On the Just and the Unjust Alike

Wet worlds and otherwise.

Not at all like last year around this time.

The rain falls and falls from the big Texas sky over Austin, cooling the air, slaking the desperate thirst of our parched land, falling and falling and falling.

It falls, as the Bible tells us, on the just and the unjust alike.

It falls alike on those who are Democrats and those who are Republicans and those who would like to vote for Ron Paul if only because he once campaigned as a Libertarian and Libertarians are cool because they're of the party that's like, "Dude, you can't tell me what to do."

It falls, the rain, the same on those who are straight and on those who are gay. It falls on people of either sexual orientation, or maybe of some other orientation, even; and it falls on them whether they're single or dating or married or divorced or just looking for a little somethin' somethin' every now & again.

It falls on those who have children and on those who don't. It falls on those who have their children vaccinated against crippling or fatal diseases and those who don't have their children vaccinated against such diseases because they're influenced by shaky quasi-science and fear the possibility of vaccine-instigated autism or who the hell knows what poorly documented folderol they believe.

The rain falls, the Bible and the meteorologists tell us, and it falls on theists and on atheists alike, on those who find both gods and meteorologists too incredible too trust. It falls on non-believers who exemplify the best of humanity and on religious icons who sexually abuse children; it falls on the heathens who would kill their own grandmothers for inheritance if they could get away with it, and on the divinity-school students who spend weekends helping feed the homeless denizens of their city instead of constantly shopping, like their more thoughtless peers, at the Galleria.

It also rains on those who shop regularly at the Galleria, at some Galleria somewhere, although, verily, those people may possess diamond-encrusted umbrellas designed by Philippe Starck to ward off most of that rain.

The rain falls on the good and the bad and the ugly, on those who enjoy the Westerns of Clint Eastwood but couldn't give a rat's ass about his directorial achievements. It falls on Jane Campion and she films the rain falling on her and on whoever else It falls on. It falls on filmmakers and audiences alike. It falls on those who think Lars von Trier is an unparalleled genius and on those who think the man should face a firing squad and on those who kind of think both simultaneously.

The rain falls on David Lynch, and, boy, does that ever fuck up his hair.

It rains on you and me and Miranda July and everyone we know. It soaks us to the human bones and it doesn't care about our problems or our solutions, our failures or our achievements, our hopes and fears and plans for that one week of vacation we're thinking about maybe taking sometime after the kids go back to school.

It rains, is all.
It rains and rains and rains.

And for that, best beloved, let us be glad.