Summer Soliloquies

Rain

There are three options for walking in the rain: wearing a raincoat, umbrella, or normal clothes. A raincoat is much like a regular coat. It covers the body from the waist up and zips across in such a way as to emphasize one's bilateral symmetry. The only difference between a raincoat and a normal coat is that the raincoat is covered in a water-rejecting film. Like a blade, it separates the two phases of matter: solid and liquid. Most raincoats include hoods. These hoods protect the hair from water. They mask the pedestrian, but in the process narrow one's vision. The hood focuses the individual: on the street they are crossing, the fog, headlights, a passing dog... By the nature of hoods, one faces only in the direction of movement. One meets their future, whatever it may be. One need not wear a hooded raincoat but in these cases, the rain can seep down the coat and embrace the body. The water permeates the cotton shirt, blurring the divorce between solid and liquid. We are moving liquid, an extension of the rain, another phase of matter but most often, we require barriers between the liquid of the outside world and the soft solid of our flesh.

The second option is to wear an umbrella. An umbrella is a tent with one pole, a tent that folds with ease and is light enough for her to carry. It is shaped like the head of a jellyfish. In her hands it forms a kite in the wind. While slicing the two worlds of wet and dry, the umbrella merges the experience of outdoors and indoors. It is like a room she can wear. It is an alternative to the raincoat that need not compromise fashion. Nor does the umbrella cloud her field of vision. While underneath this floating gazebo she is visible to the outside world, but not part of it. She is alone in herself. When a neighbor walks past, she must walk farther away from him, else the umbrella might brush against his hair. The umbrella is a force field, a cane of isolation. When two people walk under separate umbrellas, they are not in love. Contrarily, when an umbrella is shared, it reinforces intimacy. Suddenly the entire world is excluded. Our world becomes a backdrop, a mere stage device. We realize that there are only two people in the universe. The lacquered surroundings form a set of reflections. We see each other in the puddles, the long nights at work, the drive home. The mountains are just a different translation of your skin, the landscape, a collection of languages each defining the same word, the same two individuals.

The third option is to wear what one normally wears. This often ends in disappointment although some can be lucky. The rain upwells emotion. It does not relent. I am breathless breathing underwater. Shards of sky pound on the taut fabric of your force field. Rain surges. Wind rises, howls. The umbrella pulls you forward. On the street I spot it and find myself enveloped in your warmth.