All the Rain Comes Down

All the rain comes down.  Can you feel it.  Can you feel it.

I think those are the lyrics to a Patti Griffin tune.  They keep running through my head, but when I Google it, all I get is this.  Still, it is beautiful, too.

And it does.  Rain, rain, rain.

I wanted to go see the model and her boy last night, but I didn't.  She texted me that she was working at the bar.  "Come down and have a brew," she said.  "It would be fun to see you."  How can she be so chipper, I wondered.  Life is conditional and what is pain and what is pleasure is conditional.  There is no bottom line to it no matter how hard we try to make it so.

I had texted her earlier.  "Did you work at 7-11 today?"

"Yup and I'm bar tending again tonight at lous to make gas money so I can get Tommy to work tomorrow.  Why?"

The "why" was jarring.  To what end?  To what purpose my inquiry, she was asking.  I thought about it.

"Listen.  There are some cheap ass motels on the highway for like $35 a night.  I'll pay to put you guys up for a few nights until you can scrape some cash together if you want 4 crummy walls and a shower."

"You'd REALLY do that for us?"

Jesus.  I thought about it.  Why?  I was getting balls deep into this for what reason?  What the hell good would it do anyway?  I was doing it for me, I thought.  I was getting more out of this than they were.  Pictures.  Story.  Maybe it made me feel better that people had it worse off.  Maybe it palliated some guilt and emotional loneliness.  Maybe I felt it validated me artistically.  Maybe I was simply preparing for some apocalyptic future I envisioned for myself.  Why?  Would you really do that for us?

It didn't matter.  By evening's end, they'd moved on.  Declined.

By now my hand is in the snake's cage.  The trick, as always, is how to get it out.

I am still sick.  It isn't all physical.  People are right, you know.  Don't go looking behind the curtain.  Don't search in dark basements.  Stay out of the hidden closet.  There is nothing there for you.  You may want to look. . . but you'll be sorry.