Sunday morning brings a brief reprieve, a misty gray sunshine illuminating the still-flooded streets. As I walk to the coffee shop, jonesing for a rush of caffeine that might inspire my research and writing, I witness a small sports car marooned on smith street. Murky brown water reaches its window. The car has been long abandoned. It has become an island of rust and possible regret. The coffee shop is entirely empty, closing early for the day; we expect further rains to come later, and the barista must drive his bike through the cross-town where his daughters wait at home. As I walk back toward my house, Americano in hand, rain falls lightly.
But not rain like the hurricane has brought, great sheets of rain, waves crashing violently against the Battery. The pictures on the Internet are foreboding—streets become rivulets, gushing with sewage water. Trucks have become submerged in an aquatic traffic jam. Trees fell due to wicked winds. Overly irrigated front yards float. Enough rain to bring buried corpses to the surface. Worse still the news coming from the governor and president—a state of emergency! Enough fear to put your teeth on edge.
The rain will come again, tonight maybe. But for now I’m locked up inside. Day Four of lounging, reading, and listening to music.
I spent a good part of this afternoon lying in bed and listening to an album by the German composer Max Ricther called The Blue Notebook. The music is both classical and surprisingly subterranean. A melody that enraptures and envelops the body and mind.
I don’t mind the quiet. Friday night I attended a small get-together at a friend’s house, but last night, the rain proved too ferocious to bother. I stayed up until 3am, alternating between poetry books I want to re-read and episodes of Adventure Time. There is something calming, I think, about a storm. The hurricane forces one to stay inside, not fearing that some Apocalypse will arrive, that God will tear open the skies and snatch up the few believers yet. No, something else.
This is a makeshift baptism at best. The apocalypse will come later, maybe tonight, who cares? For now, I am learning to be alone, to be content with a pen and paper. To read more deeply. To listen more closely. Isolation both maddens and inspires. Outside, the rain slams against dirt, quenching its thirst beyond need; what gives life may also take life away. Inside I am lying in bed, enjoying exquisite absence, learning to hold no one’s body, learning to be in my own body and not outside of it. Learning to listen, to open the windows, to watch the skies split up and wonder what got God so angry in the first place.