It’s Raining, He’s Poring

“There’s nothing like a few days of rain to force a confrontation with oneself. If these days also happen to be ones of unemployment--even temporary--the battle will rage even fiercer, as the stalled individual roams the indoor geography of a house, attempting to avoid himself.

Last week’s rain came at such a time for me. Publishers were allegedly considering a book outline, I’d finished my column for the week, a screenplay written last spring was still making its laborious rounds of Hollywood, a production company pitch for a TV adaptation of “Summer of Fear” was due in front of yet another yawning network committee, etc.

I like my work, and feel fortunate to have it. I generally look forward to sitting down each morning and putting together a story. There may be days when it feels like hell, when I’m stuck in a tiny room with a dumb machine and only my limited skills to apply to the large task of writing 500 pages that people will actually want to read. Those days are just part of the job.

Even in my business, which can seem so confessional and autobiographical from the outside, there’s always the odd sense of abstraction that comes from knowing you are working. No matter how much life I’m cannibalizing for a novel or a story, there’s still the thrill of crafting something specific and understandable from the feelings of generalized chaos that so often surround the living of a life. And in the larger sense, I’m free. If I don’t like a story’s ending, for instance, I can change it.

For me, the end of a work day has always been a welcome opportunity to say goodby to myself and get on to more interesting things. There is, after all, a world out there. Friends and family beckon. The profound meaninglessness of tennis calls. The life-and-death dynamics of the hunt allure me. A hike with the dogs sometimes seems the best way in the world to spend an afternoon.

Even the trivial commerce of daily life is a change from actual work: post office runs, FAX missions, copy shop stops, book store, pet store, auto parts store, market.

The main thing is to fit yourself into some larger play, partake in a community, a ritual, a game.

So, when the rain hit last week and I didn’t have any work to do, I was pretty much stuck with my own company.

The first thing I did was duct-tape beach towels over all the mirrors, so I wouldn’t have to look at my face. This ruse backfired almost immediately, because I was forced to observe my own snout as I went about the task. Then, mirrors safely nullified, I was faced with the question: What kind of guy would do this? I moped around, glancing at the dangling towels and realizing I’d raised at least as many questions as I’d avoided.

Next, I decided to just ignore the pouring rain and raging wind outside, and dress as if I were about to do something else. Perhaps my will-power could influence the weather.

I put on my tennis shoes, shorts, warm-up jacket and grabbed my racquet. I loosened up. Ball in hand, I stood and looked outside to the prohibitive conditions and felt stupid. Stripping off this silly attire, I changed into jeans, boots, hunting vest and bright red cap I wear in the field, then proceeded to work the house as if in pursuit of birds. My indoor dog, a papillon, strutted around ahead of me, hoping to flush ‘em out, an understandable delusion for an animal with a brain the size of a table grape.

Getting desperate, I let the big dogs inside, where, dripping wet and happily covered with mud, they proceeded to hike around, up and down the stairs, checking things out, while I followed with my walking stick.

The hike was disappointing. There were no birds, lizards, snakes, coyotes, rabbits, flowers or much of anything else to be found. At one point, the Labrador picked up a T-shirt off the floor and, with the help of the golden retriever, tore it to shreds. But even they sensed the falsehood in this activity, groaning and falling asleep with strips of cotton sticking out from their mouths.

After vacuuming up the muddy paw prints, I opened the front door and the dogs charged out, happy to be in real rain. I watched them barreling down the mud hillside, crashing through bushes, wallowing like pigs, collecting ticks, leading the life.

For a second I was tempted to join them, but the thought of ending up in a patch of cactus put an end to this notion; plus it was cold out there.

Back inside, I realized it was time to just admit the weather was bad, and turn to the task of communing with great minds so I wouldn’t have to put up with my own.

I read Shakespeare for a while, but Brutus’ idealistic ambition reminded me too much of my own, so I put down the book. I listened to Mark Knopfler’s new movie soundtrack CD, but got mad at him because I can’t play a guitar like that.

I scanned the Johns Hopkins University catalogue of publications and was moderately pleased to see that I had just barely heard of only three of about a hundred subjects the books covered. I read these blurbs assiduously, my favorite being “Financing the Athenian Fleet--Public Taxation and Social Relations.” For a moment, I was lost in the glories of Athens’ naval prowess during the classical period.

By midnight, the rain had stopped, but the wind continued cold and wild through the canyon here. I climbed onto the roof and stood for a while, hoping a big gust would pluck me like a leaf from the fire-retardant composite shingles and send me whipping skyward.

I imagined the flight. Over the hillsides like a raven on the wind, my feathers black and shining, tilting slightly left, then right, eyeing the disconsolate ribbon of Laguna Canyon Road, the burned hillsides lit palely by moonlight, Saddleback stoic in overview, the Pacific panting like an animal to the south, the big runways of the airport empty now, the determined cars laboring up and down the 405, the eucalyptus swaying below me, the rapid approach of the ground as I wing once around my house then shoot through the open door, freaking the dog and landing on the bookshelf, then hopping downily into the waiting bed where all my cabin fever will distill in dreams and my strong black claws and tired wings will warmly rest until morning.