Writing; an interesting form...
Last night, serendipitously, I stumbled over a writing-form that I thought you might find interesting, and decided to borrow it. It was in the 2001 Annual Music Issue of the Oxford American, on pp. 50-51, written by Ron Carlson, and titled "The Twenty-Seventh Rain." The form is a set of 27 different rains that are meaningful to Ron Carlson; here
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THE RAIN THAT COMES ON THURSDAY, summer's weekly reprieve in the ex-swampland of my youth, completely with its own light-show.
THE RAIN ON A MOTORCYCLE, if I'm lucky it warns me with that certain chill so I can get on my rain gear before it hits.
THE RAIN JUST PAST THE BRIDGE, which lies in wait for me as I go through the underpass and out into a new world.
THE INVISIBLE RAIN whose only evidence is the darkness of the ground and the green damp smell when I emerge from the bowels of a building.
THE UNCERTAIN RAIN that can't decide when to fall or how hard, so it wavers in the air for days, sometimes falling, sometimes a damp mist. I can sympathize.
THE UNENDING RAIN, the kind that stays for days or even weeks, an unwelcome tourist from my old home to my new city.
THE TERRIBLY SYMBOLIC RAIN that falls just like my tears after I realize the guy I have a crush on is in love with another girl, thankfully muffling my sobs.
THE OUTDOOR DANCE CANCELING RAIN that sent others into the gym while we grabbed a boom-box to have that outdoor dance anyway.
THE TREE'S RAIN that with a sudden breeze hits me with water just when I think it's safe, and I can almost hear the rain-soaked tree giggling to itself.
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