rain writing

Rain Hammers the Roof

NSP Meditations, Of Walking in Rain , , , , , ,

Rain hammers the roof. There is an army up there. It is that Ken Kesey Sometimes a Great Notion, Halloween rain. It transfixes and it tranquilizes; it whispers and it roars. I will probably venture forth into it this morning, in body and mind, and seek out my fellow rain addicts. We never meet, of course, in rain that is, only through words that worship it. Everything is soaked and water pools on the yard. The dog stares out the window and longs for something. Open the door, and he won’t go out. These are the great gray mornings of walking in rain, maybe with a cup of coffee open to the sky, rain with coffee, not a dilution, but a vitamin supplement, a secret supplement. This is the perfect time to write noir and roll rain into the plot, but not the clichés of rain that always appear in noir. One day I hope to write the great rain mystery novel. I’ve been thinking about it for years. I want to go see a river running full and white, frothing, churning, spilling over man made channels. Somewhere in dive taverns and bars along the Oregon Coast, Hamm’s are being cracked open and men and women are sipping them in concert to the hammering on the roof. In a few of these joints, the drinkers will drift toward the windows an watch. In the windowless joints, they will just have to imagine.

Rain Things

NSP Meditations, Of Walking in Rain , ,

I took a walk in Friday rain, a morning walk, and thought about the blue REI raincoat I was wearing. I have owned it for 33 years and walked in rain on four continents with it. It is a trusted friend, much like the pea coat I have owned for 22 years. It is good to have garments like that, such as the black leather belt I’ve had for 26 years and the green Puma sneakers I’ve had for 30. I also still use the sleeping bag I took to Europe, Asia and Mexico 30 years ago. I’ve slept out in the rain in that bag. I long for a new rain dog, like Ray, Sonny and Jo Jo. I just move so much better in rain with a dog. New rain territory is beckoning. I mean that both in the literal and metaphorical sense. I’m watching rain fall upon a cedar as I write this. I hear the squeaking of swing set nearby. Someone is swinging in the rain. Tonight there will be high school football in rain, but unfortunately for the players, many of them will have to play on fake grass, made from oil. There will be no poetry in that. This is soup weather and I will whip up something soupy for lunch. I received a nice email from someone who once told me I redefined rain for her with my book about rain, which wasn’t about the weather at all. I’ve noticed more umbrellas for sale in thrift stores. You used to never see them. So much about Oregon is changing, even more or less rain, depending on where you live. We’re into October and the big rain blow that annually sweeps across Western Oregon is imminent. It will then be Sometimes a Great Notion time, to read and rain. This season, I’ll be listening to rain striking a metal roof. It will be occasionally deafening, and when that happens, I’ll smile, talk to myself aloud, and wish I had a dog.

Rain Coffee Shop Novel Notes

NSP Meditations, Of Walking in Rain , , , , ,

In my novel, rain slaps against the windows of the coffee shop. The windows are good. They will hold.

Two Christians talk Christian things. The Bible has some good lines of rain although it basically is a book of the desert.

A man fondles the crucifix he’s wearing around his neck as he reads the Bible.

A crow on the roof seems delighted with his manic splashing in the rain. I’ve seen humans act like that after a long dry spell. Umbrellas automatically prevent this sight, among other beauties of rain.

A school bus full of children rolls by the window. They will go to school, plug in, and learn nothing of rain. I once taught my students about rain. Rain was an essential curriculum.

Rain offer opportunities for the mind; the sun dulls them. Rain is a Russian novel; the sun an airline magazine.

I think about someone who had rain tattooed on her arm. Where is she?

I wonder if anyone is reading my rain book at this exact moment. I have approximately 40 rain books left.

Rain inspires conversations; the sun makes people want to workout. Rain kills fire; the sun sparks fires. When will this country ever elect a man or woman of rain to serve as President?

Rain picks up outside. I sense a deluge is coming. I mean that in reality and metaphor.

Raymond Carver Rain Thoughts

NSP Meditations, Of Walking in Rain , , , , ,

Raymond Carver wrote poems and stories with many mentions of rain. In some recent poems of his I’ve read, he doesn’t use the article “the” before rain. He lets rain stand alone. I never use an article before rain. Rain doesn’t need it. Poetry of rain certainly doesn’t need it. Using an umbrella is like using “the” before rain. Let rain fall without introduction or barrier. Can rain wash away insanity? Yes. It can be a clarifying sane friend but don’t whisper that to the officially sane and powerful. If you do, they’ll think your insane. Rain falls mainly on the plain (although not in Oregon) on the sane and insane like but the complainers about rain are the ones who control the weather of our lives.

It is raining as I write this. I want to hear Hank Williams sing about rain. I wrote this years ago: rain ruins guns; the sun keeps powder dry. I have climbed a ladder of rain in my life. It wasn’t even slippery. Remember that great funk song by The Commodores, “Slippery When Wet”? It wasn’t about rain. I have seen hummingbirds fly in rain, once seven at time. You don’t forget something like that. A kind of bad human rain is falling upon me and finding cracks. Seepage has occurred. Water damage has commenced. I need an urgent caulking, but with what kind of caulk? Who will caulk me? There is no rain in hell, only fire. Rain turns certain children into brats. A good stropping by rain won’t improve their surly dispositions. Where is my great cryptic rain writer? Resolute. I must remain resolute to combat the ongoing and imposed dehydration of my soul. I will find my resolve by walking in rain. People cancel appointments when it rains with ferocity. I keep them and make the appointment become part of a rain story. Rain initiates acts of kindness; the sun forestalls them. I’ve got one box of rain books left. Box of Rain. I think there was a song along those soggy lines. I plan on conducting an experiment. I will let rain fill an empty cardboard box (that formerly contained by rain books) and see how long the box holds water. Then, I will have the science and the metaphor I need to survive.

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Random Rainy Thoughts

NSP Meditations, Of Walking in Rain , , , , , ,

Rain seeps into my docile. It tickles and trickles in through invisible seams. I need to caulk and recaulk. I write this while sipping a black beer. I wish I had some good old country music playing. I am living a good country song right about now. I am wearing a Western shirt as I write this. Can you have a black beer in a country song?

There are so many things I should be writing about but in recent weeks I haven’t been writing about them. The plan was to sequester myself in a remote place in my mind and write something that could potentially earn me a living. Writing to fend off starvation was the working editorial urgency.

Instead I am writing on: biscuits and gravy, dogs, old dogs, rain, Christmas craft fairs, clearcuts, culverts, Oregon tavern age life, ferns, watersheds, Port Orford, books no one reads, Sometimes a Great Notion, poetry, love, rivers, rain, RV parks, firewood. I can’t seem to commit to what should be written and perhaps therein lies the key to what is important to write.

I am also reading books and pamphlets that no one reads anymore. I find them everywhere, abandoned, bargain bins, street libraries, dive bars, trash cans.

Strangers come out in the rain: a man hauling firewood; a woman running down the beach in absurd fashion; an old timer mining for gold; a bartender reading self-books written where the sun perpetually shines, written by authors who all sport tans; a woman selling wood burnings for Christmas tree decorations made from wood scavenged from construction sites; a man playing pool with a hustler’s past mindset, but not the skill; two men who knock off from roofing to drink in the afternoon.

I walked a dog in rain the other day, a crazy mutt the color of apple brandy. He was more Mexican jumping bean than dog and he delighted me with his antics and the little break of skin on my hand from his treat-eating savagery.

It is hard to believe that Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann both wrote long short stories about dogs that barked with so much existentialism (human, not canine) that they often proved difficult to read.

But at least the dogs didn’t die at the end! (I think.) I can’t say the stories had happy endings, either. They just ended.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

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