I’m not getting out much – without getting wet, that is.
It has rained ceaselessly on these jagged islands since mid December. Across the country people have been washed out of their homes. The news headlines have moved on to drier ground: a seemingly never – ending number of trials involving well-known media personalities charged with serious offences ranging from rape to phone – tapping.
Regular readers will know that I describe myself as an all – weather cyclist. But lately something has, well, started to drip on my enthusiasm for pedalling in horizontal rain.
Winston Churchill – who coined the phrase ‘black dog’ to describe his bouts of depression – had a pretty remorseless view of coping with mental health relapse. He once wrote: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going’. There’s quite a lot that me and the 2 time British Prime Minister and Nobel Laureate (Literature, 1953) don’t see eye to eye about, and this is one of them.
This attitude belongs to the Carry on Regardless school of thought. For me, it is like a scab in my brain that I cannot stop scratching. There is so much Good Advice out there, so many well-regarded Self Help Books ( a library of which I have read,) and so many wise words ( a few of which have been written by me these past 3 and a half years).
Right now, if I hear someone else utter sapient suggestions for how I could make myself feel better, I am likely to, to ….. stare blankly into space.
I don’t know what I need at the moment. I am indoors, relatively dry, and the radiators are making the weather.
A Hard Rain’s A – Gonna Fall
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
Heard one person starve,
I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
Bob Dylan (1941 – )
