It’s such terrible weather outside right now. Cold rain, icy streets, dark clouds. The skies look as if they are falling in on the earth, the air outside is nothing but raindrops, the color of everyone is grey. The cats inside are blinking their tired eyes and, for some reason, the lightbulbs here are humming. I wonder about the animals and the people who are outside and who aren’t going home because they don’t have one. I’m thinking about how luxurious it is to write under artificial light, in dryness, and on a newish keyboard.
A number of years ago I re-visited Majdanek, the concentration camp of concentration camps. In the middle of the camp there is a large mausaleum, where thousands of pounds of cremated bodies lie open to the wind and the public. The camp stands today, idly and the town around it grows. When I was there, it rained and poured and I was drenched. The wooden barracks smelled of death but were dry.
The world is wet and it appears that our entire civilization is built around keeping some dry.