about followers

Here's the thing, when I started writing my blog, I was very sure that I was not doing it for anyone else, I was doing it purely for me, I did not want to get conscious of my future audience while I was writing it.

I want to write for its own sake and then if someone reads it, its at their own risk and if they like it or not its a side effect from my point of view.

The audience and their reaction was not what I was working towards.

This action is its own end kind of philosophy. Actually all my life is based on that philosophy, or so I think that it is.

But, today I find myself questioning that. And the reason I am questioning it is because I just realized that I have 8 people following this blog, and that makes me feel, well both good and bad, which means that the above idea of not caring about the audience does not hold true anymore, does it? How did i get here? Let's see...

I guess some time after having written whatever it was i was writing, i started wanting someone to read it. I told couple of good friends and they read my blog (none of them follow it publicly though, which as i am writing it i am wondering why, why would they not want to be publicly be associated with this hmm... no, am not holding it against them, i guess it has to do with the whole privacy issues in todays world) So anyways, once these people started reading things, i wanted to know what they thought, and obviously, they didn't always have the time to tel me what they thought, or may be they did not think about it at all, or if they thought about it they did not think something nice enough to say,and being friends its kinda hard to say bad things so...

But from my side the trouble was that once I knew someone could read it - its online, its open, anyone with spare time can find it, i started expecting that someone should read it.

That, to me, is a problem. 

So different from the other.... A Short Story (well, it is short and it tells a story)

This boredom of life. This emptiness. How does one fill it. Speak to other people, cook, clean your house, find a job, read a book, exercise, meditate. It doesn’t matter what your drug of choice is, it is a poor filler, there are always gaps that no meditation, books, or friends can ever fill. There are still the moments when you are all alone, by yourself.

She feels like calling a friend, but stops short. Every name on her phone list seems inadequate, every conversation is a repetition of the same old stories, the same old grudges, the same concerns and the same solutions. Dull, uninspiring, full of platitudes. What is worse she gets sucked in to them. She mimics the person she is with, she agrees, she laughs, she expresses sympathy, and for the moment there is the illusion of intimacy that seems to satisfy them both. But almost always, when the person leaves, when there is nothing to occupy her mind in the moment, when the mind is all by itself, the emptiness returns, made even more hollow by the previous human encounter. She is deflated, not so much from what was said by the other, but what she herself had said, agreed with, or laughed at. She chides herself for being so shallow, for having gossiped, for saying things that people often say to each other when they are trying to find a common bond. And it seems strange to her that two people bond more easily over condemning a third person, than they do over praising an absent party. What seems even more meaningless to her is the implicit competition in every conversation. It seems both speakers must consistently prove how they were each better or worse off than the other. There seem to be no rules about the direction the rivalry is to be hashed out, but she has figured out that there is always a point that is being proven. If she is to be any good at these conversations she must quickly discern the objective and fall in line. The goal changes from day to day and person to person, sometimes she must exhibit her frugality, you bought a coat for eighty dollars I bought cheaper, at others she must flaunt her brands, not in a crude vulgar fashion but with a sophisticated I-really-don’t-care-about-brand-names sort of nonchalance. Some days the game is to berate your mother-in-law, on other days it is to praise her, but on all days she must listen to the other with feigned or real attention, agree, and then put forth the case of how the same thing was done to or by her in a similar situation.

Unfortunately the exchange is complicated for no one is ever in a similar situation or so they insist. Somehow the nuances, the shades of what she is going through are never the same as what the other is going through. The pains, the joys, the heartaches are ever so not the same. She is dumbfounded with this belief in the uniqueness of the human experience that they must each uphold, showcase, and yet deny all at once – in a convoluted dance of words. I know how you feel, but you cannot imagine what I went through when my mother-in-law said to me…. The contradiction in the offering of sympathy while in the same breath negating the very existence of that pain, confuses her. But he is in a better place now, if he is, then I am not sad, if I am not sad, why do I need your condolence. Besides on what authority do you claim that he is in a better place now? But no, such questions must not be asked. Such questions break the very fabric of polite society.  Such questions are a one-way ticket to outcast-land. She knows, she has been there.

On most days the listening is optional. She must just politely wait for the other to stop talking, on some days even that seems optional, they may both speak. Moved by some primeval desire to create sound, to produce noise on the outside which in some strange way is supposed to be a reflection of the commotion on the inside, but which never seems to do justice, never seems to convey the thought, the emotion, the profundity of the experience which the speaker herself seems to have a very special knowledge of. You have no idea what my pain is about… of course not, how could she, she was so different from the other.

Five days of thankfulness challenge

A Friend asked me to do a five days of thankfulness challenge, which meant I was to write three things I was thankful for each day for five consecutive days. I did. I loved doing it. I realized I do enjoy writing I should do this more often. Some friends liked it so I figured I will put it on my blog so it is easier to find it later on.

Here goes.

Day 1 of thankfulness:

1. I'm Thankful for my mom, I may not always say it like this but I am very glad to have you around, you give me strength, your opinion matters more than everyone else's put together.

2. I'm Thankful for the immense love and kindness that is shown to me by my family everyday. The three of you are the gentlest, calmest people I know. I hope I can be more like you everyday.

3. I'm Thankful that my brain is still in 'reasonable' working condition, that as unfruitful as this endeavour has been so far, I am still trying to make sense of the world I live in. As much as the mystics would love for me to give up, I am glad that I can't, not yet.

Day 2 of Thankfulness:

1. I am thankful for Wikipedia, google, youtube and internet in general. I have learned so many things from so many people over the internet who are large hearted enough to have put their knowledge, for my asking, out in the open, without any demand for monetary compensation or thanks. Compare that to the miserliness of people who will not divulge their secret recipe even to friends. My heart fills with gratitude for all those who share their knowledge quite so simply. My thousand parnams to you. Thank you.

2. I am thankful to all the men and women who devote their lives putting together maps. There is no other feeling like the dread of being lost in an unknown shady side street of a big city. Even if you were lucky enough to find a human being who you figured was safe enough to ask for directions, you couldn't always be sure this person knew what he or she was talking about. It was a big risk in every direction. So I am thankful for wonderfully put-together map books, gps software, and online directions. I have no idea of the kind of drudgery such a job would be, but I grateful someone does it. Thank you.

3. I am thankful for pain killers. Thank you.

Day 3 of Thankfulness:

1. I am thankful for books. Their words have reached across time and space and allowed me to live lifetimes in hours. I have made friends with people I would have had no access to otherwise. Okay they are imaginary friends, but think of it, even if I actually lived in Dostoevsky's time and by some remote chance was one of his social circle, how likely was he to pour out his heart and soul to me in person? How often do people do that to the real people they know? Books are the distilled, organized, best version of a person's thoughts and I am glad to have access to minds like Ghalib's, Feynmann's and Plato's. What an embarrassment of riches. Thank you for this bounty.

2. I am thankful for Mohammad Rafi's voice. He has sung at least one thousand songs such that each one of them can make you want to live and love again. ....kadmon ke nishaan khud hi manzil ka pata honge. It is the kind of stuff hope is made of, it is the kind of hope you can hang your life on. That I have this voice at my disposal is - a blessing. Thank you.

3. I am thankful for my ability to forget. I am glad to have forgotten all the many bad things that have been said or done to, for, or about me. Good riddance to all that, thank you very much.

Day 4 of thankfulness: 

1. I am thankful for the technology that makes my everyday existence more comfortable than a queen's from two hundred years ago. My electrical mechanical helpers are much more reliable and predictable than hers ever could have been. A big thank you to all my machines, their inventors, and manufacturers.

2. I am thankful for poetry. Now that my Nanaji has forgotten his own grandkids' names, he still remembers Jan Nisar Akhtar's 'ye zakhm hi apna hissa hain, in zhakhmo par sharmaayen kya...' That gives me hope, if I do get to live as long as he has, then, when every other bit of my painfully acquired learning deserts me, there will still be some very beautiful things left over. ... baad marne ke mere, ghar se ye samaan nikla. I'll take that. Thank you.

3. I am thankful for nail polish. It is probably the only time when I think men got the shorter end of the stick. So many colours and no moral imperative to make up your mind. Get a new one everyday. I do. Thank you.

Day 5 of thankfulness:

1. I am thankful for this uniquely human concept of do-overs, blank slates, and second chances. There is no such provision in the natural order of things. The towering waves of a Tsunami, the rising winds of a hurricane, and the poison of a cyanide have no such option available to them. As far as I know we are the only force in the cosmos that is able to pause a raised hand, suspend judgement, and offer someone a second chance. So I am thankful for all the second chances I have been able to give and receive.

2. I am thankful for friendship. It is the only relationship in life where we come close to a 50-50 balance. Most other relationships work, parents, kids are intrinsically power - imbalanced. A good friendship is not. It is a beautiful thing, not only in the moment that it exists but also when it ceases to be. I have never regretted being friends with someone, no matter how harsh or sudden the 'growing apart'. I may sulk for days, sometimes years, but in this case, for me at least, the present never touches the past. For that moment in time, for that part of our journeys, we were friends, and nothing that happens after can change that, that friendship stays, and I am thankful for that.

3. I am thankful for some good hair genes that I have inherited. When I was younger I have made some pretty awful comments about my own hair, about its texture, unruliness, and just the sheer volume of it. But this being my last day of thankfulness and all, I want to send a recantation out to the universe. I was young and foolish, I did not realize how good I had it, thank you for giving this to me.

the rogue data point... excerpt

here is an excerpt from a story i am supposedly working on, supposedly coz, i am not actually working on it. it is just sitting here...

To my happy place,

The source of youth, renewal, and forgiveness

To T,

For her receiver transmitter analogy

And

To Mohammad Rafi,

For singing so beautifully ‘tumne mujhe dekha, ho kar meherbaan, ruk gayi ye zameen tham gaya aasman’

(You looked at me, in kindness; the earth stopped, the heavens bowed)

Started: 17 March, 2009

Finished: not yet

Dr. Mahesh Dixit was at the clinic when the call came, a barrage of words that he is supposed to understand, but somehow do not seem to be making any sense. An accident, his wife, severe traumatic brain injury, subdural hemorrhage, the information does not sink in to the extent that he actually debates whether or not he should ask Patricia to cancel all his day’s appointments.

He drives himself to the hospital, all the time wondering if it was a mistake of some sorts, because shouldn’t she have been at work, what was she doing down at queen street anyways? It was only when he saw her, in the sterile hospital bed, surrounded by the low hum of equipment over which was the voice of this bright young thing, rehashing the very same words that Dr. Mahesh Dixit has himself fed to countless spouses and their families before, that a strange numbness spread down his arms. He glanced at the name tag, Gordon Smith, first year? He must have said it out loud because the bright young thing was now defending himself with medical jargon that doctors throw down at the simple folk. Dr. Dixit just stared at him, the numbness having now made its way to the rest of his body.

“Dr. Dixit! I have been waiting for you.” It was Janelle, one of his favourite nurses, from back when he was an attending neurosurgeon at this very hospital years ago. She glanced at the listless figure that was his wife, pursed her lips and looked away. Then with an effort that showed, she walked around the bed, and hugged him, “I am so sorry.”

Dr. Gordon smith had now stopped talking, it was the sheer helplessness of the young doctor’s expression that set off a cold bitterness cruising through Dr. Dixit’s veins, his stomach churning, and before he knew what was happening, he was throwing up in a bin.

The next few days are a blur. She never regained consciousness. He was never left alone. friends, or supposedly friends, they are all husbands of her friends, people who surround him, who look into the details of the funeral arrangements, and their wives who take over the home, filling it with so much unnecessary food. Women, when they don’t know what to do, they bring you food. And they say stupid stuff; like God’s will, and destiny, and she is in a better place; when they don’t know what to say why don’t they just shut up? He totally understands why Rohan has not come home, why he is staying at a friend’s place, and no matter what these women tell him, he is not going to call him until he knows what to say to a boy who has just lost his mother.

Sanjana was different, she came home, she cried, she hugged him, she went to see Rohan, she did the laundry, she did everything a sensible person would do, everything except she ironed her mother’s blouses and hung them in the exact color coded spot in her closet where she herself would have hung them. That was the only indication he had that Sanjana did not know what she was doing either.

These days he spends half his time trying to remember the last thing he said to her, it was something about a soap dispenser, it was not important at all, another one of those mundane conversations they have been having these past many years, only now, that conversation has acquired new meaning. What was it? He keeps racking his brains, what had she said? Somethigna about buying it on sale, what had he said? Something not nice, not intentionally bad of course, but he remembers having hurt her slightly, he had not meant to, and he knows that she knew that, she was not mad at him either. A lousy soap dispenser. This is nto what it should come down to, a twenty year long relationship ending with – not even an argument, not a fight, at least you could have had that, gone out with a bang, said something terribly mean and hurtful, something worth being guilty about for the rest of your life, but it was not that. Their last conversation was unremarkable, nothing stood out, no grand last words, no frilly promises, no instructions, no secret desires or wishes revealed, nothing, there was absolutely nothing in it that you could hold on to.

He had gotten her clothes, her bag, her shoes with a heel missing, and the remnants of what was her phone at the hospital that day. He has gone over the contents of her bag many times in order to make sense of what has happened. You see, he gets the old woman driving the car, looking away for a second, he thinks it is acceptable that Ipsita came out of nowhere, he understands the accident, the injury, and her subsequent death. All of that makes sense, the part he still doesn’t get, is just what was his wife doing at that place at that time? It is the kind of thing he cannot speak to anyone about, without making it look like he doubted her and he did not, it is just that it does not add up.

Her purse was full of junk you would expect, nothing out of the ordinary, make-up, wallet, cards, money, loose change, a couple of business cards – some investment banker and a nail salon, and receipts – a bag full of receipts, from all sorts of places, grocery, dry cleaning, gas. For all her organization, he wonders why she never threw out the garbage receipts, what did she plan to do with a receipt of bread bought five months back? You are not going to return it, why hold on to it? He has figured out that she had a dentist’s appointment that day, she evidently left work for it, her car was parked in the basement, why did she not drive? If she was not going to her dentist’s why did she not call to cancel? That was not like her at all; Ipsita was meticulous about keeping appointments, so why would she choose to miss an appointment she apparently left work for and then go in the exact opposite direction? It is the one fact that does not sit in with the rest, the one piece of the puzzle that stands out, the one question he would very much like answered.

It was almost a month after she had passed away that he noticed the coffee shop receipt from the day of her accident, and he didn’t tell anyone about it. He told Patricia to find him an hour’s break between patients and went to the place, with her picture, he felt guilty doing it, but he did not know what else to do. The girl remembered her, mostly because of the accident; she was sure the lady sat alone and did not talk to anyone. ‘She seemed thoughtful, pensive, you know, like she knew what was coming.’ This was said in a conspiratorial, half leaning into him, whisper. Dr. Dixit took in her blonde dreadlocks, the charms, her crystal bracelets; he realized he must have been staring at the pentacle on her neck, because she touched it and said ‘Oh! I am a witch, you know.’

‘Right. Right. Of course.’ He nodded, stepping back.

‘I can see you were related…’ it sounds like a question, takes him a few seconds to answer, ‘Yes, She was my wife.’

‘Oh I am so sorry.’

‘Thank you. But are you sure she was alone?’

‘Yes. But I am really sorry, I should have done something.’ He is perplexed what does she mean, ‘I saw her ethereal aura expanding, but I am new to reading auras and I doubted myself, I did not want to scare her, but now I know I was right, I should have warned her. I am so sorry.’

It is perhaps his professional training that reassuring people comes so naturally to him. ‘No, it was not your fault; don’t beat yourself up for it.’ He says. ‘Did it look like she was waiting for someone?’

The girl looks away, bites her lip, ‘Umm…. Now that you mention it, I think it was the other way round. I think she gave up on waiting for someone. Like she was finally ready to let go, to leave. You know.’ She expects some appreciation for this deep insight. Dr. Dixit has none for her. ‘But then, why would she come here? She had to be meeting someone. Was she looking outside? at her watch? Anything of that sort, that looked like she could be waiting for someone?’

‘No, not that I can think of.’ She is not happy that he was not grateful for her deeply perceptive observations, he seemed more hung up on obvious details.

‘Was she making phone calls?’

The girl really does not know. ‘I was working you know.’

‘How long would you say she stayed here?’

‘I don’t know, an hour maybe.’ There was a lineup beginning to form behind him ‘You shouldn’t do that you know.’

‘Do what?’

‘Think ill of the dead, it hurts them.’

‘I am not thinking ill of my wife.’ There was anger rising in his voice.

‘You are doubting her, snooping around.’ It is an accusation he cannot bear to hear, the audacity of this, this little chit of girl, what does she know what he is doing. ‘I am not snooping around. I am trying to understand why she was here in the first place, when she should have been at the dentist’s or at work. That is not doubting.’ He is almost talking to himself now. ‘In the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, why would she sit here, for an hour, alone?’

‘Oh I know you are hurting. But she had to come here.’

‘Had to, why?’

‘To die. She was meant to die here, so of course, she had to come here, she could not have been at her work or the dentist’s, this is where she was meant to be.’

‘Right.’ it is more than what he can take, he has had his full of this brand of philosophy. It is too much, he is walking out, this girl; he wonders if she has lost her brains, or never had any to begin with. She calls out behind him, ‘I am sorry for you, for what it is worth, she had a beautiful soul you know.’

‘Right.’ He waves his hand abruptly and steps out.

The freezing air hits him with a bang; he wraps his scarf around his neck, he shakes his head trying to get rid of the ‘witch’, no it still does not make sense. Why did she miss an appointment to do nothing and if she just sat here doing nothing, why did she not call the dentist? That girl is wrong. It is not like he does not trust her, twenty years of being together; she never gave him any reason to doubt her. It is just, it is….

hey!

I would like to say i am back, but, i am just not sure. there is a lot to do these days and i find i don't have the energy to sit down and write, besides i sometimes wonder why go through the effort. once i have already have had a thought, in favour of conserving energy, why sit down to write it, not like too many people are reading it. yes it is true on most days that is the best thought, i can write whatever the heck it is that i want and not worry, coz :) not like too many people are reading it, but sometimes it can also be a deterrent :) does that make any sense?

anyways...

i guess it is high time to start being more disciplined now, but i would love to get topics to write on, so the three people who are reading this, if that, please give me topics to write on, or questions or stuff like that...

I need to do something

Here is the thing, I got these stories in my head, and I should write them. But, I am not... and I don't know why?

arghhh!

here, i am putting down the names so that I have some motivation to do it. I don't know what else to do to spur myself on. i even went and bought one of those stupid games how to lose the writer's block from Barnes and Noble. That was one wasted thirty dollars, I can tell you that much.

they are in two groups, ones that i completely understand and buy the premise of and those that are dicey in my head.

A:

1. The curse of Karna (99.9 % done)
2. You are crazy
3. A matter of Principle
4. Not so stupid
5. The No God (but it needs tonnes of research! so.... )

B:

1. The rogue data point (for the heck of me i cannot decide what she should do at that moment on the subway, that is when the story bifurcates, the universe splits, and I don't know which thread to follow!! My heart wants one thing my head another, ik moh kheenche baiyan, ik laaj roke paiyan... grr... I think this is the one i think about the most... and i wake up with a different decision every morning.)

2. Dripping Diamonds ( I am even dicey on the name)

3. In her own image (My favorite in terms of this being probably the only one that has this ideological love story that I hopelessly carry around in my head, but it overlaps with the no. 6 one so... I have to make up my mind some day. hopefully sooner rather than later)

4. The stranger on the train ( I like it, I think it should be in group A but since I was thinking about it, I put it in group B)

5. The reunion (hmm.. okay this is a happy happy one, and I don't know how well I can pull that off, so... besides I have no idea what the bleeding premise is? Just being happy happy happy is no premise. Is it?)

6. And then there is that (but I think this one is very similar to the in her own image one, i might end up combining the two)

A horrendous undertaking

I have a new found respect for all those prolific writers. I have no god damned idea how they do it. I had this short story in my head, and i had it all done quite a while back, in my head that is. i knew exactly how it starts and exactly where it ends and all the high points that happen along the road, yes the low ones too. I had thought it out really. I kept telling myself I could write it anytime, it was done, already. But, boy, was I wrong. You see it is a horrendous undertaking, eventhough I know what I want them to do, it takes so much to get them to do it. I take forever to write a paragraph, i keep living it in my head, i can see these people, hell I think I am becoming these people, but, lord, I am sorry, I am really at a loss of words - it is still not happening. Well, I guess that says it, how the heck are you supposed to write a story if you have gone done and lost all your words now. oh gosh. and i am not even thinking about the loooong story, the one i have NOT thought out in my head yet, the one that still has kinks in it, the one that is not adding up, even though T, god bless her heart, was nice enough to tell me that it does make sense. i thought that was the one that was gonna be the death of me, but here this little teeny tiny one isn't getting finished, And to top it off, I don't even have the time to write my blog everyday now, I feel bad for not writing the stutpid story and then I feel bad for not writing my blog. What is a girl gotta do?

3 july 09

Yaar! Ek to na main bhi bas. Melodramatic hi hoon. That story is done and now nothing else is being done. Why? coz now I think that was a beautiful story, how will i write something to match up to that? like I said, melodramatic ! to the core, i tell you. I cannot believe i was freaking out that much, so it is nice to read my own posts. right now I am freaking out about 'The rouge data point' I think I should abandon it, or forget everythign and write it with abandon. one of the two. Like I said somewhere else what's the point of writing if I am going to be so scared to do it?

excerpt - 1

(Here is an excerpt from a story i am working on. I don't think it gives away the story at all, and i just felt like sharing it.)

Lately, people look at her and wonder why she looks so good? "You are glowing! Are you in love?" She laughs in their faces like it’s a preposterous idea and then turns around to tell them yes she is. She is in love with herself. It is true. She is. Has always been. It is not the complete truth now, is it? But, they don't need to know. All the same, the thought stays there, like a dab of perfume on her wrists, that when her body temperature is just right, when she moves her hands so, and when the air blows over it in the right direction, a waft of fragrance, the idea - I am in Love. She walks around with a stupefied grin, she covers it up with even stupider stories, and she wonders where all those lies come from? Amidst all of this, it stays there, this image - I am in Love. It survives doubt, as it rears its ugly head and wonders if it is not just another regular crush? It lies in wait, as something like fear cripples her muscles and she just cannot turn to look at him as he passes her by. It manages to elude logic, as it wakes her up in the wee hours of morning asking her, what she plans to prove, by being able to hide it, from the one person, who should, in fact, know how matters really stand? She smiles back at her own self, in defiance, because amid the chaos that is her mind, standing alone, is the thought - I am in Love, like its an argument in itself, a reason all unto its own, an irrefutable absolute.

What she hides from the world, she tells the stars, the trees, and the moon, and when late at night, she stands in her balcony, waiting for sleep, the easterly wind blows in her hair and whispers in her ears "We know." Of course they know, they all know! It is self evident. So in a rare moment of valor she tells him too. In her mind, he rolls his eyes and tells her "I know." There the argument rests, that everyone who needs to know, already does, and those who don't, do not need to be told. She lingers around, staring in to the heart of the night, the streetlight merges with the moonlight, a hint of fragrance from Pradhan Aunty's blooming night-queen surrounds her, and a wispy, fragile, dream begins to take shape. It happens night after night that she stays awake for hours, and does not get a wink of sleep, and yet when people see her in the morning, they tell her, she looks rested, happy, and so much better than ever. She thinks she has single-handedly shattered the myth of the beauty sleep, too bad, she cannot enlighten the world. She passes him in the corridors and looks away, not knowing what to say to him, because did he not tell her he already knew? Then, in a panic, she remembers that he did not actually say that, she had imagined that. She watches him leave, spellbound, unable to move. The real and the imaginary have overlapped so far beyond it is hard to tell which is which. So in the deranged, muddy, confusion in her brain, she desperately holds on to the one piece of sanity, that little grain of truth, her last coherent thought – I am in Love.

it's snowing

-->

(i started writing this a couple of days back, so its not really snowing right now :) its hard to write in one shot what with constant interruptions and requests of mama chitdown, and ek chai bana do. grrrrrr...)

i am watching the snow settle slowly into my backyard. it is the second snowfall of this season. my daughter comes every once in a while to say hi snow, my husband is working in front of the TV, watching it, for a second every ten minutes or so, but he is going to be mad if i switch it off, so... am not gonna do that. it is these lazy afternoons that make me think leaving my job and deciding to be a housewife was actually worth it.

i love watching it snow. it is still mysterious to me. an overcast gray sky that envelopes the roofs, suddenly gives way to these soft, unassuming, modest flecks of white, that seem to come out of nowhere really. like the wind itself materializes into specks of frozen water. in one moment nothingness in another solid matter. how majestic and unpretentious at the same time. so beautiful in its descent- quiet, delicate, yielding. you could wipe it away with a hand, melts as it touches the ground, drapes the forms of things as their own second skin.

but i cannot love the snow, like i love the rain. the rain is my friend, my soul's sister, my confidante. she sings my songs, she knows my secrets, she hides my tears. i grew up with the rain. we have known each other forever. she is a part of me - she goes to the places i cannot, she visits these people i cannot, and sees things i cannot, and then she comes back, to tell me all about them, she lives for me, a life in proxy, that i cannot. the rain is mine.

the snow is an alien priestess to be admired and feared. Discreetly coming down - it presents a benign face, a wispy, harmless, flake. Before you know it, millions and millions of them have settled around you. draining heat wherever they can find it, suffocating plants and sucking life off the face of the earth. it is going to stay there for months, mounds and mounds of it, getting hard, gathering grime, chilling the hearts of cold winter winds. The entire landscape lying waste to its immutable persistence.

It is a battle to keep your bodies and homes warm against the stealthy icy fingers of the north wind, it’s a battle most of us in the modern world do not appreciate, worry or even think about. Snug in our heated homes, cars, and malls we can afford to look out of our huge glass windows and call the oncoming blizzard beautiful, or the even more insulting - a nuisance. a mere inconvenience, that increases your travel time. right. sitting beside my cozy fireplace, as the wind howls and beats the other side of the wall, i wonder, what if? what if i was put face to face with this formidable force of nature? left alone, in the wild, would i have the wits to beat it? to survive? apparently we as a race did... only, will i? i am not so sure, you see...

its a hard thought to shake away, i watch it snow, anyway. i still think it is pretty and beautiful, and i am thankful for how it makes these dull winters brighter - the silver lining. and no i do not like the idea of shoveling or scraping it off of my car but i however am glad that, inside this house, i am safe,warm,protected - for now.