The Expensive Currency

Hate is cheap. Hate is easy to peddle, easy to come by. Hate is the currency used by leaders everywhere these days. Hatred against the other, the outsider, the invader, the bloodthirsty barbarian at the gate. The immigrant, the minority, the ones that infest. Those who have funny names, names that are difficult to understand, to pronounce, but are drop dead easy to tweet about.

Hate is the cheapest currency of all.

Then there’s the one which looks cheap, but isn’t. Difficult to come by these days, even for those who are rich with hate. The peddlers don’t quite know how to use this currency. They haven’t provided it, except as a way to stoke hate.

It’s audacious, this other currency. It motivates people. Animals. Living things. It’s what drives all creatures, humans included, to leave their homes and travel. Migrate in search of better pastures, better livelihood. Not just for them, but for their offspring. It’s the driving force behind evolution.

People talk about what they want. Food, water, shelter. Jobs. What they don’t talk about is what they actually need. That’s the expensive one, the currency that’s tough to come by these days.

The currency of hope.

You. The young’uns, the tweens, the teens, the children of today and tomorrow. Believe in this currency. Invest in it, nurture it, let it grow. Believe there is something better waiting for you.

You are our only hope.

(Originally posted here)

He's here now.

He's here among us now.
The door that was tightly shut is open.
Not fully, but enough
For him to enter.

He knows his way in now.
And can enter again.

Anytime.

For the birds, boxed.

I flat out refuse to watch Bird Box, by the way. There’s something about the smug way the movie was promoted that bothers me. Netflix pounding social media, strongly pushing the FOMO factor, creating this aura of unmissability. Screw that. 

I’ve watched A Quiet Place anyway. I get the idea. 

Let It Go

"It's freezing!", I thought to myself earlier today, even though it was actually thirty one degrees below freezing. Or seventeen below, if you like your football played with feet. 

Funny how that phrase sticks with you. What could be worse than freezing, you thought when you visited Ooty as a kid, the temperature hovering dangerously close to the fifteen degree Celsius mark. What's colder than ice, the cubes that you find inside trays of plastic stuck in your kitchen freezer? You've not understood how ice is formed, never seen it outside of a refrigerator. You've never seen hail, never seen snow. You think of the movies when you think of snow. Yahoo! James Bond skiing. Ratheesh and a baby faced Rani Padmini. 

The highest temperature today was three degrees Fahrenheit. The lowest was one. One degree F. That's about -16º and -17º C. Not quite the temperature of that cube of ice when it floats over your uncle's peg of Johnny Black. 

So yeah, it was freezing cold today.

Two Years

So yeah, it's been two years since we made the big leap. The great crossing. The Tughluq move. The moon shot. You get the idea.

This is the point where I'm supposed to take an impassioned look at what's worked well, what's not, and reach a conclusion that it was all for the best. Or that it was disastrous and we need to continue going west all the way back to the east.

Life doesn't quite work that way, though. Have the past two years been great? Absolutely. Have they been tough? Of course. Are we happy, content and living the American dream? Not quite, not yet. Are we disillusioned, disheartened and planning to get the hell out of Dodge? Not quite, not yet.

Dickens said it best, I think.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us...

Then again, I turn to the kids. And bask in the sun.

No matter where we are, we will always have the sun.

Why I shouldn't watch TV

So I'm skipping through TV shows on Amazon Prime Video and come across one starring that actor, that guy who always plays losers and anti-heroes; was in Bad Santa? Has three names, like David Anthony Fernandez. Billy Ray Cyrus? Nah.

Anyway, so I start watching and sure enough, ole Stevie Ray Vaughan is in a bar drinking it up already. Dammit, I know his name. Was married to Angelina Jolie? Had a tattoo. Or maybe she did. Won an Emmy last year, I think.

Damn.

Show's not bad, though. Haley Joel Osment's apparently pissed off this big bad corporation, headed by - oh, look! It's William Hurt! Or hang on, is it John Hurt? Always get them mixed up. Alright, I know this. John Hurt was the Alien-popping guy, the Elephant Man who died earlier this year. William was the Body Heat dude. Got it.

Phew, I'm back in the game.

Now this Kareem Abdul Jabbar dude. He was in Fargo Season One too, for crying out loud. He was playing himself of course, but he was awesome.

I'm seriously getting old.

Like literally.

Father's Day

Thirteen. She's thirteen now. I have no idea how she grew up so fast. From that evening when she was born, through her first day at day care, the first time she was injured, her first day of school, her first birthday party, her first movie, book, toy, friend...I remember them all. More firsts await her, await me, as she lives her life.

Lives her life on her terms, making her own choices.

Father's Day wasn't just yesterday. It started thirteen years ago, when she was born. Every day has been special, every day has been this father's day.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.