I'm ashamed to admit that I've
broken my own rules again. I'm so overwhelmed with my wedding in 20 days that adding
a new thought to my brain is like adding another box to that floor-to-ceiling stack
of pizza boxes in every bachelor's first apartment. Rather than give you
nothing here's something I wrote back in 2009 which I just spent a while adding
to and cleaning up. -T
Umbrellas
+ Dancing
On sunny days we avoid our gaze and let ourselves
drift past, but rainy days require precaution: At worst if two should enter the
same sidewalk square our tines may lock and cross ensnare; at best they might bother
and spill droplets on each other. Also beware of condescension of condensation.
First circumvent your consternation, I have a thought for consideration: The deluge
extends a crook'd handle like an eager suitor.
It invites a change from the hustle and bustle, to perform a dance called the umbrella
shuffle.
Your partner for this do-si-do is a self-supported
tarpaulin stretched taught on an aluminum skeleton. The nylon drizzle dome, tickled
by the torrent, pining for the pour, and
mooning for a monsoon will tug your wrist with gyroscopic force as you twirl
beneath the baldaquin of your target destination. But you are not alone on this
dance floor the dimensions of a storefront door. As you advance through your step-sheathe-shake,
which has allowed you to make the timely transition through thresholds; you eventually
must navigate an equilibrist attempting their egress, for there is always that
moment in time and space when two umbrelli want to occupy the same place.
I am not ashamed to admit that I calculate
my steps in an effort to force consent and cause a transitional accident. For
in that line between wet and dry, we are obligated to meet eye to eye. Although
this damp door dance may precipitate an uncomfortable instant under awnings, I know
it can alleviate something lost in life's kerfuffle, and that’s why I love the
umbrella shuffle.