Gills are forming on my neck. I've grown unaccustomed to the sun. I've braved Ohio winters without a decent coat, sweltering Tokyo summers wearing a suit and tie and commuting on crowded trains — but this Seattle rain ... since December 19, it has rained every day in Seattle. And we haven't even set a record yet. Today, the sun burst through and I realized why Seattle sells more pairs of sunglasses per capita than any other American city: the glare takes you by surprise. After three weeks of grey and drizzle, the sun comes out, and you feel like a bar fly emerging from your favorite watering hole at 9 am. Your eyes hurt; you shrink from the sun.

But then, a few seconds later, you adjust and bathe in it, knowing it will soon go away.

I've lived in Seattle for just three-plus years now, and I have to say I always thought the talk of rain was overblown. But this year is different. I've been reading Raymond Carver throughout the rain streak. I never thought of him as a Northwest writer, but now I'm beginning to understand the dark world he inhabited. This poem seems especially apropos.

If it rains for another week, I'll turn to H.P. Lovecraft.