Real rain. Pissing down. Between dawn and dusk, not just another San Diego stealth rain.
I used to notice that during the times I was at a Dead show, on acid, that life seemed… real. I feel the same way when it’s raining. As if these are the only times of my life that I truly feel alive. It rains so infrequently down here in Suburban Hell that it may as well be a high-quality hallucination — water falling from the sky? Is this actually taking place? Am I dreaming?
I love rain. It’s never rained enough for me to get sick of it. In 1969 it rained for nine days straight. I loved it. Of course, our house wasn’t one of the homes washed away in a mudslide. Pays to hire a geologist before you build, I guess is the lesson here.
Rain. Maybe not an all-day rain, but at long last a decent “Winter storm” as they’re called down here in the corner pocket of the USA.
The worst thing that could happen is having the sun break through the clouds on a rainy day. About the only time I’ve ever felt what I guess people described as a “Panic Attack” — I just want to hide in a dark room like a vampire caught out after hours. Somehow the sun breaking through an otherwise Heavenly rainy day is depressing to me like nothing else.
A day that has rain all day long from before I wake up until late at night is perfect. I love rain. Throw a fireplace and a warm cat into the picture and I just cannot improve upon it.