DRABSTER.
I liked looking at the rain come across the field in sheets. The movement of liquid that only rain can make. The way it all falls together but apart from each other. Like the same way schools of fish float beside each other but hardly touch as they escape the jaws of a predator just so does the rain.
It don’t like it’s tapping on the window or it’s dripping on the pavement. I like it’s background distortion it creates when it hits everything and everything makes noise. The green grass, the brown trees, the grey stone walls and grey sky clouds all seem natural against my neon yellow Helly Hansen jacket, black trousers, black shoes and black gloves. I stick out like a saw thumb in the field. Even the rain makes a different noise against my shoulders and arms. It slaps and splatters without any muffling give in the material.
The looping choruses of Californian surf tunes run around my head. Fuzzy scenes of bronzed blonde young men and women on the beach, watching the surfers, drinking Coca Colas, listening to Dick Dale out of their big bouncy Cadillac’s stereo, and grabbing their boards before running into the domineering Pacific Ocean waves go around my head. The jangling guitars echo as the rain taps the top of my hood. It shouldn’t feel right but it does.
