And it rains, and rains, and rains...

So it’s alive and well again.  The Grey.  The color of Seattle, for at least 9 more months.  Every summer I manage to forget that for a good 10 months of the year, Seattle is resigned to a prison stripe uniform of grey on grey.  Sigh.  Or maybe I just keep hoping the next year will be different, and it will move away to some other coastal town; somewhere in California, where the greedy bastards laze about in an excess of sunshine.  Come on, share a little, jerks (you are certainly tan enough, ladies).

My friend Gail tells me of her recent trip to the East coast,  and how we know nothing of real rain, here in Seattle.  Thinking of all my travels, I suppose it’s true.  To the rest of the world, rain is something that takes you by surprise; it comes in a torrent--a deluge, in large drops it soaks you through and through.  The spaces in between are tiny, and not even small creeping things escape the wet.

Many people think it rains in Seattle on a daily basis the way it does everywhere else.  But it’s different here.  It’s not raindrops that push down from the heavens—it’s the grey.  First come the clouds; they seem to push down in, rather than sweep or roll across the sky.  It’s like the lid of a great box being closed down on top of you, sealing you into small, cramped space with a million others.  The clouds are thick and heavy, and completely shapeless.  It’s an unwelcome blanket—maybe like those fuzzy, muted ones from hotel beds.  You can’t see mountains, you can’t see the sea.  It seals off the light, and everything looks dull and lifeless.  You feel as though you’re trapped in low basement, staring up at the off white, popcorn ceiling.

Then comes the rain.  It’s a light rain.  But it’s not a mist—a mist might be romantic and mysterious.  This rain is more like sugar, being sifted down in small drops.  The barely wind blows it around, just enough to get in your eyes, down the back of your jacket, or into the side of your hood.  But there isn’t’ enough wind to elicit a real autumn storm feel.  And it rains ALL day.  All day, and all night.  And all winter.  And all spring.  And all fall, and, well, even half of summer.

Leaves get piled in gutters, and stay all year.  Thick, cushy moss grows on everything.  The rain feeds it and it grows fat.  Then it eats roofs of houses, cracks of driveways, the belly’s of stones, the hoods of cars, and even your bathroom walls.  There though, it must vie for position with all the mold that has also found a comfortable home in the constant moisture.

No wonder Seattle birthed the alt depression rock thing.  When you’re stuck in this prison 300 days a year, you go crazy, and depression and lethargy creep around, hiding under the moss just waiting to prey on those that the grey gives over.  No wonder all our rock stars die of heroin overdoses—seems like you need it here!