Waking up in the morning is like being
released from hibernation. The long night of shadows and rain, as the
wet clear drops hit the roof and garden leaves all night long. All
night long, the constant droning of wind, crackling of the branches
and the moaning of the rain. Rain on the roof and rain on the torn
tarp protecting the kitchen from the leaking holes in the asbestos
tiles. Rain on the old cement alley-way surrounding the house and
rain on the thirsty red earth as it kicks up in starts and fits,
little rusty dirt seizures. The rain like winter in Canada, rain that
keeps you indoors and makes the road treacherous, rain that splatters
your clothing by day and infiltrates your dreams by night, making
them a collection of fleeting images: border crossings, an old
friend, an invented person sharing a joke, an envelope hidden inside
the kitchen cabinets; little innocuous snippets of sound and image, a
black and white collage devoid of all emotion or remembrance, a
meaningless rain-drenched parade.
In the morning the sky may have
cleared somewhat or it may not have. This morning it is
mother-of-pearl, reminiscent of the eternally wet skies of Hanoi,
although in Hanoi it was a grey we could be proud of, is was our
grey – the grey that made
everyone constantly mean and miserable. Here in Vientiane the grey is
an unfortunate interlude, an exception, and the whole city seems to
be holding its breath simply waiting for a gust of unseen lofty wind
to come and lift the momentary marasme.
Once that happens,
the city can get back to its real business, its veritable vocation,
which is to party and throw tomorrow into the arms of oblivion under
a sky so blue it seems to be in constant celebration.
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