How was I supposed to get to work today without getting soaked? The answer was simple: avoid the instant tributaries that swept my street and work at home. Driving in might have helped -- but no, I didn't want to keep driving into work. I felt it lame to move a ton of metal just to keep water from soaking my feet. But I don't like wet feet either.

As quickly as the waters gushed outside, a train of ants marched across the carpet of our rumpus room. A preternatural force, no doubt, because they disappeared as quickly as they appeared. I thought first of ant traps, the long struggle of ant wars past. But all the ants wanted was what I wanted -- to stay away from the flood. The rhythm of the ants matched that of the rain. I couldn't stop the latter; why did I think I could stand in the way of the former?

When I write and when I speak, I try to do so with utmost
propriety -- carefully, responsibly, discreetly. When I am unsure about
some matter, I try to calibrate my language to indicate the appropriate
level of uncertainty. I am not rash in my judgement.

So what do I do with that part of me -- even the dominant
half -- that is full of rage, prejudice, passion, irrationality? I just
want to scream sometimes to let loose, to let it all hang out,
unapologetically, without shame even.

I channel that unruliness into...silence.

I'm so tired...let's get on with it.