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It Was a Dark and Stormy Night . . .

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Often the meaning of a particular literary piece or work of art lies hidden until one is unexpectedly kicked in the arse. (Anonymous circa 12th Century)

Some decades ago, after an arid summer and an acrid divorce, Aja and I moved into the top floor of an old brick Federalist building in Salem, Massachusetts. One evening we found ourselves weathering a particularly virile nor’easter. Aja sat on the wide window casing and stared at the flashes of lightning and sheets of glistening rain blow down Essex Street; her tail twitched like an agitated serpent. Outside, the only light was street-lightdelivered by a lone street lamp opposite our building. The apartment was across the street from the Salem Harbor, two blocks north of the Old Custom House and a stone’s throw from the House of the Seven Gables. If I squinted my eyes and looked out onto the cobbled street and warped walkways, I could see back two hundred years.

I sat with Aja on the window casing. The storm was getting closer and the low grumbling of thunder was replaced by a more piercing, tearing sound. A recently extinguished joint hung from my mouth, the Zippo cradled in my right hand. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata served as counterpoint to the storm.

A blistering rip of thunder, almost contemporaneous with the flash, spooked Aja who sprung from the window casing and headed directly to the marble hearth of the fireplace. Before she was able to select the warmest section of hearth, three brash knocks came from the door. Unexpected guests were unusual under normal circumstances, but it was now well after 10 pm and the weather was fierce. Then came another brilliant flash immediately followed by a splintering crack of thunder. The house lights shuddered for an instant.

I relit the joint. It can’t be knocking; it must be noise from the storm: the sound of unhinged shutters striking brick. More thunder. The storm was passing over. I took the last hit of the joint and headed toward the fireplace. I was pleasantly ripped; Aja was stretched out on the hearth as fully as her anatomy would allow.

Moments after pitching the roach into the fire, Aja abruptly sprang up and trotted directly to the door—her tail vertical and rigid as a flagpole. She sniffed at the space between the door and door jamb; her tail whipped the air. Then came three more knocks. Rapid knocks. I stopped and took a breath. It could just be one of the tenants wondering if I had power. Maybe it was someone who was lost and just needed directions. Maybe it was my ex wishing to enumerate new ways I had failed the marriage.

My right hand slapped at the empty space to dissipate the pungent smell of weed, then I headed to the door. Leaving the chain in its latch, I opened the door just far enough to look out into the hallway. Nothing. I unlatched the door and opened it. Aja uncustomarily crouched behind the threshold. The hallway, suffused with the dank smell of old wallpaper and plaster, was as silent as it was empty. I was about to close the door when I happened to look down. The carpet was wet . . . very wet.

The moist area lay directly in front of the door, however there were no tracks of water leading from there to the staircase. I looked up to the ceiling to check for a leak. Nothing. I stepped out into the hallway and was met by the dim cast of amber light from a solitary wall fixtur

Back inside, the music had ended and the fire kept barely alive by a few embers. I stood for a moment; more music? more wood to the fire? more weed? If all, then in mootzdoorwhat order? Being buzzed was the cause of both my indecision and becoming unnerved. Oddly, however, I reveled in the trepidation; this was becoming an aesthetic experience of fear; it was a walking the moors the evening of a full moon kind of fear.

I threw a few logs on the fire and poked it with an iron; the fire hissed. Aja returned to the window casing; her quivering tail signaled something of interest. The window panes were slightly fogged and heavily pocked with beads of rain. I looked out into the cone of yellow light formed by the street lamp. The cone was about five or six paces in diameter and at its center stood the figure of a woman clutching an umbrella. A flash of lightening revealed it to be a red umbrella.womanwithredumbrella

The woman merely stood in the pool of light, neither moving nor giving the impression she was about to move. Her inscrutable figure impassively stared at my building: at my window to be precise. I could tell she was looking up as her umbrella was tilted back and a shadowed face was revealed. All the other lights in the building were off but mine. I waved from the window. She remained stone-like. I waved again. Nothing.

So let her stand. I paced the room in search of another joint. There was a hastily rolled one that marked the page in a book I was reading. I put the Zippo to work and took a lavish pull. Sated and settled, I walked back to the window. The woman still peered up at me; all but the red umbrella was in shadow.

Enough! I put out the joint on the hearth and left it there, then quickly headed down the curved stairwell to the front door. I would ask her politely if there was someone she was waiting for or if there was some way that I could help her. As I reached the door that led to the foyer, my feet chilled. I was in socks and standing on a cold, wet piece of carpet. Again, no sign of a leak and not one drop leading away from door’s entry.

From the front stoop, I noticed the wind and rain kicked up a notch. For a view of the street light, I needed to get to the sidewalk. My socks were soaked. My glasses, like the windows of my apartment, were beaded with rain. I looked immediately to the street lamp. Empty. Just a vacant pool of light. I looked both ways up Essex Street. Nothing.

Heading back to the entrance, a peculiar scraping sound penetrated the wind. Turning again toward the lamp, I saw nothing, but the scraping continued. My feet began to numb and my body quivered from the chilling rain.redumbrella2

I walked closer to the street light. There, in the shadows, just feet from the yellow glow of the lamp, a red umbrella was pinned against the wrought iron gate leading to the harbor. Gasps of wind blew it from side to side, it’s handle marked a rasping arc on the brick walkway.

 

Epilogue

Some time ago, I came across a cryptic piece by Kafka that hung with me like an ear worm. It was amazingly short so I present it in its entirety:

When at night you go walking in the street and a man, already visible from afar – for the street goes uphill and the moon is full – runs toward us, we will not seize him, even if he is weak and shabby, even if someone else is running behind him and yells, we will rather let him run on.

Because it is night and we can’t help it that the street under a full moon goes uphill and furthermore, perhaps these two have arranged this chase for their own amusement, perhaps the two are pursuing a third, perhaps the first man, although innocent, is being pursued, perhaps the second wants to kill him and we will become accomplices to the murder, perhaps the two are not aware of each other and each of them is only running home to bed at his own risk, perhaps they are sleepwalkers, perhaps the first man is armed.

And finally, shouldn’t we be tired? Have we not drunk a lot of wine? Aren’t we glad that we can’t see either man anymore? (Franz Kafka)

 

Much like my experience in Salem years ago, I found Kafka’s piece haunting. On a number of occasions, I ran this piece through my mind and came up with, what I believe to be, credible insights. For one, Kafka highlights the subjective nature of humankind, that for humankind, there are only perspectives, not absolutes. Kafka also presents the existential tenet of having to make a choice even if we lack all the information for making one. In the end, Kafka’s protagonist experiences relief for not having to choose, for abdicating his responsibility.

But I wasn’t satisfied. The piece still made me itch; I hadn’t yet gotten to its marrow. But as the quote at the start of this piece states, sometimes the meaning of a literary piece or work of art lies hidden until one is unexpectedly kicked in the arse. I continued to strive for meaning in that stormy evening until I experienced an analogous the kick in the arse. What I discovered is that what one actually experiences in the world are discrete, isolated events like the small tiles in a mosaic. In my case, one tile represented a stormy night, another knocks on the door, another a wet carpet, another a woman under a street light and another an abandoned red umbrella. What connects these tiles and gives them form is the grout binding them together.

However, the grout is malleable; it can be applied by the artist or viewer in a variety of ways, each producing a different result. The tiles and their shapes remain fixed. It is the grout that, in the end, provides meaning. I have no answer as to the reality of that evening in Salem any more than Kafka’s protagonist had for his encounter. Instead, what I have is a bundle of possibilities. Lots of maybes and perhap-es, but no certainty. And that, in a nutshell, is the human condition: one immersed in a field of interpretations and contingencies where the ordering of facts is as much poetic as scientific endeavor. The last words go to William Burroughs:

You were not there for the beginning. You will not be there for the end. Your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative (William S. Burroughs from Naked Lunch)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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