"It had been raining that day from morning to night—the kind of soft, monotonous, misty rain that often falls at that time of year, washing away bit by bit the memories of summer burned into the earth. Coursing down the gutters, all those memories flowed into the sewers and rivers, to be carried to the deep, dark ocean."
— Haruki Murakami
Southern Boy reprimands me for loving this quote, and actually anything from Murakami, or Dostoevsky, or Tolstoy, or anything that I appreciate that was translated from another language for that matter and I see his point, I really do. Something is lost in translation. It's why when I was 16 years old I set the lofty life goal of learning enough Russian to read Crime and Punishment in its original language (a goal towards which I have made exactly zero advances). It would be like seeing this:
and not just an incredible photograph of it. Breathtaking. Ethereal. Divine.
But the world isn't perfect, and for now, I'll settle for Murakimi's description of a late summer rain because right now it is perfect--a perfect description of today. While Charleston is knee-deep in the water somewhere (King Street, actually) and New Orleans is preparing for the worst, Greenville is warm, grey, and ever so slightly touched by the outskirts of Tropical Storm Isaac. Washing away those summer memories. The whir of the electric fan pushing around humid air in my tiny single, small enough to embrace me with its four walls. The musty smell that took me back to childhood trips to the Philippines. Subjecting myself to additional heat only among the Grotto candles on Tuesday nights. The miraculous way I had enough of a voice to cantor every Friday after a long week. Loving the present in a way I never had before. Hot, searing, burning into the earth. To be carried away to the deep, dark ocean.
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