I found a new poet that suits my fancy and who has wooed me with words that both thrill and hurt at the same time, like the satisfaction of ripping off a particularly large scab: Bianca Sparacino.
I found a new book who’s silky soft pages have drawn me in like the purring of a cat as my fingers revel in it’s fur: the Book of Common Prayer.
I found a new spot in Starbucks in the middle of everyone and it’s like getting lost on stage amidst all the other dancers: the little round table against the wall-length window.
It’s raining. I can hear the pitter-patter of the drops punctuate my swallowing as the coffee slowly seeps into my bloodstream with the familiarity of my favorite drug. What a melancholy day.
All of my new things match my melancholy mood. Grey is a neutral and it goes with everything. Sparacino’s words echo the idea that every person is build upon the foundation of their past and sometimes the concrete crumbles just a bit and makes every moment after that a little shaky. Sometimes you have to paint your life masterpiece on a grey canvas. Not that it’s a bad thing — all the colors seem brighter after that. The hardest part is finding a friend who is enough of an artist to understand that the background cannot be changed without changing the painting entirely.
And the Book of Common Prayer? The words slide off the tongue and splash into our soul like rocks thrown into a puddle. The initial emotional impact gets your attention but it’s the subtle intellectual ripples in the aftereffect that actually make the difference. It’s hard to see a poem that describes humans as fallen and frail human beings and not immediately realize the depressing atmosphere. At the same time though, one wouldn’t be able to appreciate the depth of emotion that drips from the Psalms without first recognizing the contrast.
And the corner table in the middle of all the retired people drinking coffee and reading the newspaper? Well the newspapers are grey enough without the grey window shade pulled down next to me. My mocha sits in the shadows of the table, a single drip clinging to the lid as the empty cup mocks me. No matter. I can still watch the raindrops racing each other down the pane, despite the greyscale wash.
It’s wonderfully melancholy. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a day like this. That’s the thing about rain. It doesn’t mean that it’s a bad day, an unproductive day, an un-motivating day.
There’s nothing wrong with the rain. It just doesn’t know how to fall upwards.