I shuffled my papers so much till they molded into millions.

“Just start with 1 true statement,” said Hemingway.

I stepped up to the microphone & cleared my throat:

I am amazed by how much I prefer the rain to the sun.

¿Was that too many words? ¿Should I have kept it to just, “I prefer the rain to the sun? ¿Would that have been punchier?

She didn’t look @ me. She continued staring down @ the pad in her lap & wrote.

“¿& what do you think makes the rain seem mo’ appealing than the sun?”

O, I dunno.

“Just guess. There’s no wrong answers. It’s your world: do what you want.”

Rain is less dry.

Rain isn’t dry.

It’s wet.

Finally, she looked up @ me. “¿& what makes that mo’ appealing?”

Well, I guess, I guess that it’s just that, that I,

I feel like I can feel it.

Then sun feels so distant,

its dry heat so half-hearted;

but rain touches me up close.

& yet, everyone adores the sun;

¿but who adores the rain,

who creates just as much value,

but gets li’l credit?

“¿You think it’s a li’l unfair, maybe?”

¡It’s injustice!

“It is rather drab, though, ¿don’t you think? All grays.”

¿Is gray not a color?

¿Does it not have just as many lights & darks as purples, greens, & reds?

¿Can it not cooperate with other hues just as much as they do ‘mong each other?

¿Have you forgotten ’bout cobalt? ¿Thistle? ¿Rusty red?

“I guess I had…”

& not all rain is gray:

some is black, some is purple;

some is the color o’ rocky oil,

dancing down thirsty storm drains;

some is patched with the brown, orange, red, & yellow o’ leaves;

some is solar yellow

in front o’ after-midnight streetlamps;

some is every rainbow hue @ once.

She flipped through a few papers.

“Yes, I’ve read you mentioning storm drains & leaves a few times before.

¿Is there anything else you associate with rain?”

Too many things.

Why, just last night I saw a chain link fence

that seemed to sweat under the collaboration

‘tween the rain & the streetlamps.

¿Who could imagine seeing such a thing?

“I mus—

¿Have you see—? O, sorry…

“No, go on.”

¿Have you seen rain stains in the street—

some hours into a cessation after a hard rain?

“No, I haven’t. ¿Do they look good?”

Unbearably beautiful.

“`Unbearable.’ You seem to treat the rain’s beauty as something o’ a tragedy.

¿Is that due to the world not appreciating it?”

Yes.

I don’t know why,

but I like the look o’ something so dreary but harmless—

so pitiful.

Rain’s cute,

the li’l guy.

I guess that says something wrong with me.

She shrugged. “There are many who feel that way.”

You don’t need to patronize me;

I know & accept that there’s something wrong with me.

“¿Why do you think you’re `wrong’ for liking something unpopular, like rain?

¿Didn’t you say yourself that ’twas unjust for other people to not appreciate rain?

Those are just ‘scuses for my refusal to make compromises.

I should learn to love the sun.

That’s how good people succeed.

“¿But didn’t you just criticize them for not compromising on their love for the sun?

Compromises have to go both ways, after all.”

…

It took me a while to realize she was calling my name repeatedly.

“I noticed you have trouble keeping from looking outside.

You just can’t get o’er your love o’ the rain, ¿can you?”

Yes, it’s like heroin.

It’s toxic.

“¿Do you think it’s toxic;

or is it that you think other people think it’s toxic.”

That’s what the winner’s say.

They’re winners for a reason:

they’re right, & I’m wrong.

If you can’t beat e’m…

“¿Who says they’re winners—

or a’least that they’re the only ones who are winners?”

They have money,

& they can get it doing what they want.

People respect them.

“¿But didn’t you say that people were wrong for thinking that?

I thought ’twas `unjust’.”

I take it back,

I take it all back—

the muddy foot tracks,

the crumpled leaves,

the bubbling rain water that looks like oil o’er the concrete…

Fuck…

“¿Is having money & respect worth giving up something you clearly love so much?”

¿What, is money just for decoration?

You can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t live without money.

The rain is struck down by Mammon’s thunder,

nightingales pale to the power o’ the pecuniary,

the steadfast bright star’s ‘stead fastly shot down by universal finance.

That’s why people like Keats & Shakespeare are dead so young,

their dusty work buried to mold,

only truly read by a few ol’ cranks,

while tossed blurry in cobwebbed corners o’ the average mind,

while the gold on which we all revolve shines stronger than all.

¡Yes! ¡Money is everything!

¡Rain is nothing!

Don’t patronize me:

just ’cause I’m a fool,

doesn’t mean you need to feed my foolishness.

Now ’twas time for her to pause in silence.

Finally, she said, “You’re dramatizing:

actually, if you look @ studies,

most people consider such things as aspirations, family, & friends to be mo’ important than money.”

They’re fools.

¿What would they know ’bout themselves?

The fact is that they can’t have any o’ those other things without money.

The average person thinks li’l o’ the sun;

but their lives revolve round its heat & its fuel for oxygen all the same.

“But you yourself said that the rain was just as necessary:

plants can’t live & make oxygen without rain, either.”

¿So?

“So, I ask ‘gain, ¿how can loving the rain be so bad if it’s an objective fact that rain is necessary for life?”

¿“So”?

¿“So”?

So, I can barely pay my rent, my student debt, my gas & car maintenance, these cloud-high sessions that my star-high insurance doesn’t pay for, & food;

¿Who gives a fuck ’bout rain when one has to worry ’bout getting ‘nough to afford this all?

“I’m sorry to hear all that.

It can be stressful to deal with so much in such limited time ‘lone, ¿isn’t it?

It seems to me that maybe that’s 1 other thing that might make rain so appealing:

it’s calming, ¿isn’t it?

In fact, your contrast there seems to explain it:

maybe it’s precisely ’cause rain’s so removed from all the stresses in life that you enjoy it so much.

Maybe what you’re looking for is a temporary ‘scape from the stresses.”

Yes, it’s like opium.

It’s toxic.

It’s a delusion.

You can’t ‘scape the stresses.

“¿Not e’en for a few minutes every so oft?”

&, ¿what, just turn off my mind every so oft?

“Sure. ¿What harm could it do?”

¿How would I do that?

“Just stop thinking ’bout the stresses for a moment.”

¡I can’t! ¡That’s the problem!

¿& what use is breaking off pieces o’ my limited time for something useless?

Successful people don’t do that:

they get rich doing what they want ’cause that’s efficient.

The point is that there’s a diametrical contrast ‘tween what I like & what is successful.

In this world where one’s career is one’s life,

one can’t afford to live like that.

“¿& why can’t you be successful liking the rain?

As you said, it’s necessary.”

I told you: people don’t value it;

& if people don’t value it,

they won’t pay for it.

While poetry ’bout the sun can sell bank,

¿who the hell wants to buy poems ’bout dirty ol’ rain?

“Well, ¿why can’t you convince people to buy poems ’bout rain?

If rain’s as necessary as you say it is,

there must be a market for them.”

But I just shook my head.

No, I checked.

Maybe in years gone…

But now…

But, god, did I love the sound o’ that pattering on my window…

I followed her glance up @ the clock,

having not noticed till now that ’twas ticking similar to the raindrops.

“Well, let’s schedule ‘nother session.

¿Would 2 weeks from now be good?”

I nodded, but my gaze was somewhere else,

my mind was somewhere else.

* * *

“Have a nice day.”

I raised a hand, but didn’t look back.

I stepped out the front door into the embrace o’ the rain.