










I’ve been caught in
many a sudden downpour.
And I’ve been warned by
the sweet scent of corn,
swept in though a
screen door,
or over the pasture.
But nothing in my flatland youth
prepared me to look down upon
the underside of a cloud —
to see its neatly-edged opaque
wall, defining the area
of deluge.
It wasn’t until much later that I’d
see the massive cloud columns
rising above the base layer
of a cloud floor —
warmly lit as seen from a
jetliner, though I knew it must
be brutally gray to
ground-dwellers.
The deluge closes slowly,
and yet I can’t escape it.
I aspire to be, but in the immortal words of Monty Python, “I am not dead yet!”
Getting up every morning.
The Weary Blues by Langston HughesI could happily live any number of places — e.g. several places in Southeast Asia, the Caucasus (particularly Georgia — though with language concerns,) Taiwan, and South America spring to mind. As long as it’s neither brutally hot / humid most of the time nor Winter more than three months a year (and isn’t pricey,) I can probably learn to love it.
I would point out that if this is a forever and always deal, I’m not in. I don’t want to / plan to live any particular place for the rest of my life.
A little of every kind of stressor is good for us. A human is a system of antifragile systems. Our bones get denser if we load them. Our muscles get stronger when we cause microtears in them. And our minds can cope with a wider variety of experiences when exposed to a wider variety of experiences.
Absurdity.