You and Me and Rain on The Roof…

I better post something just to show (myself) and, perhaps, the world, that I actually have a heartbeat? beat? beat?
Something, not with form or function, because I?m not interested in or even quite capable of that just at this moment
More something stream-of-consciousness-like?

Sitting here in my apartment, bricks to the left of me, bricks to the right of me, bricks in front of me? Into the valley of bricks rode the Six Hundred (is it six hundred? I?m too lazy to go on-line and check it. I think Six hundred was the size of a British light cavalry brigade in the middle of the 19th century)?
Anyways, the point is that they were undaunted (the Six Hundred). Never felt the slightest daunt? They rode straight into the Valley of Death because?well, because they were a bunch of homosuicidal drunk-on-their-own-imperial-glory killers who couldn?t believe a bunch of Wogs could actually be effective soldiers. And they were slaughtered like rabbits? Death by arrogance, essentially? And the filthy Wogs triumphed. (By the way, you won?t see that in the Errol Flynn version from the 1940?s? In that one, the Six Hundred actually win!) So you see?history has taught people nothing? Give it a hundred years and you can turn the actual facts of any historical event; a skirmish, a battle, even an entire war, 180 degrees from its true result.

Meanwhile, back at the Ranch?
All the lamps are on in my apartment because it?s a dark, rainy day and there is no natural sunlight to be had for any amount of love or money; none since the disgusting rich-people?s coop tower was built about three years ago, effectively blocking off all view of sky or feel of wind? or any other glimpse or sensation of actual weather from my sixth floor window.
There could be a gale-force wind blowing outside or it could be 40 degrees out?Outside my kitchen window, the air is utterly still and the thermometer reads around 55?

Essentially I live at the bottom of a concrete, steel and brick well?with no fresh air and no view at all save for the occasional glimpse of rich people storing recently purchased art or counting their bearer bonds in the back rooms of their apartments?

But! Though there is no more wind or sky, the rain can?t be completely kept away? It has been pouring Noahcly for days now and I can hear the constant slap and pit-pat and thwit of rain drops smack-splattering on my air conditioner and windowsills and fire-escape?
No matter the utter citiness of the sound, I am reminisced? transported in memory to the many other times when it was raining outside? When I rode highways or back roads in cars, or sat in the upper rooms of wooden houses or in small tents somewhere in the woods? And heard that familiar, comforting sound?rain on the roof?

It?s a universally comforting sound and situation? Wet and gray outside and warm and dry inside.
The rain hits the White House, or some tin-roof shack in some god-forgotten alley in a slum; it drips and smacks and thwacks and patters? All-over-the-world? Inside caves, under broad-limbed trees, in houses and apartments, inside palaces and huts and trains and cars and buses and stores and schools and ships in every part of the world, millions of people look outside and think or reflect; or they make love or fall asleep to the arhytmic beat of falling drops? Heaven?s dew, gravity?s due?
The sound of the rain is the metronomical tick-tock of eternity? World without end, Amen?

– Mike Feder (New York City – September 15, 2006)

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