Oh, the rain. The rain is back, you guys. Catalyst for emotion and the very bestest bosom buddy of poets across the globe, there's nothing better for staring into the dark face of the night and confronting the moldering Tower of Babel of your emotions than a dim, cold, damp day in Massachuetts, and Massachusetts is happy to oblige.
In her memoir, "Lit", Mary Karr talks about sitting on her back porch and getting loaded (truly, impressively, legendarily drunk) while her family falls apart in the early years of her young son's life. I think of this aspect of the memoir all the time, I think about Karr and her tumblers full of whiskey, and the glimmering porch light she stares into each evening until the ground begins to lurch and swing around her. These passages remind me of my father, who, while no alcoholic, also seeks solitude on the porch of his Newton home. If he doesn't answer when called, chances are good he will be found on the porch, smoking a quarter of a cigar, in any weather. Where do we go, on days like these, to be alone? Where are the crevices, the nooks, that we are driven to when time gets down in the dirt on its belly and we are left idling, re-reading old novels, cleaning under the kitchen sink? Maybe you have a porch, or a corner of the bed. Last week I found myself reading and eating breakfast on my (filthy, but never mind) kitchen floor, and as the kettle came to a boil, clouds rearranged themselves across the sun and a finger of light lay itself on my outstretched legs.
And I was like, oh okay, afternoon, be a little more iconic, why don't you? Jimminy Christmas.
My point is, on these dreary days, your mind may start to wander and when it does, I hope you find it here. Especially next week: November 1st through the 5th we are going to be having a bevy of 20% off sales in all areas of the store, so don't hesitate to pick up the phone and give us a call to ask more. We also have umbrellas. There's no earthly need for you to be alone when we are having our birthday and just handing out discounts all willy nilly, all helter-skelter, all topsy turvey. I have it on good authority that our very own poet and night manager extraordinaire, who helped me write this blog post and has helped me live my tepid little life in more ways than he can ever come to know, Ric, will be jumping out of a nine layered cake dressed in full Victorian garb.
Yeah. It's totally going to happen. It's going to be so compelling. Compelling, provocative, Victorian burlesque. What's that? No, I'm not doing this for the keyword search hits, my god, what kind of fiend do you take me for? Zombie dinosaur monster trucks! Joey Calderone eats a hot dog! Jonas brothers!
I mean if you don't want to see that, that's fine. But I won't be blogging about it. In fact, after it happens, everyone is forced to sign a pact of silence and must never mention it again until the day they die.
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