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It rains. And it rains. Down it
rains, outside in the dark. Big dense drops of water, hurtling down to hit
the ground. Dull thuds. Hitting the barbecue, sharp tings. Dripping off
the roof, almost in rhythm. A sudden gust of wind, water from the broken
drain splatters to the concrete without warning. A gust of wind that hurls
about the tree in the yard. It waves. It waves and stabilises. It waves
again. And the yard falls silent, barely a drip. And again it rains into
the cold dark yard.
My eyes return, to the room I'm in. To coats and cups and crumbs, a cobweb. I glance around and the room moves, just out of sight. A pen moves, a picture shifts, the carpet dips. Maybe it's my eyes, tired and closing. Maybe it's my mind, crazy and sprawling. Outside the concrete is splattered, the tree waves. Inside nothing moves. Inside all is silent. Even the record I'm listening to. Even the hum of the fridge in the kitchen. All around ouside the city is falling, falling under the rain. The houses fall under the rain and squash and crush us. Crush me. Outside the air is wet. I cough and take another slurp of tea. Outside the air is cool and blowing. I flap my shirt and roll up my sleeves. Outside the air is fresh and smells of soil. There is no substitute. I scratch my head and look through the window. It rains. And it rains. Down it rains. Crazy, my mind sprawls. Cool and wet and fresh, outside. I scratch my head. I don't know what to call the thing I want. I don't know how to get whatever it is. Outside the concrete is splattered. Inside my mind nothing moves. Inside my mind all is silent. Except for the whir as I go round and round and round in circles, crazy, sprawling, squashed. And it rains. |
© Scarlet Sa 8 June 1991
| Note: After leaving VI form college I went on the dole and lived in a shared house with some friends for a year. It was not the beginning of my new and exciting adult life, as I had hoped, but a strange limbo world between college and university. I spent many a late night alone, listening to records and struggling for writing inspiration. There was none. I wasn't doing anything with my life, and being on the dole wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be. I just got up in time for Neighbours at lunch time, and went to bed in the early hours of the morning, usually pissed or stoned. This piece of writing reflects the inactivity within, and the perceived liberation to be found out there, somewhere, in the real world. |