like it's really November. My world is turning white, hectic flakes, caught in shifting wind currents, swaying from left to right. The sky is a cloudy gray, and beneath people are wrapped in blanket-thick coats.
But where I am, behind the window, Samba is playing, mellow beats, then, maybe in a minute a faster one. I see swaying bodies, liquid, fluid, loose, and buoyant. They're in my head, singing 'ta legal, ta legal...' The poor know how to party, know how to move. Under the sun, they're having fun and cool agua de coco. They have no health insurance, but the beaches are crowded and their smiles are brighter than an African-Aids-infected-blood-stained, Indian-hands-washed-polished-and-worked, $4,000.00 diamond...
Not that I don't like it here; I do. Well, kind of, sort of, depends on the day, on how much sun I am getting, how many clouds I am carrying over my head. Wait, there is more than that. There is the company, the intellectual energy, the sensuality of thoughts, the sweetness of ideas exchanged, the unexpected friendships as they blossom, and, become intrinsically indispensable...
And let us not forget the Bookstore and its treasures, the library and its ease of access, the way a government sort of works, without any need for bribery -and believe me, I've had my share of greasing bureaucrats. I've had my share of saying no to corruption, paying too heavy a price, dealing with the consequences of wanting to see things handled fairly, where fairness is nothing but a weak, if not inconceivable concept.
So I take the snow, and even dance to celebrate its arrival.
Welcome, welcome, Ta legal, Ta legal...
Bundled up or in your bathing suits, smile at the world you are handed, and if you dare, put your favorite tune on, and, dance your way through all of life's unending changes.
Be well,and if you are inclined, take up happiness as a hobby.
Swaying, swaying, swaying...
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