Rainy Summer Weekend

Summer hasn't quite arrived as it should, as we are on the last days of July, when it should be sweltering, blistering hot here in Prague. Instead we have rain, and 14 degrees Celsius outside, completely overcast, wet asphalt, and I can't even go rollerblading.

The weather is just a reflection of my mood today as well, as I veer from at times content, and happy to hear the rain pattering on the roof, happy to be indoors, under a roof, and dry - to at times quite sad and pensive about what I've left behind in another country and how best to deal with the novelty and the curve balls of today.

It reminds me of the monsoon season in Manila, when you can be trapped inside your car, rain pelting down your car's little tin roof, happy to be safe and dry inside that little automotive shell for the time-being.

Reminds me of the first days of school in Manila, in June, just when the monsoon winds come in, bringing in torrents of rain, a deluge, and everything wet and cool, finally, from the oppressive heat of Manila's April and May.

Here in Prague, the locals and other expats complain that summer hasn't quite gotten started yet, and in fact, we got even far warmer days in spring, when it was May.

Strange times.

And here you and I are, just chattering on, not really knowing if anyone really bothers to read this, but maybe one day I'll find a good writer's fate as Julie Powell has, or maybe not, and I'll just keep chattering away, just for the sheer pleasure of words and jotting down my thoughts.

Away from home, and as my husband lies in the bathtub, a recluse for the next two hours, enjoying his alone time, I find I might as well enjoy mine, and explore my hobbies, as he has so critically and off-handedly remarked to my lack of those thereof.

Well, at least I like to write, and isn't that a hobby?

Many thoughts, and facebook and it's litte shout-outs and mini-posts no longer quite suffice, everyone fancying themselves the next reality celebrity, fancying that whatever they have to say is so witty, and requires remarks, and all I can do is scroll down the newsfeed and comment affectionately on comments of old friends, find out what they're doing, pretend as if we were sharing these little things over a glass of beer at a pub somewhere in the heart of Manila on a drizzly, humid, warm evening.

I would say I wouldn't even blog, and sometimes that is limiting as well, if you figure that the 10 or 15 people who bother reading what you're writing know you personally, and you aren't hiding behind some alter-ego really, or some pseudonym, then what do you do if you have to say something politically incorrect, or something alarming about lesbian thoughts or lusting after men you see on the street? What then?

You will be politically incorrect, and people who are close to you who expect you'll live the proper kind of life will check on you, and then of course it's better to just say nothing, to police your thoughts, and edit yourself.

But then again what kind of writing is that?

I'm just saying.

Sometimes it's just better to write to yourself, whether it's in my cute new little Liebermann diary that my friend Alexandra gave to me as a gift, with thick, cream-colored pages that are so delicious to write on, feeling the weight and the thickness of the paper at my fingertips. Or just on my Mac, typing away at some obscure Word file that nobody else will read.

But sometimes knowing that someone else will be reading, whether it's someone I know, or a complete stranger, might also inspire something quite different, like now.

Sometimes knowing that you have an audience can help steer your writing as well.

But here I am, I suppose, just rambling on, it's a rainy summer weekend in Prague, and I'd rather be indoors than brave that 14 degree Celsius wet cold outside, wet and uninviting.