An Elusive Declaration of Love

It is odd to say that as a writer, I am a person of few words. Or rather I choose my words in a very Joycean way - thinking much too hard to make sure the message is conveyed exactly the way it is supposed to be. (Note: I actually loathe Joyce with a passion.)

So when it came to our wedding my husband had asked me to say a few words at the reception. I never thought too much of it, waiting for my stream-of-consciousness to come up with something in my stead. Even the day before there was nothing. A good friend told me to just think about the very anatomical structure of our relationship - especially since I cannot be as extensively expressive as him.

Also, I shouldn't "wing it" when it came to an event like this.  Very faux pas. Even for me.
I knew I only had one thought that was short and simple. As well as something I tell him now and again in jest.

Yet in the end I only mouthed an the unaudible "Thank You" because my voice simply could not work when I wanted that day.

Tears are like a yawn - once you do, everyone does and it's simply a wreck of a moment.

So instead I'll tell you two months from then.

As a child I had once told myself I would meet the person I would marry in college. It's strange how that came true. When I met you I saw something in you. Even when you were erasing Gundamnium from a periodic table all those years ago.  

I saw that you would go very far with whatever you did.

And I wanted to be there to see it when you did. 

You have gone incredibly far indeed.

And I'm glad that I will always be there to witness whatever you still have left to do.

Natural Uneasiness

via Our Amazing Planet

Perhaps it's New England nostalgia, but I love summer thunderstorms.  And you can tell when one is coming when the humidity and heat is so unbareable that something has to give. The air feels disturbingly calm like a predictable horror movie moment that should just happen already because  you are expecting it. 

And in New York City it's a rare occassion that thrills me with unusual joy when one is coming.

It's a thrill that leaves you on edge and excited. It's a thrill that leaves you awestruck and fearfully intimidated knowing that something is more powerful than you and in control.

But when they are not the rolling ones like in New England that come and go -- when they have gone on too long -- I can't do anything else but count the long minutes until it's over.  It's true about the feeling of jumping out of your skin.  The humid air is so electrically charged and that when lightening strikes you can swear you feel it in every joint and every vein.

You are afraid to move from your position, in case something bad will happen otherwise

It's a nervousness that can only end when you see that flash of lightening and the relieving sound of thunder. Like clockwork work they tell you the coming to the end of the storm. But when it keeps going it's like the slow drag of a movie that hasn't reached the high point of the plot yet. 

And you really want it to end.