A season of rain
August 14, 2005 | 12:00am
One of my favorite concepts from The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera is the idea of poetic memory. He defines poetic memory as a meta language that human beings build based on memory. It is similar to the difference between connotative and denotative. Denotatively, for example, the word "rain" simply means the precipitation of water, as the dictionary says it is. Connotatively, however, rain means more than just precipitation to many of us. It has cultural meaning, coming from a country often besieged by rain. It has economic meaning, coming from a country often reeling from economic difficulty. But it also has personal meaning. A word therefore has many layers, and the different layers are dependent on experience and life history. When does a word, an ordinary word, become like poetry to an individual? When does that word begin to mean more than what it is because of memory?
My students and I spend many hours talking about this idea in Kundera’s novel. It is, after all, only an idea, so it is one that can be turned around and turned upside down. I always tell them that it is a beautiful, human idea. Think of phenomenon as something that happens outside of you. You are here, and rain is out there. In order for one to understand the rain, it must be named. Once it becomes named, it becomes owned. After it is owned, it becomes experienced, and once it is experienced, it becomes personal. However, it is possible it is the opposite; It is experienced first and so owned and therefore can be named. Arguing about this is often like arguing about the whole chicken and egg thing. It is pointless, yes. The point is learning about argumentation and learning that sometimes questions are more important than answers. After all, whichever way you look at it, it is process that is revelatory.
The truth is, rain held such a happy force over my poetic memory when I was younger. My mother tells me it is because I was born in the middle of a thunderstorm. When we were younger, blackouts due to a storm were moments of bonding for us as a family. During the day, our father would bring out a long table and put it in our hallway and we would paint the day away. At night, we huddled close under the blankets and watched the rain. Our cousins who lived in Mandaluyong would often need to evacuate because they lived near a creek that often overflowed. How adventurous those hours were in the ’70s, when the telephone could not be relied upon. My mother always knew instinctively, perhaps by the sound of the rain, if her brothers and their families were on their way to us. How thrilling to hear the honk of their station wagon! They would come in, 12 children to a house with six children as well.
Even more absurdly, my father would have to move our horses from the stable into our terrace. People find it hard to believe this story, but it is true. My father is from Bukidnon and whenever relatives would come visit him, they would come, not bringing durian, but, um, horses. So, we grew up with a stable of them.
And what is heartbreak without the rain? What could be more perfect than nature taking the shape of one’s heart? Newly married, nothing could be more romantic than rain or a storm. In the time of pagers, my husband would go out of his way to send me a message with only one sentence. "It is raining."
These days, though, rain has evolved to mean something else.
These past few weeks, we have seen so much rain. It is difficult, logistically speaking, to deal with rain. Whereas before, the inconvenience was romantic, now it’s a hassle. The kids are restless, unable to expend their energies in the garden. I can only be so entertaining. The television set looms before them, awaiting their undivided attention. It is a struggle for me to not give in. It is also difficult to get them to do things. On the way to school, they insist on not wearing their raincoats, which I don’t understand. Just last school year, raincoat-wearing was an "in" thing to do. Apparently, umbrellas are in season. And they are just more difficult in general. The rains bring with them colds, itchy throats, dripping noses, and mosquito bites. I cannot wait for the season of sun.
This season also often finds me mildewed and grumpy now that I am older. Sometime in July, my body begins its shutdown. My bones begin to ache and creak, an early form of arthritis – the bones reacting to the change in temperature. I begin to get cramps in my legs at night during those moments when it is too cold to turn on the air-con, but too sticky to leave it off. So, the air-con finds itself in limbo-land as my husband and I take turns with the thermostat all through the night.
By the end of July, something is sure to have inflamed. Last year, my mouth was full of sores. This year, it is my eyes. The sore, like a boil in my eye, would make its first appearance months before the season of rain. It actually first appeared in my armpit in May. It moved to my left eye at the end of May, and then moved to my right eye in June. Wouldn’t it have been great to end its traveling there? It moved to my upper eyelid in July and just now it is back, this time on the lower lid of the same eye.
As I write this, it is raining outside my window. I am miffed by this. I am about to say for certain that from now on the rain means nothing to me but inconvenience and difficulty. How I suddenly hate the rain with its attendant mud and grime on my uncomfortable, wet, wet toes. But there are two chipmunks on my bed. They have positioned the pillows for reading, the kumot raised all the way to their chins, books piled all over their legs. Their poetic memories of the word rain have just begun. Rain suddenly means having no classes and getting to lie down on Mommy’s warm bed. They are screaming, "Mommy! Mommy!" Once again, a new entry for the word rain enters my poetic memory.
2. Assemble photo albums – The years go by so quickly, and notice how new photographs no longer have the dates on them. I normally organize my pictures by months to make it more manageable. The extra pictures I put inside my kids’ arts and crafts box to use for their art projects. If you’re computer savvy, you can put your pictures in file sharing and share your personal album with relatives abroad.
3. Begin writing a journal – Part of the charm of writing a journal is a belief in romance. One of the best ways of committing to a journal is to choose a small one, and try only to write on one leaf a day. If you don’t know how to begin, begin with a list of things to do. That’s a form of documenting what’s important to you, too.
4. Do an inventory of the kitchen – Need I say more? While you’re at it, call the exterminator. The rains encourage pests and vermin to multiply and scatter their germs.
5. Begin a book – People ask me all the time how they can be better writers. I always say, begin by being regular readers. Read, read, and then read some more.
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