It's raining today. While I'd rather it be snowing, I typically like rain, unless I'm sleeping in a tent somewhere on some godforsaken mountain and it won't stop and every drop feels like a personal affront. Actually, wandering around New York in 1945 in the rain as pictured above may not have been that fun either, but at least it was visually striking (The photographer is Arthur Leipzig, excellent, look him up). Ray Bradbury wrote some rather depressing short stories that take place on a Venus where it never stops raining. Surrounded by solid walls and heated, though, rain isn't half-bad. The dreariness is refreshing, interestingly enough, and even romantic in the non-love sense.
Remember Shel Silverstein?
Rain
I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.
I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.
Shel Silverstein
