Monsoon Jan25

 

 

In the first instance the guess was a spray from the upstairs window. Who was it in that room directly above, it was not clear. Maybe the Chinese-Indonesian, whose name would have been difficult had it been first acquaintance. Wahyu. Nice brightly smiling chap encountered outside the door going through the mail in his striped office shirt. Finest spray last suspicious liquid from a bottle, say, shaken out the window. A minute or two passed before some more descended on that same corner in the left window sash, drifting slightly to the right. Against the grey shutter and facade of the corner house it was visible, and nowhere else. Finest gossamer. In another very brief example minutes later, again, with a few larger drops among the rest. This was not Wahyu now; this was something else. Minutes passing before another repeat. Jeepers. Then the tree against the wall of the Indian’s house directly opposite gave off some droplets from the lower branches, falling onto the patchy grass beneath, a number of leaves bending under the weight. Through the diamonds of the fencing visible. Now the question was whether the large tree on the corner might have been releasing droplets in a stir of breeze like the other and carried over. The distance was about ten metres up to the topmost branches; if that was the source the spray could only have come from the heights there, collected from rain earlier in the morning, possibly. Minutes again between episodes; five and more in the case of the longer gaps. Numerous passersby in the interim. One older woman with a badly faded dye riding a bicycle first called a name it might have been, followed by, Zhao un. Ni hao, ni hao. Girly tone. Tall, older man footing in the opposite direction carried a furled umbrella at chest level that like a wand appeared to give off a carnival-like tune. Dust motes mixed with faintest droplets drifting by. Shortly after eight o’clock, an earlier breakfast before the window, aircon low. Lightest grey over palest blues upstairs. For the whole half hour none of the passersby could have felt the merest drop, even on naked skin. Finally, one old duck taking the corner from Carpmael proper and turning toward the Haig, carrying her white umbrella unfurled. It would have been good to ask whether it was against the sun, or the moisture in the air she was shielding. First week of February forecast dry and warmer after the afternoon bucketings the last 3 - 4 weeks. Floods in some parts and serious in neighbouring countries.
         This while reading Richard Zenith’s edition of Pessoa’s Lisbon window in The Book of Disquiet, after the poems had been read the month before. Quite uncanny much of that particular writerly consciousness, delivered as if on a platter.

NB. The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa – ed. & transl. Richard Zenith

Pessoa & Co., Selected Poems - ed. & transl. Richard Zenith