Jerusalem is a holy city. Jerusalem is a high city as well. It is not a hot dry dessert with camels and turbaned men. It is a cold and at times sunny city with camels and turbaned men. Lately, as in the past 12 hours lately, it has rained a good rain. When I say good rain I mean a miserable rain. It is only when one must walk through the rain to go to school or to the market or to home when one truly learns to despise the rain. Precipitation is so loveable in a warm and dry room with a good window and a hot drink. In a sea of blankets and pillows the rain out side the window is like a good lazy grey dog. He doesn't bother you much, just remains content where he is supposed to be. You are where you are, he is where he is. But outside those blankets, outside those windows, outside that congenial warmth ironically caused by setting aflame parts of trees, outside of this, rain is bad. There are many hills in Jerusalem. Droves of rain causes only one thing. Wetness. And Wetness that is all around. Water was constantly coming from the sky, rain, hail, wet hail, snow, heavy rain, sprinkling, heavy sprinkling, light sprinkling (almost never). Rivers were being formed on the ancient bricks below our feet. Lakes that had not been there before were now uncontrollably... there. I witnessed a few major canyons being formed. Water was now all over Jerusalem. Jerusalem was wet. I was wet. Thankfully I had a beautifully waterproof rain jacket, unfortunately I did not purchase a waterproof pair of trousers, nor water proof shoes, nor waterproof socks. Next time though... Needless to say I was wet. And do not forget to remember that this water was ice cold, thanks completely to Mr. Icy Wind. Mr. Wind was the main opponent of the umbrella. That is where our story begins.
Any ordinary layman endowed with a special kind of common sense would think on an especially rainy day to bring the usual umbrella. I tell you, and with a deep passion in my heart I tell you, all umbrellas die in Jerusalem. Only the cruelest and most demoralising fate is kept for those umbrellas who are forced to work on a windy day. Some of you may be living in disbelief. Don't. I myself was in disbelief when I first experienced it. Men, women and children together in a terrible spirit of frustration and with a grotesque lack of perseverance do only what is natural but in no way is morally right. With malice, rage and disgust they throw their maimed umbrellas on the ground to drown in puddles of the very substance they were made to repel. Wind launches the first assault on the umbrella, then man finishes the job. The smallest bend or slightest tear of the umbrella unleashes the beast inside of man which is rage. A beautiful city square on a windy and rainy day is transformed into a ravaged war zone with skeletal remains of umbrellas dotting the pavement, serving as warnings to others of their soon tragic fate. Size, shape or colour cannot change the deranged mind of the holder, if it is broken, it is cast away, as if to say "we have no business with each other anymore." Bare bones of the metal creatures are scattered about the city. Their canvas which once was so dear is now torn and wasted. The narrow metal arms are rendered twisted and broken, some still reaching up, in part as a plea for help from a kind soul, in part as a silent demonstration, to bring to light the cruelty that was shown to them. This is not myth of which I write. Ponder the plight of the umbrella.
you are an artist with words too
ReplyDelete