The world is lit by lightning!

A long ramble about memories, avoidance, plays, movies, and—uh—ghosts.

James Dean, walking in the rain, in a famous photograph, which I have cropped.

It was raining, and it wasn’t supposed to rain, so she was wearing a white dress, and we were hiding under an awning on Cornelia Street in the West Village and we were wet because we’d run for shelter, but we had not run fast enough and we were laughing and waiting for the storm to pass and we had only been dating for a few weeks, but I looked at her face—wet with rain—and her smile—glistening with rain—and I felt this thing I had never felt before; happiness, yes, but more—this indescribable more—and I thought, “oh god, Ben, you’re feeling that thing that people feel in the songs and the books and the films and the sonnets,” and I was, and it was the first time that I had, and I said to her, “I love you,” and there was a silence, and it went on forever, or it might as well have been forever because it felt like forever and I thought, “oh jesus, how are you going to handle this coming rejection? You didn’t think this through, dumdum! You can act like it’s no big deal and smile, but are you going to stay under this awning until the storm passes? Because it could be a while, and that would be incredibly awkward, but walking off alone into the rain is worrisome behavior, though James Dean did walk alone in the rain in that one famous photograph, although you’re not James Dean, and he probably never had this problem, but he did die in a car accident so he didn’t have a perfect life, Ben, Ben, Ben, BEN, the milliseconds are passing and she is going to speak soon,” and then she did, and she said, “I love you too,” and I caught my breath and I smiled, and she caught her breath and she smiled, and James Dean was dead and we smiled, and we kissed under the awning on Cornelia Street in the rain.

First time I’d ever felt that, first time I’d ever said that, first time it had ever been said to me.

And then a few months later, we broke up down the street, having mutually discovered that not only did we not love each other, we actually didn’t like each other very much..

We ran into each other a few times over the next decade, but neither of us longed for the other one. Maybe we were in love under that awning, maybe we weren’t and only thought we were, but we both agreed that we weren’t in love when the rain stopped.

This is a break-up that involved no regret, no “what could have been,” which is to say it was the best sort of break-up imaginable; one that you just move on from.

And yet, for years, I avoided that block of Cornelia Street.

When I do go down it, I remember that rainy moment, and I remember a feeling I have only felt a few times in my life, for better or worse, and I remember being younger, and I remember youthful passion, and I remember a zillion things completely unrelated to the relationship itself. And those memories don’t make me fall to my knees but they are uncomfortable and so for a long time, I walked the long way around.

Memories are what haunt us

This is not a top-tier memory. It is not significant in any real way. It is not something I think about intentionally, and it’s not one I’ll dwell on just because my mind is wandering. But it’s in the scrapbook. Importantly, I remember not only the details of the memory but how I felt during it. Over the years, you will change how you feel about rain and white dresses and the West Village, but you will still understand that a good feeling is good. Memories of feelings have staying power. But since it’s not a Class A memory, the only way it can get my attention is if I leave a window open or a door unlocked. The open window is the awning on Cornelia Street. The unlocked door is that particular stretch of sidewalk.

Everyone who has ever lived has experienced this. If you lived in fields, you experienced it. If you eventually live on the Moon, you’ll experience it. It’s what it means to be haunted. There are no ghosts or spirits that slip loose from the afterlife. We are haunted by our memories, and our memories are triggered by, well, could be anything.