Sippican Cottage

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A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything

The Wind Is Howling

It’s wild outside the window right now. The rain sprays against the windowpanes. The wind is howling.

The wind doesn’t actually howl of course. It encounters some object — our house with all its little jogs and juts and dustcathchers– and makes its presence known as it tries to get from where it is to where it’s going. And that sound reminds you of the invisible ubiquity of it.

Artists whistle at our windows. They make the mistake, sometimes, of thinking they are the wind. Or we make the mistake for them, and ask them about matters great and small. Expecting blueprints, and getting fingerprints. No. The wind passes by, and makes them trill. And through them, we can sometimes get a sense of the world going by because they make us hear it. They whisper, or coo, or shriek. They point.

Marvin Gaye was a weirdo. Artists often are. He certainly could whisper, and coo, and shriek. And the wind passed by our windows, and he gave it voice. It might be the loveliest voice of his generation.

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