Winter Woes

If I had a time machine, I would go back to every moment some group of settlers decided to move to a place with awful weather, and warp in the middle of their conversation and yell, “halt! What the hell do you think you’re doing? You must leave, now!”

There’s altogether way too many cool places to live in today’s world that are cursed with shitty weather. Either we start making diasporas and building cool cities elsewhere, or we must go back and stop this nonsense before this occurs in such a large scale.

I like to envision my time machine to be highly portable, in the form of an app on my phone, perhaps, that would ravish me covered in sparkling, purple darkness as though eaten up by a black hole.

There’s an outcome of possibilities that could come out of a situation of this kind. They’d be so perplexed from my magical appearance, some might immediately start worshiping me. Some might attempt to burn me on some sort of stake. I need to be well-prepared.

I’ve come up with a list of essentials that I must have on my person.

  1. A one-handed, swift and classy weapon, like a katana
  2. A powerful lighter, because you never know
  3. My own personal dire-wolf, trained
  4. A moustache, obviously
  5. And, well, I’m working on the speeches that I’ll be giving. Perhaps I’ll personalize each one according to the era. I’ll make sure to really sway them with relatable topics of discussion. It’ll be mind-blowing.

But until then, I should probably find a new home that doesn’t kick me in the face with freezing winds of peril.

It all happened at the dance floor while I was dancing. I emphasize on the fact that I was dancing, because a lot of people don’t actually dance in the dance floor, which I have never quite understood. So I was dancing, and I had been developing the sniffles all day - you know, where your boogers are constantly dripping like sweat from your nose - and then I sneezed.

My sneezing interrupted the dance flow in my body, and out my nostrils embarked a blob of goo that flew through the dark room and landed at some point, shortly after, somewhere in the vicinity.

I reflected upon the whole moment for a second, waiting for an apparent reaction of shock, disgust, anger or discomfort; nothing.

It could’ve fallen on some drunken girl’s face and she might’ve simply moved on while I stood there in shame. For a second or two, and then I continued to dance as if it had never happened.

The memory still haunts me to this date.

To the person who received my two soggy, sticky, tiny spaceships of bacteria that night at the Middlesex lounge, I humbly apologize with all my heart. Thank you for not being a jerk about it.

There’s a lesson we can learn from this mystical creature of goodness:

We are all a little gross sometimes. Human beings excrete gross things.
Sometimes it’ll be your gross, sometimes somebody else’s -
Sometimes it’ll splat on your body when you least expect it.

It’s a part of life; you just gotta let it be and keep dancing.

If [economic thinking] cannot get beyond its vast abstractions, the national income, the rate of growth, capital/output ratio, input-output analysis, labour mobility, capital accumulation; if it cannot get beyond all this and make contact with the human realities of poverty, frustration, alienation, despair, breakdown, crime, escapism, stress, congestion, ugliness, and spiritual death, then let us scrap economics and start afresh.

Are there not indeed enough “signs of the times” to indicate that a new start is needed?

E. F. Schumacher, Small Is Beautiful (1973)

// A fresh start that is long overdue.

 

"Rajesh Kumar is a shopkeeper by profession but spends hours every morning teaching around 80 children from the poorest of the poor in India’s capital. The 43-year-old visited the construction of the Delhi transit station a few years ago and was disturbed by the sight of  many children playing at the site instead of attending school.

When he questioned the parents working at the sites they all said there were no schools in the vicinity and no one cared. Consequently, his open-air class room was born - between pillars and beneath the tracks of the Delhi transit system, known as the Metro.

Every few minutes a train passes above, the children unperturbed by its sounds. There are no chairs or tables and the children sit on rolls of polystyrene foam placed on the rubble. Three rectangular patches of wall are painted black and used as a blackboard.

Anonymous donors have contributed cardigans, books, shoes and stationery for the children, as their parents cannot afford them. One unnamed individual sends a bag full of biscuits and fruit juice for the pupils every day - another incentive for the children to turn up for their studies.”