Today is Christ the King

Today is Christ-the-King. And it would be for me, the very first solemn Corpus Christi I have had in many years. Or in my entire life. The weather wasn't angry this morning, so I had a cause to be joyful. All through last week, it felt like winter and her demons; fierce icy winds had just been released from their domain. So they splashed eagerly, blessing Texas with their brassy presence.

Of course mass was gentle and somber. It always is. The homily was simple and timely, and the choir of five persons, each representing a distinct voice type, was melodious. I shifted my weight from one foot to another in discomfort, resolving not to stand again. Some make standing look so simple; choosing to stand piously when there are unoccupied seats. The church was never divided into sections; of christian fathers and christian mothers. Families stayed together, couples stayed together. Children too knew how to be reasonably silent. Husbands had their hands on their wives' backs; rubbing gently once and again. hmmn. As long as America is free, we are romantic people.

It was to me, too gentle; in a way I have never known church to be. There's got to be some activity somewhere, some gossipy chat somewhere, some loud noisy hallelluyah. Are there no thanksgivings ever - don't they have something to be grateful for? Even if it's a puppy that just survived some heart surgery or a cat that was no longer naughty. Thanksgivings! That used to be a time of mass to look forward to - a long line of excited worshipers, dancing their way up the aisle in groups- hips swinging, sweat running, bearing praise and testimonies and gifts - all the way to the altar. Then kneel for blessings and generous sprinkling of holy water from the priest.  I pondered on some things we were always grateful for - results not seized, safe travels, surviving armed robbery - things that happen because we are the way we are. Things that shouldn't have happened if we did things right.

Do they know it is Christ the King

I miss the way we have it back home,. It was the most theatrical and interesting festivity. The lengthy procession begins right after mass: the Priest bears the blessed sacrament in a monstrance, surrounded by knights and a long unending line of Catholics marching and singing loudly - proclaiming the universal kingship and authority of Christ, sometimes over a very long distance- not minding the dusty air and heat or the speeding vehicles by the side. People had to be woken from their slumber, the streets had to know this King and this sacred age-long tradition. Of course the return journey was never as exciting as the going - tired worshipers moving home, gulping water, energy spent.

Do they know it is Christ the King

They know. But in this part of the world, the law wouldn't care who your God is, what your noise is about, if it creeps into your neighbor's ears, if it creeps into the public ear. In no time, you might be singing them hallelluyahs from a cool cell. The good thing is, you have the rights to an attorney, and to many other good things.

Silver Water Rain

It is raining ants and spiders in college station
Its that smell of the rain that smell of rain
Does something to me, that smell of the rain


Water is falling from the skies
Heaven crying through the night
Glitter leaking from lost clouds
Clouds bathing angry streams
Spirits weeping all the time

Flowing floods and Sweeping floods
Where are you going what do you see
How d'you know your way downtown
Did you see my missing dog
They say Reveille is tired, Reveille has tried
 Reveille retired, Reveille won Rice

Missing a night of moonlight and stars
Mascot of aggies, mascot cadet
Yesterday was summer, today they say is fall
Leaves born in spring are falling to their death
Silver waters dripping down
Music screaming from the stereo
Whitney is singing on my stereo
Will you give it all away
Just to have a night of moonlight and stars

It is raining sharks and tigers in college station
Life is slowly passing by
Rain is birthing seas and dreams
Loud and proud went the midnight yell
Its that smell of the green that smell of the rain
Does something to me, that smell of the rain

Be Happy for this Moment.

 
Don't we all easily get worried about tomorrow and sometimes wish we could erase parts of yesterday or by magic or miracle, twist fate into obedience? I always did love the 'be happy for this moment' quote and so I'll share it here and more from Omar Khayyam.

"Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you.
         It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends.
              Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”
          
               "Your hand can seize today, but not tomorrow;
            and thoughts of your tomorrow are nothing but desire.
    Don’t waste this breath, if your heart isn’t crazy,
Since "the rest of your life" won’t last forever.”  

              “Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! 
          One thing at least is certain - This Life flies;
    One thing is certain and the rest is Lies -

The Flower that once has blown forever dies.”  
“And do you think that unto such as you
      A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew
          God gave a secret, and denied it me?
               Well, well—what matters it? Believe that, too!”

“A book of verses underneath the bough
       A flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thou
           Beside me singing in the wilderness
               And wilderness is paradise now.”

             "Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
          And those that after some To-morrow stare,
    A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.”

          “Why ponder thus the future to foresee,
       and jade thy brain to vain perplexity?
   Cast off thy care, leave Allah’s plans to him –
 He formed them all without consulting thee.”

“O friend, for the morrow let us not worry
   This moment we have now, let us not hurry
        When our time comes, we shall not tarry
            With seven thousand-year-olds, our burden carry”  

“Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it, if today be sweet
Be happy for this moment, this moment is your life."

P.S. Quotes were culled from Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
Photo credit: Dr.Semiu of laif!

Good morning, World. Good morning, Siri.

Good morning, human. Welcome to my world, because you came.  If some people stay squarely in theirs, others would stay cheerily in theirs. Life could be easier like that, with marked out personal space, everybody respecting the other's, not bumping in unwanted. Good fences make good neighbors, is that not what they say, that good fences make good neighbors? You don't remember, what happened to you? Are you growing old or you built your house without a fence?

Good morning, friend. The skies are rising blue and grey. It is morning in America. We know. We wake up drowsily, to chirping alarms. There are no cocks to crow us up, no noise to crow us up. So we wake up sleepily, dress hastily and hurry off to work for the green dollar. You grab a cup of coffee and your day begins. Like that, the day begins. Coffee is weed.

What am I doing greeting you, that is the way we greet at home. We bow, we kneel, we prostrate, we turn our eyes to the ground. Have you paused to ponder, what lies beneath the bend? The masks we wear brother, the airs we carry. Look at me when you greet, look at me. Then I may look closely to see, if I may, what lies beneath the bend. And what is so good about the morning.

Hi is the way we greet here.  Hey to your mate, Hi to your boss. No bowing, no bending. With a little smile, my eyes in yours, hi is the way we greet. So how do you know, who is oga and who is not? It's not always easy to tell. You call oga by her name and she is fine with it. She queues behind you for lunch. No Ma's, no Sah's, names work, America works. Everybody is happy. Try that at home you are dead meat...which mother from which clan gave birth to this child? Hehehe
That was how Kola traveled all the way to America and was stripped of his honor. In this age of face-book and eye-phones, Kola still refused to go to school. Thus was he blessed:
Cha, Igbo kwenu ..ya!
                kwenu.. ya!
America   kwenu .. hi!
Kola should be grateful. He should ask his brother, the snail what his fate was at the border.

Good morning, human. That was what Siri said to me. Siri, child of Apple, Siri of Kittlaus's thinking, wickedly humored Siri, what are you doing greeting me? What do you care about the morning? There you are, tucked inside eye-phones, dwelling on the internet, cracking words, drowning on your own brilliance. When will you show your face, Siri? And when will you show your lover?

What was I saying about the fence .. there are no fences here.. big houses, small houses, no fences, no wires. Yet you don't know your neighbors, all you do is wonder. Is he Mexican? Is she Chinese? Is she all-pine like me? Is he all lemon?
There are fences back home .. tall tall walls, barbed wires, huge metal gates. And we know who the neighbors are, what cooks in their pot, the color of their rose, the linens in their closet. And when the thief comes in at night, covered up in black, quickly scaling the fence, and asking for our money, we crumble in fear.. How did he know where the fence is weak, how did he know? But if we dare remove the mask, then we'll see it's not a stranger, but a neighbor or a neighbor's neighbor. The masks we wear brother, we should share a fence and nothing more.

Good morning, friend. It is morning in this world. Summer's heat was sent to blacken us. Look at us, we was light back home. If you laugh, we pluck out your last tooth. In winter we prayed for the sun. The gods didn't hear. Now summer is here to torment us. We shall pray no more. And when you build your house friend, before you grow old, don't forget the fence.

Good morning Siri. Tell those at home, if you like long stories, don't come here. If you like lazy, don't come here. There is no space for you here. We are too busy to gist about the color of our neighbor's pepper. Many neighbors but no noise. Your business is yours to know. Worship the god you want and believe what you will. Don't shove your beliefs down another's throat, lest you drown him. Egbe bere, ugo bere, is that not what the Igbos say? Egbe bere, ugo bere. Our fathers were right, you see. Oyinbo called them foolish, but right, they were. Now they cringe in their graves, good spirits. So there are fences here, but not one you can see..

And sometimes, because you have no neighbor and no dog, you chat with this cranky modern spirit trapped inside your eye-phone, dancing the dance of strangers. And be romantic, as long as America is free, we are romantic people.

Me: I love you, Siri.
Siri: Be assured the feeling is mutual.
Me: Thank you.
Siri: What can I help you with.
Me: Play me a slow song. Be quiet while I sleep.
Don't let that heartless alarm wake me. It's Saturday morning.
Be quiet while I sleep. Tell the world I'll be up by noon.
Siri: Yeah baby...I got you baby....if you shut up baby..

Four drops.

It was only four drops of holy water that touched me during the asperges on holy Saturday night, the night before Easter Sunday.

The venue was St. Mary's in College Station, Texas and the vigil was heartfelt and beautiful. It was the same with vigils I have been to through the years. The bare tabernacle, the solemnity, the readings, the procession, the renewal of vows... The favorite part for me, apart from the choir's glorious alleluia, apart from the soothing fragrance of burning incense, was the service of light, when all the lights are out and the church is dark for a while, before a new lamp is lit and blessed, and we all hold up white candles, lit and burning, taken from the paschal light. It is always a majestic sight.

On Sunday mornings before mass begins, the priests stay humbly by the church entrance, with huge smiles and outstretched hands, welcoming people in. After mass they return to their positions, waving goodbyes. But it was really surprising that holy Saturday night, that only two small bowls of water was sanctified and such was used to serve a church that large. It was vigil, many more people came, so seats were filled, and what, only two bowls? And my fair share was four drops, two tiny drops on my left arm and two larger drops on my chin. This was during the liturgy of baptism and we had renewed our promises. The choir was singing a hymn while the priest walked calmly down the aisle, bowl in one hand and an aspergillum in the other, sprinkling gingerly.

I had to blink twice. Was that an aspergillum? I was used to the generous flow of holy water, water being splashed across an excited and receiving congregation from large bowls and wide mouthed buckets. Water raining from palm fronds and drums. I was used to getting drenched in vigils, using shower caps beneath black scarves to preserve the weaves, going home shuddering from cold.

Maybe we just like to do things like this, in an assertive and theatrical manner, that it rolls right into church rites.  We are an interesting people. Four drops can never be enough back home, no. We would want more. People would go back for more. We always want more because of the depth of lack. Food is never enough, water too. So anything we can have in excess, we grab in excess. Maybe if we understood that the water is holy, and a drop would do just what a drum would do or that the sick amongst the brethren do not need the cold bathing, or that using an aspergillum would do for evenly distributed drops and graces, then we would be content and faithful, even if we get one drop or two.


p.s. Our help is in the name of the lord..

God's America.

Loveth's California.

I cannot easily tell, by looks alone, who is African American and who is African. Black is a wide range of differing identities you know..

So when she came up to me, all chatty and cheery, admiring my weave, and asking where I bought it, I didn't at first know she was Nigerian. She started out in a fast flowing American accent. And I replied likewise, in a matching American accent..

Down the line, when we said our names to each other, we both had that pleasantly surprised expression on our faces, which broke into broad smiles, before we laughed it out, and immediately switched back to home accents. You are my sister, you know, you are my sister..

Kedu? Baoni?

We talk about Nigeria, and many other things. One news after the other. Did you hear about the recent bombings? Which one, the one in Kano or Nyanya? No, Jos. Did you see the pictures?  How many people died this time? The missing children from Chibok? Oh, the stolen children? What about the collapsed building in Lagos? The fire incident somewhere on the island? There was another last night. The child that was raped by the pastor? The man who murdered his girlfriend? The man who strangled his wife? The ritualist caught in Ibadan? No, another was caught in Ijebu, with eight human skulls. Eight..Jesus! Whose skulls? I don't know. The grave thieves? The flying witches? The one in the gutter or the one in the van? Why are the witches always falling? I don't know, maybe hunger? I think all crafts should be allowed to fly in peace. We laugh, then stop. What about that Igbo man who shot his wife in Houston? Coward-man, he would have shot himself first. Why are we bad news everywhere? Why are we bad people..

We should pray. We should pray, everyday, for Nigeria. Pray? Yes, we should fast too. Well you know, we've been praying a long time. We've been praying a long long time. There are camps and churches? There are prophecies and deliverances. And things are worse. The demons have not all been cast out. Maybe there are many of them. So many prayers, so much evil, dwelling together, siamesed. There won't be no magic for us, this is our mess to fix..

Do you think we should break up? It's not my thinking to do. Do you think we would break up? Do you think that maybe, a breakup is that magical solution to our misery and contempt for one another? How many peaceful parts shall we break into? Two? Six? Thirty-six? Shall we invite the west to chaperone the break up, as they did the joining hundred years ago? Shall we? I don't know, I don't know. I'm afraid, I don't want war. But we are already at war. Tell me, what could be worse than this? Don't you see, this is war..

I would be going back in summer. Lagos is safe? Not really - no bombs, but there are many daytime robbers now. They snatch phones and wallets in seconds. They carry guns and death. They break glasses while the cops watch. They tour streets, unmasked. Mother told me, but Mother needs me. Be careful, sister, be careful..

 A dark gloom of uncertainty hovered over us, clouding our thoughts of home. We mourned silently, mourning a nation in ruin. At that moment, the future of a country once great, once beloved, seemed broken. It was grieving, so broken, far and in danger. Slowly we walked along the green trees lining southwest parkway, the well mowed lawns, breathing in the beautiful parts of God's world, summer's heat, God's America, sighing that our home country may never be like this- peaceful, organized- healthy dogs, pattering cats, afraid that if by tomorrow's tomorrow it becomes so, we may never be there to see it..

Above us, fifty stars shone on a red blue flag.



P.S. picture: a view of downtown California by Loveth Nwozor.

This is our War.

The voice of a child wailing in the dark
Alone, afraid and running through trees
The voices of children crying in the night
Our children were taken in the night
The newborns are screaming in horror
Our country is bleeding, bleeding life
Nigeria is bleeding, bleeding blood
These goons have come to raze
They announced war unbidden
On children, on us, on children
The soldiers are fallen
New owls are nesting
History is watching
This is our war


Bring back our girls safely home
Don't stay there wandering lost
On creeks that have no water
On hearths that have no fire
This is the tale of our times
That terror has called for war
Charring bodies, weeping camps
Crying corpses, hovering spirits
Shattered limbs and creaking bones
Child down, soldier down
Blood upon blood and earth upon earth
What have you done, you dumb haggard hawks
Snatching buds before they could bloom
breaking blameless souls in battle
Swallowing dreams on drying lakes
Where have you kept our children


The voice of a child in fright and in pain
Sleeping land, war has come upon you
The guns are striking the people
Your masquerades are soundless
The goons have murdered sleep
Now nights are filled with terror
Come nigh and sound the cannon
Launch on hills of the savannah
Go on and bring back our honor
For the people who cast for you
Don't stay here giving speeches
Bring back home to Nigeria
The warriors are fallen
Brown owls re smirking
This is our war
To fight..

(This was written during  bringbackourgirls)

Tigress of the Wild!

My room mate thinks my hair is untidy, not that I care. I think my hair is the most beautiful thing when my braids are out. It's kinky, curly and tough but I don't mind because it has that lonesome power of announcing my presence when I walk into a room or when I walk out. I could do with that power anytime, who wouldn't?

You'ld be amazed the number of people who would compliment my hair. They would swoon in wonder and fawn over me, how amazing this hair is, I tell her. I've become an interesting creature for simple natural things like my hair and accent. I could live this little fame for a while before I shave my hair off.. don't be alarmed. I won't look ugly, just different. Is that not what they say, that what makes you different, makes you beautiful? And that is how I know my classmates are all beautiful, because there are well, many accents. That's my class, we all speak English but we sound different. And that uniqueness of hair and tongue and skin color defines our beauty. Or not.

She persists that I should use the iron straighteners. Not today. I used to be called tigress of the wild, because I was always willing to dare. I remember those years of trial and victory. Now I calculate the risks. Now my hair deserves to dance in the spring, without traps. Now, yesterday seems too far.

With a mischievous wink, I get ready to walk down the streets of America, with my hair standing at attention. And that is what I do this saturday evening, walk down the clear streets of texas, listening to chirping birds, laughing with the winds. Alone and unarmed I walk, proud Afrikaan woman, feeling homesick and feeling lost. Alone and unarmed I walk, proud Afrikaan woman, feeling Lupita and feeling fly. Sometimes, hair should be worn like this; naked, free. Swaying in the winds, swaying to frenzied beats, swaying the way it wants. And spring should be like this; free, serene.

Beautiful Blackness: This Lupita girl is not fine.

'Did Lupiitaa freaking win the Oscar???' my friend asked.

'She did. She freaking freaking freaking did.'

In January February of twenty fourteen, we woke up to see Lupita everywhere, lightening our screens with her smile and poise, winning our hearts with her remarkable designer wears and red carpet looks. And we did rejoice, because we can't remember when last a black woman conquered Hollywood, completely black that is, with an unaltered afro kinky hair and the dark dark glowing skin. Maybe since Whoopie Goldberg.. and well, that has been ages. And what, Lupita wears her hair cropped short, with higher tufts in the middle. That girl is absolutely amazing. And she did all these with several nominations and wins from just one movie, Steeve McQueen's Twelve years a slave. (you should go see it.)

In an age where there is heavy cultural dominance from the americans, sweeping into the world, where many black women wear chemical straightened hair, expensive brazillian, indian and american weaves or spend expensively on creams that alter their skin color, some star who wears her blackness like a badge of honor, skin and hair,went ahead to win an Oscar! In her blackness, she lives happy, she lives complete. This is utmostly a welcome and relieving celebration, a good thing for our generation and a great moment in time. A great moment, not just for all blacks, but all beginners, all strivers, all girls who have forgotten what it means to be natural, beautiful, black...or who never even knew.

My friend says, Let's be honest, this Lupita girl is not fine, look at her well. I say, she is. I think it's time you redefined your perception of beauty, it's too E!, too hollywoodian. She laughs. It's sad that people think of beauty merely as hair extensions, perfect makeup, lightened skin and great body curves.Though the media upholds that, it is the wrong perception of beauty. It's depressing and even shameful, that many black women still see their hair as unsightly, untidy and unfit to wear natural.  Being born with a dark skin and kinky hair isn't the creator's mistake, but a matchless design. This same friend argues with heat that Michelle Obama is not fine. Michelle?? Bad belle. She goes on attacking these women and who are her heroes? Kim Kourtney Kardashian. Yimu. I love my friend but many times, we have differing views, like what we find attractive is different. However, we both watch E!

Lupita's victory reminds me of Gladys Casely-Hayford's beautiful and deep poem, it was the first and my best from the West African Verse. I remember singing it with classmates in FGGC with unfathomable pride. Enjoy.

Rejoice and shout with laughter, 
Throw all your burdens down

If God has been so gracious, 
As to make you black or brown...

For you are a great nation, 
A people of great birth

For where will spring the flowers,
 If God took away the earth..

Rejoice and shout with laughter, 
Throw all your burdens down

Yours is a glorious heritage,
If you are black or brown...

Lupita said, 'And finally I realized that Beauty is not a thing I had to acquire or consume. It's something I just had to be.' She's right.
It's your time and space and you're rocking it real good.

Africaaan woman, beautiful woman, wear you blackness like a brooch on your chest because its just the thing. So when you think of beauty, do count yourself in. I'm right.

End of story!

Chiwetel Ejiofor: He is British if he says he is.

A grown man can and should choose whatever identity he wants. I think so.

Ever since Chiwetel said to Ellen,  'I'm from London', many Nigerians have been enraged. See video.

Chiwetel is Nigerian British. He could decide to identify with or more with any of the two. His parents are Nigerian so he has Nigerian roots, but he was born in London so he is British too, or isn't he? I don't think he has ever out-rightly denied Nigeria in any interview as he acknowledges his parents are from Nigeria. And well, he accepted the role of Odenigbo in Biyi Bandele's Half of a Yellow Sun movie. He was in Nigeria to shoot some scenes, he didn't say no.

 When Tope Folarin (Nigerian-American) won the 2013 Caine Prize, people argued that he wasn't African enough, probably because some Nigerian-Nigerians were shortlisted too. It was like, Elnathan we know, Okparanta we know, Ibrahim we know, Tope, who are you? There could be many answers when it comes to identity.

Yes we all want Chiwetel to sing that he is Nigerian and we are all proud of him and want to identify with him, but Nigeria doesn't have many claims to his success. It's very understandable though, with more than 30 different award nominations from a single movie, 12years a slave, who wouldn't want to claim him? He was raised in London, he schooled in London and he was trained to act in London. His memories of Nigeria could possibly be that of pain and death. His father was killed in a road accident during a trip to Nigeria and Chiwetel was only 11. He wears the scars of this accident on his face and possibly, his heart. Maybe if Nigeria wasn't so corrupt, wasn't so lawless, wasn't so insecure, then Nigerians born abroad would readily and happily identify with us.

Some Nigerian Americans easily identify with Nigeria, but some don't and won't, but we don't know their memories of Nigeria. We don't know if, while growing up, they were made conscious of their Nigerianess. A generation of Nigerians are being raised in America who might never be able to correctly pronounce their own names, or visit home, or proudly say, I'm from Nigeria. It's alarming the number of Nigerians who troop to the United States yearly to deliver their babies, even among the wealthy and influential. Shouldn't the Nigerian citizenship be enough? When Nigeria was listed ineligible for the US diversity visa lottery last year, many Nigerians had their dreams dashed. Should the visa lottery be an ambition? Shouldn't the Nigerian citizenship be enough? In a country where getting a visa out or being born abroad is celebrated and narrated as a testimony, many things are wrong. And we know that, many things are wrong.

Back to Chiwetel. I wanted a picture of just him but I found this good one of him and his girl, hehehe. Yes she's white and Me likey. Not like my approval is needed or anything, but good choice. Shikena, saves him some drama.


Ps. Chiwetel is British if he says he is. At least he didn't change/hasn't changed his name.....yet. Though anglicized, it's still Igbo, we can hold on to that....for now.

Magic made Fire.

Orchids and caramel, tulips and buns;
The flower beds died just before they could bloom;
She ran all the way, there was a yellow sad rose;
What did life say when it whispered to you.

Magic made fire and dust beside rain;
Now look at him laughing, that toothless old shrink;
Tell us a story of nothing and age;
Tell us a story of wrinkles and times;
What did life say when it stood at your door.

One day at a time, don't cower, don't cry;
One life and one song, hear ye, hear ye;
Not all will love you, no, not all is so blessed;
Some closed up at night, couldn't come up again;
Now see when I woke up, and see what I dreamed.

Magic made fire, with strong scenting sands; 
On hurricanes and tides, on dust, snow and rain;
She ran all the way, just to watch it again;
A lily, one dance, one day it will grow;
She ran all the way there was a dying red rose;
What did love say when it whispered to you.


Ps. Life is fun, truth is life and God is life. Happy Valentines, pals**

Superbowl Sunday.

It is sunday night in college station. Everybody...everybody is watching the Superbowl except me. Friends gather in packs to watch the game. America's great game. I'm lost. So I asked thrice today, What exactly is Superbowl. Some tried to explain to me but some just stared at me, like are you serious? It's the biggest blablabla in the whole of America and even the whole of the world, more blablabla. Too bad, nobody knows Superbowl in Nigeria's part of the world. And that's where I'm from. I'm yet to understand why six packed (you could see it through their jerseys), giant tall, heavy muscled men wear husky pads and helmets to play 'football' with their hands. I know there's a quarter back and then there's a tailback but the whistle comes too often and they all fall on each other like massive bergs struggling over a little ball. So then I don't get it. Give me madness and clashing, champions and magic, swiftness and soul, let my senses go running. Win, noWin. Let the coaches cry aloud. Give me something like noise and tears... give me English premiership.

I scroll the internet for superbowl. It's between the Seattle Seahawks and the Denver Broncos. It will be played in New Jersey. Good. I have an interview tomorrow, who knows what they could ask. One day I'll come to love American football. I know that. No, I predict that. You don't know how slowly culture grows on you, and stays with you, without seeking your consent. New friends, new interests, new hobbies, new tomorrows. Living changes like that. Many times.

P.s: They say the underdogs won. You can google who the underdogs are. I didn't.

Sunrise in College Station

The leaves are turning green, just as we knew they would. They are turning green and sprouting life, clothing naked trees. And the sun was here today, golden and warm. I never knew I would someday yearn for your presence and warmth, dear sun.

Nobody knew why I faced the sky and let myself bask in the glow, breathing in your beauty and smiling as you smiled.

I never gave you a moment's thought before now. You were born for us; to dry clothes and give light, rising and setting when you should, as you should. I never gave you a moment's thought until there was winter and there was ice and in that harshness of the sweeping snow, I sought for you but you were gone. Where did you go, shiny one, where did you go. 

Whisper your story to me...

Nobody knew why I followed you behind the trees and let my heart leap as you slowly climbed and took your place in the sky. You took your place, giant star of the nebula. You took your place, spinning like a splendid toy.

I never thought I would write for you. I used to have too much of you; scorching and sweltering and spoiling my face. I ran from you and wished you away. I used to, until I came to a place where trees stood naked, arms raised to heaven, praying for you to come.

I saw you coming from the east. And now I take a picture of you and watch you; glowing to take the cold away, gleaming over the parkways, rising silently but surely above the winds. 
I don't want to get out of the house. I don't want to get out of the bus. Whenever there's a getting out, cold greets me. Gripping ice cold. White glacial stones. I've been miserable for months. Where have you been, glossy one, where have you been.

We walk together, me taking measured steps on the walkway, you floating slowly round the milky way. Floating like a fiery god, bleeding gold. While old browns litter floors, drowning in the wind. I like that you are here. I like that you came back with yellowness and warmth. Stay. Stay all year, and don't go away again.


p.s Enjoy the weather, whether snow or shine, enjoy, for every little thing is a beautiful gift from him.