What are these changes coming, #UpstreamTwitter? I'm curious. It all sounds very interesting.
Though to be true, I'm skeptical. What's it matter anyway what changes come? It's all been the same before, forever, on and on, ad infinitum ad nauseam, death, destruction, and despair.
Change comes. But it's all the same still. Of that, you can be sure.
So what's to be done then? Nothing, Luke. Cool your hands in some warm ice perhaps and have a good laugh. And that's that. Scribble your ditties.
I was walking the nature path to the job just 2 evenings ago. It was about 3 degrees Celsius, pouring rain, and a thunderstorm, lightning and all. The flashes were all purple and blinding there in the dark, at about 17:00, winter approaching.
I forgot, in Spain. I'll have to really think back to where I was...a bit south-west of A Fonsagrada, there in Galicia, in the mountains. I reached like the third peak of the day all hobbled,—maybe only about 1,000 meters or so up there—just dragging my bones by then, caught in 2 blizzards already earlier in the day.
Right at the top there of this last peak, the wind was nearly blowing me over. I could barely walk as it was. And the snow being hurled round, I could barely see.
But there were old ruins up there. I could just make-out their dark outline in the near distance maybe a rock throw away, 20 meters or so. I hid behind a fallen wall there against the wind, unrolled the sleeping bag, and crawled inside, just to get warm a bit.
For an hour or so that storm roared. It was a white-out, all the snow and wind. It was probably right at 0 degrees Celsius, my guess. It was cold, but bearable. That wind was strong. But I was protected from it for the most part by that wall.
And then there were bright white flashes, lightning through all that snow. And thunder followed. Thundersnow I think I've seen it called. The giants of the mountain of old were throwing boulders all round, smashing.
The storm continued. Finally it calmed a touch. So I ran down that mountain while I could, busted knee and opposite busted shin, a straight-legged man running, like chopsticks.
Some Portuguese came flying passed me on some mountain bikes. Another storm was approaching down there at that elevation. The sky was dark ahead. Everything was all green and misty and dripping. But it was just rain, much warmer down there.
About 50 meters ahead, I met the Portuguese stopped at a cafe parked right there in the middle of nowhere, to wait-out the approaching storm with a bit of coffee, in shelter. But it was Sunday. So the cafe was closed, damn Spain. But the man who owned the cafe, who lived above it, he came down and let us inside and made us a big bowl of coffee.
We all had this look in our eyes, the 2 Portuguese and I, David a Luig. Like we knew. Like those 2 brothers in the film "Boondock Saints," in the jail cell scence, when the rain drips through the ceiling, baptizing like in a dream, and then they wake. A quiet look of complete understanding met with a slow nod of affirmation. All our voices were all cracked and tired when we did speak.
The coffee warmed our bones. We laughed and took heart, telling friendly tales. We put back on all our wet warm clothes. And back outside we went.