冬篭り
Lumi ja tuul
Eks neist ole räägitud ja kirjutatud palju.
Talveüksildus
lausvalget värvi ilmas
ainult tuule hääl
Matsuo Basho
Võrreldes vihmaga on lumi väga vaikne tegelane. Ja erinevalt vihmast, mis ju veel voolab ja toimetab, lumi enamasti langeb maha ja siis on paigal.
Tuulest ja vihmast
Richard Brautigan sündis 30. jaanuaril 1935. Thomas Merton sündis varem, 31. jaanuaril 1915.
(Elus on huvitavaid vahemänge. Seisan Empire State Building'u tipus vaateplatvormil ja samas on kolm nunna. Üks neist küsib: "Kust te olete?" Mina: "Eestist." Tema: "Aaaa... see on kusagil seal..." Mina: "Kust teie olete?" Tema: "Montanast." Mina: Aaaa! Tean, tean!" Tema: "Aga kuidas te teate?" Mina: "Noh Montanas elas ju Richard Brautigan, tal on raamat ka
The Tokyo-Montana ekspress." jaaaniiieedasi. Igatahes õde lubas seda raamatut ja Richardi asja uurida.) 😇
Mulle meeldib, kuidas Thomas Merton kirjeldab vihma. Ei oska seda lõiku lühemaks kärpida.
Let me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan
and distribute for money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot
understand that rain is a festival, who do not appreciate its
gratuity, who think that what has no price has no value, that what
cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to make something
actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they
will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I
am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness.
The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the wood
with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the
cabin and its porch with insistent and controlled rhythms. And I
listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world
runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize, rhythms that are
not those of the engineer.
I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the
cornfield, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove
for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and
toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very
dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal
myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor.
Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging
nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees,
filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out
the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is
to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this
wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most
comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself
all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in
the hollows!
Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as
long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to
listen.
Raids on The Unspeakable
Richard Brautigan kirjutab
Arbuusisuhkrus tuulest; nagu ikka lühidalt ja täpselt.
A Love, a Wind
WE MADE a long and slow love. A
wind came up and the windows trembled slightly, the sugar set
fragilely ajar by the wind.
I liked Pauline's body and she said
that she liked mine, too, and we couldn't think of anything to say.
The wind suddenly stopped and Pauline said, "What's that?"
"It's the wind."
