{"id":98353,"date":"2017-09-11T12:00:57","date_gmt":"2017-09-11T11:00:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/?p=98353"},"modified":"2017-09-09T15:11:09","modified_gmt":"2017-09-09T14:11:09","slug":"ghostly-voices-dancing-in-the-rain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/2017\/09\/ghostly-voices-dancing-in-the-rain\/","title":{"rendered":"Ghostly Voices Dancing in the Rain"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u201cIn the other room Rateau was looking at the canvas, completely blank, in the center of which Jonas had merely written in very small letters a word that could be made out, but without any certainty as to whether it should be read <\/em>solitary or <\/em>solidary.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>
\n— Albert Camus, The Artist at Work<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

8 Sep 2017 – <\/em>A solitary, early Sunday morning walk in the rain.\u00a0 As I like it, my only walking companion was the soothing sound of rain in the trees and on the lake.\u00a0 From the shallow water at the lake\u2019s swampy edge, a blue heron, perched on one leg, froze my gaze as I stopped and stared.\u00a0 As I turned to walk on, it rose with blue beating wings and soared up through the raindrops, alighting high above out on a limb.\u00a0 The road was flooding as I walked, water streaming down the hill, creating eddies as it met the water backing up from the over-filled lake.\u00a0 The eddies formed whirling patterns, artistic visions running counter to the main current.<\/p>\n

My mind swirled with thoughts as I walked and talked to all my ghosts, dead and living, who accompany me everywhere, but whose presence is so palpable in the rain.\u00a0 Their voices seemed to descend with the drops, bouncing off the water and echoing in my mind.<\/p>\n

I heard my mother say to me, \u201cEddy, you were always a contrarian.\u00a0 I worry about you.\u201d\u00a0 Yes, I answered, I am, but you named me, and Eddy is the correct spelling.\u00a0 I\u2019m an eddy, a whirlpool, a contrarian, one who runs counter to the mainstream.\u00a0 But, dear mother, the mainstream is flowing fast toward destruction, carrying everyone and everything with it.\u00a0 We have to reverse course and resist. Please, mother, worry only if I wasn\u2019t walking against the wind.<\/p>\n

Through the weeping trees I heard Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk, whisper, \u201cI told you that someday they will sell us the rain. Everyone and everything is for sale. \u2018They\u2019 are the people who don\u2019t understand that rain is a free and useless festival, and because it is a gift, they wish to control it. The weather modifiers and geo-engineers are working overtime now. Together with the nuclear madmen, they will rain poisonous death upon us all unless we stop them.\u00a0 Remember: to be a contemplative is to be an outlaw.\u00a0 Don\u2019t divorce resistance from contemplation; they are married for life.\u00a0 Joy and suffering are their children.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t reply, just kept walking, sloshing and slamming through the puddles. Merton has an eerie way of insinuating himself into odd private moments, and I didn\u2019t want an extended conversation.\u00a0 I just wanted to enjoy the rain.<\/p>\n

The sloshing brought voices from my children\u2019s young years, the exultation as we romped streaming-wet through the wild beating storm, singing at the top of our voices, \u201cIf all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops\/Oh what a rain it would be\/I would stand outside with my mouth open wide\/ Ah ah ah ah\u2026\u201d I opened my mouth wide, tongue out, and tilted my head back.\u00a0 Ah, the sweet taste of love and joy.\u00a0 I heard my children scream ecstatically, \u201cYippee!\u201d and whirl and twirl with mouths agape.<\/p>\n

On I walked, listening and watching. The rain fell harder, so hard it was difficult to see and all other sounds were completely obliterated.\u00a0 Bubbling up from somewhere came the rhythm of Jacques Pr\u00e9vert\u2019s poem, \u201cBarbara\u201d:<\/p>\n

Remember Barbara<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It rained all day on Brest that day<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And you walked smiling<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Flushed enraptured streaming wet<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the rain<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 That good and happy rain<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 On your happy face<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 On that happy town<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Oh Barbara<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 What shit stupidity the war<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Now what\u2019s become of you<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Under this iron rain<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Of fire and steel and blood<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And he who held you in his arms<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Amorously<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Is he dead or gone or still so much alive<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Oh Barbara<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s rained all day on Brest today<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Of which there\u2019s nothing left<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

And here I was walking and wondering in the rain about Barbara and her lover and all the dead and lost in Brest in the \u201cGood War\u201d and whether we will have a sequel or has it already started.\u00a0 I called out to Barbara, but only the wild rain hammered its reply: resist resist resist the warmakers.<\/p>\n

The soaking I was getting refreshed me, but now the beating of the rain and the ghostly voices seemed to ping-pong my mind between joy and sorrow, solitude and solidarity, resistance and contemplation, enjoyment and commitment. Did I have the right to enjoy the rain when thousands were dead in South Asian flooding and Houston was under water?<\/p>\n

Then my old lugubrious friend Fred surprised me with something he said to me years ago:<\/p>\n

We do not belong to those who have ideas only among books, when stimulated by books.\u00a0 It is our habit to think outdoors \u2013 walking, leaping, climbing, dancing, preferably on lonely mountains or near the sea where even the trails become thoughtful. \u00a0Our first questions about the value of a book, of a human being, or a musical composition are: Can they walk?\u00a0 Even more, can they dance? <\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Surprised me because Nietzsche wasn\u2019t exactly a barrel of laughs and I couldn\u2019t imagine him moon-walking with Michael Jackson.\u00a0 Anyway, I was walking, and why was he bothering me about books?\u00a0 I was alone in the rain, trying to enjoy myself.<\/p>\n

Then Willie Yeats popped out of the lapping lake, book in hand , and blocked my path.\u00a0 Standing ghostlike in the mist, the crazy Irishman read these words from a poem I had tried to remember to forget:<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Seventy years have I lived<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 No ragged beggar-man<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Seventy years have I lived,<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Seventy years man and boy,<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And never have I danced for joy.<\/em><\/p>\n

My \u00a0ghosts were getting on my nerves and Yeats depressed me, so I pushed through him and moved on. Just then, in this melancholy pensive mood, I was startled, not by a voice but by the sight of a mother raccoon, bedraggled by the heavy rain, scurrying past me with a sidelong glance, her baby hanging from her mouth, as she took her kit to a higher, drier home up the hill. My heart quivered.\u00a0 I remembered having read in a book that raccoons take their young out in their mouths for what are called \u201cadventures,\u201d and perhaps this mother had been doing that when the rains came down.\u00a0 It was a beautiful sight, and my mother\u2019s voice came back to me: \u201cBeauty is as Beauty does.\u201d Action, not words.\u00a0 And yet\u2026Weren\u2019t words actions?\u00a0 Or were they useless.\u00a0 Wasn\u2019t Ionesco right?\u00a0 \u201cIf one does not understand the usefulness of the useless and the uselessness of the useful, one cannot understand art.\u00a0 And a country where art is not understood is a country of slaves and robots.\u201d<\/p>\n

So I too turned and headed home, my ghostly voices melding into a chorus of song that I can\u2019t fully explain, nor do I want to. Like that blue heron, they were balancing on one leg out on a limb, and I was happy. The rain was still beautiful, and I rejoiced in its baptism, but I knew with Bob Dylan that \u201ca hard rain\u2019s a-gonna fall,\u201d<\/a> and that there are children to be saved from those intent on raining destruction on their heads. But on my way back, I was still going to kick up the puddles and join Gene Kelly in singing in the rain.<\/a> \u00a0And no Puritan cop, haunted by the fear that someone somewhere was happily enjoying himself, however briefly, was going to stop me, even if one stopped Kelly.<\/p>\n

Camus was right: the solitary artist works in solidarity with everyone, when he tells the truth.<\/p>\n

And to think I thought I walked alone.\u00a0 How funny.<\/p>\n

________________________________________<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>Edward Curtin is a writer whose work has appeared widely.\u00a0 He teaches sociology at Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts. His website is <\/em>http:\/\/edwardcurtin.com\/<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

8 Sep 2017 – A solitary, early Sunday morning walk in the rain. As I like it, my only walking companion was the soothing sound of rain in the trees and on the lake. From the shallow water at the lake\u2019s swampy edge, a blue heron, perched on one leg, froze my gaze as I stopped and stared. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[63],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-98353","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-inspirational"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98353","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=98353"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98353\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=98353"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=98353"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=98353"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}