Rain is proof god has rhythm. If you choose to listen it will tell you the truth about that which you see. A small, vibrant area of town has me walking, strolling, listening for what is hidden from my sight. Clouds make the world seem darker when it rains but somehow that just makes smiles seem brighter. Truth be told it's never worth trying to stay dry, that's a battle worth losing, once you're wet you can stop darting from awning to awning and just enjoy the drum solo of the sky. It helps remind of the temporary nature of things, in seconds they're soaking, discoloured, washed anew.
Wandering in the rhythm is so peaceful, few wish to navigate falling oceans and one is left with a pleasant beat to their every step. Small, niche shops of the town's backstreets will always appeal to those who think they're individual, they love the enlightening realisation; "oh shit, other people like this stuff too!" Raindrops somehow slow everything down, like looking at the world through a strobe light but instead of flashing light they bend it.
Near the end of the excursion I end up walking past a group of four, two male two female. Situated on the sides of a small square, a space between two buildings which had fake marble supports. The style of architecture allowed for them to sit on the marble-esque blocks. The two girls sat on one side with one of the boys, who was facing the other sitting across the square.
Through the rain the men stared at one another slowly crafting images in the air with their hands. One would draw an arching curve with his left hand and a solid line horizontally with his right that would cut through, intersecting it. Not moving an inch except to slowly drag on a cigarette one of the girls handed him he fixated on his brother in hands. In a relaxed but deliberate manner he pitched his head to the side, as if the view would better serve his understanding. Slowly his neck returned his head to it's original position and with a faint smile which hinted more at satisfaction then pleasure, he began to carve out his own masterpiece from the space in front of him
The rain's melody had fallen to secondary aural status. The girl sitting across from where I stood was strumming out what seemed to be harmonious chords of nothing in particular. Her playing reflected the rain, still falling, it was erratic but pleasant, definite but unintrusive. It was undoubtedly present yet it faded more into the moment and stimulated a background for a memory that was heard not seen. The second girl sat to my left, a ukulele resting against her knees, up close to her chest and a cigarette passing back and fourth between her and the guitarist; slowly burning it's way to the end of the tobacco, beginning of filter. Sign language still filled the empty space between the cover provided by the roof atop these pillars and the gentle lapping of guitar was lost along with the chorus of the rain.
"Just jamming out while it pours down?" A polite smile and a "Yes", with the sentence left suspended by a drag and a puff.
"Where you guys from" I ask.
"Salt Lake City originally"
"What brings you out here?" The guitar continued to play. The space covered by the roof was a floor that held well travelled looking backpacks and modest guitar cases. Cue ukulele. "Our friend dropped us down here" "We're heading to Hawaii in a few days" spoke the ukulele's player. The girls were dressed in loose fitting trousers and earthy coloured cardigans, all reds, browns, yellows. Our guitarist wore her brunette hair short. A pair of red framed glasses held her eyes; which seemed to have a simple honesty within them.
The band keeps playing, somehow in perfect time with nature's rhythm section. "My name's Rocket" said the red frames. "Tom" I replied with a handshake. Five maybe ten minutes of father time had elapsed and I could tell these were four of the most interesting people I'd come across. I was filled with questions but somehow I could tell that the simple, honest answers I'd receive wouldn't warrant they're asking. Sixteen at the youngest, twenty two at the oldest? It didn't matter.
"I'll leave you and your band of misfits to your jam, nice meeting you"
"You too, goodbye Tom."
"Goodbye Rocket."
The band plays an encore, no audience is required.
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