8 March, 2010
he spoke fondly of his brollie. how he forgot it one day and had to go back to the house, how he couldn’t find it at first and he looked in the kitchen, just to make sure he had explored all options, but it wasn’t there either, at least he couldn’t see it, so he went back to the sitting room, and, and after only a quick search, some swift browsing, as you might call it, while he thought he had to go and search in the kitchen again, under the old newspapers as it had just come to him that he hadn’t looked there previously, there it was, on the sofa, no idea why he hadn’t seen it before. although it didn’t rain that day at all, it would have worked for most types of rain, he said, urban rain of course. in the country they call them bumbershoots, hand carved and knitted they are, else the downpour would dent the farmer’s head. they call it just rain though.
those farmers, said sponge, are not like the peasants of old.
certainly not, the man said, but these bumbershoots can be very good. this brollie is very good, too. i try to bring it every day and most of the days i succeed although i do have to go back to the house every now and then. just like the other day, when i had to search high and low in the kitchen to no avail. i’ll remember next time.
the Book of Sponge and Others.
annabloom.
on rain and being rained on
- kindness of strangers
- some lives are worse than others but the stories are all the same
- anything is good for something in the end
- we don’t like days and are at odds with nights
- inflate or deflate or put on another show
- egg and a query
- come to mention it a melody sounds like the other
- a legend is born
- somewhere would be something else now
- the trail of art