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Wednesday, October 5, 2011

there's something about the rain


I don't know what it is about rain, maybe its the smell that greets my nostrils in anticipation of the drops that meet the ground. Maybe its the sight of water coming down from nowhere, materialising out of thin air a few miles above me, it might be the sound, the steady drip, drip , drip of the rain as it falls in sheets and sprinkles changing everything around it, turning the tarmac dark grey, almost black. Splashing little meteors around my feet making the sand into mud and the mud into craters, little cradles for aliens from another world to be found in.

Maybe its the atmosphere, there's a certain something to rain that changes depending on the type of downpour. I love the rain that doesn't send the sun away, it’s flirty, flighty and sprightly, it makes you wet but in a playful way a reminisce of a game from childhood where water was splashed in jest. This rain is gentle, it doesn't send the sun cowering behind huge billowing clouds, leaving the light nimb. Instead it holds hands with the sun, it takes it in itself, promising cooperation and comfort. If you trust me we can make beautiful children, children that poets will write stories about and that gods will use as a sign of their fidelity to humanity. My condition we have to name these children after me, the rain says and the sun bows.



Other times it's not like this, it's overpowering and blots out everything else, the kind of rain that comes down in pails. It's not a leak in heaven but outright malice, a child upending a bucket over the earth and thundering oops! The sun retreats when this happens unable to help or maybe heartbroken, on days like this it's clear that the rain prefers the earth. It can't wait, the lust in its breath is palpable, its heart beating quicker and quicker and the sun gets sicker and sicker with envy. The rain possessing one last modicum of mercy draws the curtains over the face of the sun. Allowing it at least this thing, this last dignity of not seeing the betrayal happen. On those days it gets dark and it gets loud. The rain pants and yells,it can't wait to get here and when it does it soaks everything. A good girl gone bad it ruins all it touches. These are the days of slush,of mud so slippery and pervasive that there must be at least one person in a white trouser. These are the days of traffic jams that stretch from road to road becoming longer and longer until they form a coil long enough to hang on. These are the days that mothers and daughters have fights, take a ride home together and sit in soulful,awful silence since the radio doesn't work and sorry would work but nobody's ready for it. These are the days bartenders dream of. As the rain falls outside people pour drinks inside, telling themselves that leaving now makes no sense, none at all, you see we'll get home at the same time anyway so let’s just sit here in this bar and talk.



But there are also nights of menace. The nights when the rain is no longer a fair maiden or a lustful lass, it is quite simply a bitch. It announces its presence with a sky-tearing scream a scream that follows a flash of something. A glimpse into it's true nature, a showing of what it can be. On these nights the winds howl bloody murder as the ground turns into wet. The mud is washed away in torrents much faster than the ones we use to steal movies off the internet. This is a bad night to be caught out. In no time at all the rain gets into all of you, not sparing a single morsel for later. It feels heavy and angry at something. You know its angry because it's trying its best to hurt, and every raindrop smarts. If you're smart you get out of this in a hurry. If you are really smart you already got out of this. These are the nights when not having money is a good thing. It means you are home curled up in bed, amidst blankets. The menace outside is outside, not really a concern of yours. On nights like this the rain sings a song, a haunting song. A song filled with love and loss, a song of the betrayal of blood and the death of desire. It sings a lover's song but without a lover's emotions. It has gone cold and hard, it has turned angry and bitter and turned this song into a war cry. Giving out shrieks a banshee couldn't match, enough water to wash away all the make up we use to lie about our brave hearts.




On those nights I shouldn't like the rain. It's more destructive than instructive but I can't not. I want to be inside and safe from it. I want to be in bed curled up and safe. But most of all, I want to have been caught in that downpour, I want an excuse to run through that rain, to be soaked to the inside and to be freezing. I want all that discomfort and all the things that come with it, most of all I want to have that feeling of being dry and warm after a long period of being cold and wet.