Finally. I feel like a farmer for whom life itself is
tied to the weather. It rained. It cleared.
It’s lovely again. See my notes
below from yesterday early evening, when the precipitation first, miraculously
appeared.
5:00PM: Drizzle! Late afternoon drizzle. Is this the
government seeding the clouds or has the rain finally come? The back porch looks like its been
misted.
6:30PM: Proper
rain. I can hear it. The smell of the earth finally accepting
water, finally releasing all its brittle, pent up odors. The seeds, finally considering the
possibility of stirring. Open up the
skies. Drive this nasty netting
away.
And that’s all it took. This morning the sun is up, what
seems like, an hour earlier. 雨过天晴[1] The drive over to school with my daughter, no
nasty, methane mist to cut through. It
actually looks like spring. It’s all we
can talk about on the ride in. Mind you,
it wasn’t a deluge. There aren’t any
puddles. It petered out after a while.
But we’ll take it.
One’s entire mood is reconfigured to something hopeful,
instead of dreary. If you live far
enough up in the northern hemisphere, as the waning of spring in March turns
into the glory of April you know it is something you earn. No one ever feels like they “earned” a sunny
day in Palo Alto. It just is. In a place with a proper winter, spring
generally means warmth and the attendant rebirth. But today, the second to last day of
February, I’m very grateful for the clarity.
It ain’t spring yet. But it’s
getting there. I can see.
I just ducked out to snap a few photos from the same view I
did yesterday. This is what I’m talking
about.
Take a look at yesterdays posting, for comparison sake.
As Jimi Hendrix says after he solos on “Fire:” “That’s what I’m talkin about”
As Jimi Hendrix says after he solos on “Fire:” “That’s what I’m talkin about”
Yesterday, in the murk, strutting away on the stair master,
“Guns of Brixton” came on. It seemed
appropriately dreadful, Paul Simonon’ s faltering, utterly plausible opening
“When they . . . “ He sings of “the Brixton sun” but you know its cloudy there. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Guns_of_Brixton I got to see them when they played the Palladium in
Manhattan that year. It was the second
or third concert I’d ever seen and it changed, everything. The cover photo from the album that “Guns of
Brixton” would later appear on, “London Calling” of Paul smashing his bass, was
snapped at that show. They got no airplay,
every single other person who heard them hated it. No one at school knew or liked them. Perfect.
And the iTunes “genius” function sometimes works nicely, for
by the time we were saying “good by to the Brixton sun”, with the final twang
of the Jew’s-harp and flex of the whammy
bar, it threw on “Complete Control” from their first album. That did it. The aural atmosphere of the mix
on that album, on that song, throws open a window to urgent clarity of ones first
year as a teen. That song, that entire album remains a flawless gesture. The flag they planted there still flutters,
defiantly, daring someone to knock them off the stage poised at the dawning of
Thatcherism.
Years later, when they were bigger, and I, naturally hated
them, my friend got talking back stage with Paul Simonon who he described as
disarmingly friendly, in welcoming him along for a party and treating him with
the utmost civility. I like to think of
that vision of him. Topper Headon the
drummer always seemed a bit vacant, what with his notorious habit. All one had to see was Mick Jones berate the ‘Rude
Boy’ after singing “Stay Free” in “Rude Boy” film to know he would perhaps be
best not to approach for a stick of gum.
And then there was Joe, who of course looked cool and seemed wise, but
would have had all the headlights blaring at him.
I just did a quick check and I’m glad to see that all those
council housing spawned miscreants, who channeled something perfect and
timeless for a while together are all, with the sad exception of Joe Strummer,
who passed in 2002, still alive. I hope
they're well and remain productive or at least happy. When
the punks start dropping like the jazz musicians I usually write about, we’ll
know the game’s nearly up.
For now though, I’m gonna savor the hard-earned blue
skies.
[1] yǔguòtiānqíng: sky clears after rain / new hopes after a
disastrous period (idiom) / every cloud has a silver lining
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