It rained on Sunday. I was going to make a bad joke about being high on p when I wrote the 1st paragraph, but I decided against it. I need to do something else now.

The Emancipation of Precipitation

The water pooled. Rivulets of the wet stuff ran down the exposed surfaces, forming puddles and ponds, pooling precariously proximate to the precipice of precipitation, plummeting predominantly past pulchritudinous people (potentially) in its passage perhaps to the Pacific (possibly).

Drops of liquid fell from the great expanse above, emerging from the darkness of the evening to gleam briefly in the glow of the electric lights (like so much in this world) before making a muted abrupt halt, a tiny splash unnoticed by the throng that had gathered in spite the meteorological event that was determined to run it's course. Sheets of water blew in from the North, saturating the sodden ground, the droplets, having tasted seemingly autonomous freedom, fell from the grasp of the immense tropical cyclone, felt the thrill of reaching their terminal velocity of six metres per second, and the agony of the sudden inevitable jolt of terra firma.

'fitting accompaniment'. I've used that phrase in both of the last blog entries. How bizarre. This one is about an optical mouse which I 'fixed' at work today (no, not that kind of fixed. I'm not a vet). The hardest thing about writing these things is, coming up with something interesting that I can write something about that I don't get bored with as soon as it is written. The depressing thing is that all of them have some kind of darkness, coldness, or otherwise saddening feel to them. Maybe I should write something uplifting. Or maybe I should just get some sleep.

The Eye.

With an intrinsic and characteristic menacing glow, it stares. Just stares. Concentrating. Waiting like a carnivorous amphibian, it's senses tuned to detect the slightest motion, waiting for prey to come by. Meditating on the surface before it like either a buddhist seeking nirvana, or like the electron microscope on the floor below. each second of it's monotonous existence, it observed the landscape, and observed it again one thousand five hundred odd times. And so it glows, illuminating the blackness of that demure office which was sparsely populated with 60's 70's and 80's office furniture in a kind of multidenominational or to be more specific, a multigenerational ambivalence. The lidless and unblinking eye radiated with what a post-modern chromatologist would call "chromaticity of the red persuasion". Being white in colour, and with a red eye, I suppose this would have to be an albino variety of mouse.

Kia Kaha

This one was inspired by the recent acquirement of a key to the cabinet from whence the heaters come forth from at church. I am involved in the set up for church, and it wasn't too cold, I mean, it's still only the beginning of autumn, but heat the hall we must on a day like this one when the world outside is eight degrees. One of the earlier sermons was about the glory of the church. That's why the vague reference to the amazing idea of the incarnation (and who can comprehend that?). I was going to add another section about how it was when the heater was turned on, but I decided against it, although it would make a nice contrast with the whole cold thing... heck this is a long explaining thing...

The Cold

The Frigid wind howled, with a chant of ten thousand soprano apparitions, their ethereal operatic, menacing in it's vociferousness. Powdered snow, blown to various degrees over the permafrost, swirling in seemingly lost purposelessness, provided a fitting accompaniment to the spooky sound.

a lone figure trudges, bent over, either from the extreme cold, or the long journey. As he nears the end of that sub Antarctic traverse, his mind is set on the next task, frozen like the bleak landscape, immovable in the resolve to accomplish the task he had been set. In the Distance, the wind blows across the plateau, smudging the horizon, blurring the definition between terra firma, and infinity beyond. Through the haze more figures are becoming visible, congregating together in the brotherhood of those who have been there and done that. It is nearly time to set up. Few words are exchanged, it is just enough that there is someone else in the world who understands, who cares enough to be there, to lend a hand at this momentous undertaking, the kind of which, though previously seen before, should never cease to amaze those with the profound clarity of thought to grasp the idea of such seeming unintelligibility.

"Vox clamantis in deserto" was a quote that I found when looking how to spell Veni, Vidi, Vici. I thought it might be appropriate. and having been once again inspired, I set forth to document this odd occasion. It’s been so long, I'm not sure if this will be comprehensible, but there it is. Work tomorrow, so I'll have to wrap up the tweaking of this textus incredulous.

The Show.

In the darkness of that hexangular room, that central hub of comings and goings of the general populace, the light flickered on the vanilla white walls, providing a fitting accompaniment to the canned noise that protruding menacingly from the stereo speakers that were incorporated - nay - immersed in the television set - which was taking pride of place in that living room, it's Cathode Ray Tube humming a high pitched Pwiiiiiinnnnn... hovering around 20 kHz - the sort of noise that things make if they are imbued with up to 32,000 volts. There in the rimu cabinet, wholly dedicated for it's joint use with the DVD player, VCR, and 5.1 surround sound system a tragedy of epic proportions was played out in Technicolor.

It was then that John noticed it. It was subtle at first as these things often are, and most of the time no one cares even if they do notice. It took him a few seconds of perplexification, before he made up his mind to act, but nevertheless, it was a step in the right direction. One mighty deed for a man of an otherwise procrastinational nature. Veni, Vidi Vici.

I came, the TV was on, it was Desperate Housewives, I saw that it was not really good enough to justify being the #1 rating show in NZ or whatever it is, I conquered the barely felt need to join apparent throngs of my fellow humanity and bask in the dubious glory that is capitulation to the Status Quo. Or more candidly, I failed to conquer the felt need to get away, to flee the wrath that is "the Tyranny of the Urgent" and conceded defeat to the unimagined felt need to check email, write a meaningless blog, and to ponder the secrets of the universe. Ubi maior, minor cessat

Vox clamantis in deserto.