and subsiding, as though eardrums are their personal toys to destroy as they see fit. Of course, that should not be taken as advocacy for exclusive dvd programming either, for even with the closed captioning on, somehow the television set continues to blast and subside, blast and subside. What do those movie makers think they’re doing anyway: imitating real life? How representational can they be when they feature extinct creatures and sentient machinery? Give me a nice, quiet film with lush scenery and low, slow dialogue or better yet, silent films. Now, that was filmmaking!
Who am I kidding? I’ve never seen a silent film – only one on mute. Now that’s what I’m talking about. How else is a fellow to get quality time with the family and still keep up with 22 hours of rest a day? I ask you . . .
