What a fine weather! What a beautiful day!
Not as cold as last year. It is warm. Twenty-four or twenty-five degree Celsius in the morning. If only I could live in such a perfect climate. If only the weather is as lovely as this all year round, I’d only be happy and ask for nothing else! I’m now like a little bird chirping on a tree singing to the December air. This is an ode to December weather. Don’t go away so soon.
I’m working from my balcony today, to take advantage — no, let’s say — to appreciate and sing the praise to the goddess of winter, even though our winter means 29 degree Celsius in the evening. Oh, breeze, I want you to stay forever. I know soon there will come a day when I woke up, open my window and you are gone. I will reach my hand out and feel you no more. Only heat I’d feel. And I’d be sad, disappointed, and let out a long sigh. How I would miss you, December air.
These days when the temperature has dropped, I can just wake up and be merry, and if someone asks me why, I’ll tell them I’m merry and happy because the weather is so perfect. Perfect, perfect, beautiful — isn’t there any other adjective in my repertoire to describe thee? Happy, merry, jolly, joyful — isn’t there any other word that is more exciting to conjure how wonderful I’m feeling? How I am so short of words.
And how cruel it is to have such a lovely weather like this for only one month a year! We, the population living near the equator are cursed! How unfair the world is! While the people in the Mediterranean is having pleasant weather almost all year round, we’re trapped in South East Asian microwave. I know we should be grateful not living in the freezing cold climate like the Scandinavians or the Russians, but they should complain too. The world is so unfair, and my ancestors — they should have chosen a better climate to breed, so their offspring, me included, should be merry all year round. Blame it on them!
Thus this is my ode to December weather. You arrived so late this year. Mid December and still you hadn’t come, and I was waiting. Every day I woke up and it was hot, like any other day of the year. And then you came finally. This year you came on December 26th or 27th. I think it’s rather the 27th. I was at my parents’ house. Came downstairs and I noticed the weather was a bit cooler than usual. It was comfortable, I thought. I hurried to the door, carried our old white chair to the backyard. It was probably 8 or 9 am in the morning. I had an early night so I was lucky to wake up and felt the breeze that day. Eight or nine a.m. in the morning I was already in my backyard, sitting on that chair, reading and listening to the birds talking. How noisy they were. How they made our tree branches moving. I was there amidst the greenery. Nature is hidden in my backyard. The sun doesn’t shine through it, and that was good. Why take away the breeze with sun ray?
I was trying to read Thoreau’s Walden, for there’s no other time more perfect to read about a solitary life at a pond than in this setting. But I couldn’t go on for it bored me. I was there, reading something else until 11 a.m. or 12. The day after I did the same thing in the morning, but I have to — with my regret — leave that comfortable spot at 10 a.m. to go up to my room and worked. I won’t forgive myself for not bring my laptop along with me last weekend. If only I brought it, I would have sit there all day long working. My writing would flow even better. But wait, how would I know? You are so unpredictable! I thought you wouldn’t come this year. How would I know that suddenly I would wake up one day and feel your touch, feel it gently stroking my arms, cooling it?
The sun has set a while ago. It’s now 5.50 p.m. — 5.50 p.m. of 30th December 2016. It’s getting dark now. I’ll be forced to move away from this comfortable chair on my balcony, on the 8th floor, because it’d be too dark here to read or write. We should have bought a brighter light bulb so I can sit here and read or write the night away! But then there are the mosquitoes!
Ray Bradbury told me today* to pour out everything in the first draft. “This afternoon, burn down the house… Explode — fly apart — disintegrate!” “It doesn’t have to be a big fire. A small blaze, candle light perhaps…” He told me to “savor them in your mouth, try them on your typewriter.” He told me to write with “zest and gusto”. He told me that ideas are everywhere, like “apples fallen and melting in the grass for lack of wayfaring strangers with an eye and a tongue for beauty,” Now Ray, look at this spontaneous flow of my gusto! All about the weather! “Tomorrow, pour cold critical water upon the simmering coals. Time enough to think and cut and rewrite tomorrow.” Pour cold critical water upon this ode to December weather tomorrow? Oh, I cannot wait, my darling Ray. I’m going to publish it now for I’m full of gusto and filled with joy I have to let the world know that my heart is so overwhelmed it’s going to explode!
*Ray Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing (chapter 1: The joy of writing)
[Participated in today’s Prompt: Renewal]