Rain City

Do you ever get one of those itches? Not the ones you scratch but those urges, a sort of tug from your subconscious. Science may suggest it is a disproportionate presence of a chemical that is triggering stimulants haphazardly admits the cervix of my brain. Religion may call it a spiritual awakening a whisper and nudge from God. However, most normal people just think I am weird. In essence, I regarded all explanation as true and connected as I glided on the rails above the cityscape.

The caves Kodak's production floor had some how encouraged me to call up an old friend. Claiming I wanted to look at guitars, I was able to cover my inner desires of just wanitng to escape for a night.

As if a month of continuous rain was not enough, the sky marched its drops down upon the civilians of streets below; A dismal soddened lot. However, the reserve of the citizens refused to yield to the terror of the aqueous bombardment, after all this is Rain City.

Passing my wet bag to the security guard I found Darrell and we browsed the aisles and rooms. Like a young flirt at a summer camp I played the collection like a star. Without hesitation each guitar was given a moment in my arms. The neck was a gateway to discovering the body. Indulging myself I listened as each shape and complexion sang out its unique tones to accompany the dance of my fingers. Some were worthy of my ears but most were dropped like a plate at a Greek party. This was serious competition; I wasn’t just here for casual dating. However, it was soon discovered that tonight nobody’s foot was going to fit in that slipper. Unsatisfied, Darrell and I returned to the wet.

Outside the streets cried their own tune like a river. Contained by the banks of the buildings life swims in the ebon flow of prosperity and destructive desire. Wooed by a local I was caught off guard and soon trapped in a twisted riddle of human kindness. Thankfully, to the dismay of my new friend I was able to conclude that 15 seconds of rhythmic rhyming about the word “open” is really worth a granola bar and not my spare change.

Darrell works for Chorus entertainment and needed to stop by work for his bag. A quick tour only helped me confirm the myth that nobody looks like they sound. However in hindsight, I had never spent the time to figure what my voice looks like. I’ll have to get around to that.

Leaving Pacific center, a generous bus driver took my expired ticket as legal tender allowing us to shield the remnant of our dry fabric for few more minutes. From Broadway our feet carried us by the endless store fronts, our stomach into a late night snackery and our minds through the questions of the world.

A visit to his apartment brought about warm dry pants and a chance to see some photos of the last year. But time is fast and we soon said our goodbyes.

Stepping out the front door I returned soon reaquianted me to the comfort of wet pants. Waiting for less than 5 mins I caught a bus and train to Metrotown. In the shetler of my ride, I stared across the aisle through the empty seat to the spilling sounds of Ipods and one sided cell phone conversations. I couldn’t help but absorb the life around. My thoughts drifted with the passing rain. Adding nothing I sat and listenned to the city.

"I'm alive"

Perhaps that is what I needed to hear because things that are alive our worth caring about. Where I go from there I'll leave for my next adventure in rain city.