"Here Comes The Rain Again, Falling From The Stars..."

I'll admit I feel bad right now. I've been neglecting the blog, my manuscript has been shunted to the sidelines and poor John and Rose are a wee bit lost in their own sense. I've just been swamped with work and as a result, have been manically uninspired for words for the past couple of weeks. So it's just been me and potloads of design work alternating with the house swarming with guests, while I'm listening to mood music.

Yes, I like sad music. In the words of Sally Sparrow, 'sad is happy for deep people'. It's also a good backdrop for the rains. We've been lashed by a number of successive thunderstorms for the past week or so, alternating very juxtapositioned-ish-ly be bright sunshine. Mad, mad, mad.  The big men upstairs have got an odd sense of humor. 

But really, when the skies are dark and the house is quiet and the only sounds otherwise are the hum of the rain and the occasional rumble of the thunder's laugh, such haunting songs stir something wonderful right in the heart. My personal favorite right now is 'What If The Storm Ends' by Snow Patrol, followed by 'Running Up That Hill' by Placebo. Anything by Audiomachine or Adrian von Zeigler also places well. And Ramin Djawadi's 'Game of Thrones' soundtrack.

No matter what angle we see it in, what emotion we choose to associate it with, there is just something about the rains. For a good number of people, it can be an annoyance, especially when roadblocks and potholes come into question. For others, the constantly dull grey skies are outright depressing, because, honestly, who can dream of getting any work done when all you want to do is curl up in a comforter and sleep? For some others, the monsoon is a joy, a release, a reason to ditch any work to just go out and lose yourself in the rain.

For any person who has the heart of a poet, whether he/she is secretive about it or not, the rain is a common theme used, associated with a myriad of moods and emotions. The rain is a poet’s muse, a director’s set, a painter’s subject, a photographer’s shot. It is the most oft used and most inspiring subject for poetry in all its forms, whether it be through words, paints, cameras, dance, music or one of the many others that would take too much of the page if I listed out.

If we stocked the number of movie song sequences and climax scenes that take place in the rain, whether for a romantic mood, a scene of sorrow or just as accompaniment for epic music, we’d have a stack a mile high. When Vera Farmiga in ‘The Boy in the Striped Pajamas’ discovered that her son had been killed in the gas chambers in Auschwitz, the rain poured from the skies to mix with her tears as she screamed her anguish. When Tim Robbins in ‘The Shawshank Redemption’ waded out of the prison sewer, tore off his overshirt and leaned back to spread his arms out, the rain fell upon him as a symbol of his release. 

Almost every old crime movie and a good number of Hercule Poirot-ish stories would involve a scary, mostly-empty mansions and a violent storm that would conveniently prevent all inhabitants from escaping. There would be a million and one love songs out there that would have either been shot in the rain or used the rain as a theme. There always is that age old cliché about the kiss in the rain, be it as old as ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ or more recentish, like ‘The Notebook’ or ‘Step Up 2: The Streets’. I personally wrote a little prose piece once, describing the Earth and Sky as lovers of old and the storms as their passion.

But what is it about the rain that evokes these kinds of emotions in us? Why do we feel connected to the rain, whether by moods of anguish, love, happiness, release, power, fear or anything else it may inspire in us? Maybe it has something to do with our inherent connection to nature. Maybe it has something to do with the way music stirs something in us, the rain being nature’s method of song. Maybe it has something to do with our unconscious love for anything that is beautiful. Whatever be our reason, the rain makes us feel. We love its gentleness like we would a close companion’s, we fear its wrath like we would a God’s. We revel in it like the earth does, we look to it for comfort as the skies cry along with us during hard times. The rain has a soul that twists and meanders like a human’s, which is probably why we relate to it so well.

Right now, October is yet to completely wane and we still have the months of November and December to pray for some good rains. Since I don't get snow where I come from, I'll settle for some good thunderstorms. Next time there’s a gentle drizzle, throw away your umbrellas and inhibitions and step out into the rain. Let it wash over you, cleanse you of your burdens. Let your heart match the thunder, your eyes be the lightning and your breath match the wind. There can be no better way to connect to nature, unless I get to come face to face with a wolf, which I don't see happening too easily right now.

And when you’re doing that, don’t worry about catching a cold or ruining your hair; a little water never hurt anyone. Just avoid mud on your feet once you come back inside. Then, you might just have something to genuinely be afraid of. 

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: Cooking Fiascos

Rose shuffled into the kitchen, mouth wide open in a yawn as she tugged on one earlobe. “G’mornin’,” she mumbled as she scratched her head.

“Afternoon’s more the word, Rosie Rose,” John replied, tweaking her nose.

“Seriously?” She stared at the wall clock incredulously. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

“Firstly, because it’s Sunday. Sundays are officially lie-in days; doing otherwise is pretty much against the law. Also, you sleep like you’re dead.”

“I do not!”

“I’ve seen cadavers that offer better response than sleeping you. And you’re a nightmare when I try to wake you up.”

Rose smirked. “You’re just sore,” she teased.

“You kicked me in the chin!”

“You were bouncing up and down on the bed!”

“I was trying to wake you up!”

“I don’t like being woken up rudely,” she replied in a prim tone.

“You’re a violent woman. Sally called whilst you were snoring away.”

“Shut up, I don’t snore. What did she want?”

“She wanted to talk,” he replied simply. “She sounded halfway between teary-faced and flaming temper.”

“Good, she finally broke up with Rick then.”

“You mean, he broke up with her.”

“Nah, she’s been planning to dump him for ages.”

“’The A-Team’ tonight says that he left her,” John challenged.

“’Moulin Rouge’ says the other way around. You’re on. Is there any coffee?”

“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘P’ for emphasis. “We’re all out; have to go buy more.”

Rose stared at John with an expression of abject dismay, her voice a tortured whisper. “We have no coffee?”

“Nope,” he repeated.

Rose still stared at him as if he had trampled on her pet cat. “My morning caffeine…” she whimpered.

“Hush, madwoman,” he chided, ruffling the darkening top of her blonde head. “Anyways, no coffee in the afternoon, missy. You’re going straight for lunch.”

“I want my coffee,” she pouted. “I get grumpy if I don’t have my coffee in the morning.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “the morning is long gone and you’re cute when you sulk.” He pinched her cheek teasingly and moved over to the hob to add freshly chopped peppers into the pot.

“Sadistic bastard,” she muttered at him. Strolling forward, she leaned over the bubbling concoction in the pot, giving it a suspicious sniff. “Exactly what kind of stew is this?” she asked.

“This, Rosie Rose, is an old family recipe,” replied John loftily, sprinkling salt over it and turning up the heat on the hob. “I could tell you what has gone into it, but then,” he sighed dramatically, “I would have to kill you.”

“Nah, you won’t,” she quipped. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Sadly, I’m caught in a situation where I must agree with you.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” she sighed sarcastically.

“Indeed.  Nice pajamas, by the way.”

Rose looked down at her black and white Mickey Mouse pajama pants. “You got them for me, if I remember right.”

“Yes. And we nearly broke up because of the T shirt,” he recalled.

Rose snorted. “We made up properly afterwards,” she pointed out.

His smirk stretched across his face. “Yes, we did. A proper game of Beauty and the Beast.”

“I get to be the Beast next time.”

“Oh, I look forward to it.”

“And Iron Man could kick Captain America’s ass any day and you know it.”

“Let’s not start that again, yeah?” he suggested. “You were up late last night on that project of yours which would have gone doubly fast if you had just let me help you…”

“I told you I want to try doing it myself! I won’t learn anything if you keeping doing it all for me!”

“Your loss,” he groused. “Bloody useless. You date a right veritable genius and don’t even let him help you in the teensiest little way…”

“Your modesty blinds me.”

“Anyway,” he continued, changing tack, “you lost all of today’s lovely morning slumbering into your pillow, missed my famous chocolate chip waffles and you’re finally awake in time for me to make you a wee bit of lunch. So let’s keep things nice, eh?”

Her mouth quirked in a sideways smile as he tapped her on the head with his ladle and pecked her on the nose. “Fine, no Avengers debates,” she agreed, “for now.”

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, the compromises of a relationship with a nerdy twit.”

“Takes one to know one, love,” she said sweetly, approaching the hob. “But really, what’s in here?”

“Can’t say,” he said simply. “Top secret. You’d have a whole highland clan on your heels with torches and pitchforks if I even breathed as much as a word.”

“Oh, come off it,” she snorted.

“Don’t mess with family, Rose,” said John gravely. “We Highlanders take our secrets very seriously.”

“Highlanders, Lowlanders, come on, we’re all Scots here! You’re seriously fussing because I’m Glaswegian and you’re neighbors with Nessie?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m fussing because it’s a family recipe and unless you marry me, you’re not allowed to know.”

Rose’s head jerked up to stare at him in mute question. He merely smiled airily and hummed an odd tune as he stirred the bubbling contents of the pot. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t need you to tell me anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what’s gone in here.” She peered closely into the pot on the hob, squinting as steam floated around her face. “Potatoes, chicken squares, peppers, mozzarella shreds, basil, oregano….” Her expression shifted into one of horror. “Oh my God, is that a…”

“No peeking.” John dragged Rose away from the pot by one of her pigtails. “If you want to help the chef, run along and grab some plates. Put a good movie on and wait for him to complete his masterpiece. Make up a few songs about how wonderful his stew will be, and if that’s too difficult for you, just do what the apron says.”

Rose threw a sardonic look at his purple ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron before trying to elbow past him to get back to the hob.

“You’re mad!” she squawked as John’s arms grabbed around her midriff to keep her away from his precious stew. “You’re completely bloody barking mad! No idiot in hell would put…”

“It’s the whole flavor!” he grunted as Rose tried to bat away his hands with a soup ladle. “I told you: it’s a family recipe and that means you’re not allowed to argue with it!”

Rose fell limp in his grasp and changed course, moving for the spice rack instead. She rooted through the bottles, muttering to herself, before grabbing one with a triumphant exclamation.

“At least add a bit of this in there!” she pleaded, shoving the bottle in his face. “It’ll alleviate the flavor!”

He wrinkled his nose as he read the label, his eyes crossing from the proximity. “Not a chance,” he snorted. “Now shoo! Go watch ‘The Lion King’ or something. Call me when the songs come on.”

“I am not eating that nosh unless you fix it!” Rose darted under his arm towards the hob.

“There’s nothing to fix!” he argued, pulling her away by the waist.

“Let go of me, you oaf! I’m trying to help you!”

“I don’t need help! Give it to me!”

“I’m never marrying you if you don’t fix it!”

“You love me too much to not! Give me that!”

Rose squeaked as he tried to tickle her to make her drop the spice. She ducked under his arm, scampering out of the kitchen, bottle still in hand. He pursued her into the living room, chasing her around the furniture as they both tried to avoid bumping into the TV. He blocked her path as she tried to slip back into the kitchen and vaulted over the coffee table, pinning her to the couch. The spice bottle slipped out of her hand in the midst of the scuffle, flew out the balcony and down three floors. Silence fell between them as they stared at the spot in the sky where the spice bottle had been for a fleeting moment. 

“Well, that’s that.” Rose threw a dirty look at John’s smug smile. “Rubbish spice anyways. I don’t even know why we had it. Bad luck, Rosie Rose!” he sang.

His triumphant cackle morphed into a horrified yell as he entered the kitchen. Rose poked her head in to see him switching off the hob and batting madly at the air where the pot had started to spew smoke. He threw a mug of water over it before the alarms could go off and staggered back, staring despondently at the thick charred sludge that had once been his stew. Rose sidled up next to him, rocking back on the heels of her bare feet.

“Pizza?” she chirped, beaming at him with the sunniest expression she could muster.

He grimaced at the ruin in his stew pot before exhaling in a defeated sigh. “Pizza,” he agreed.

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: Spiderman, The Musical

Say it now, say it now
Explain to me
Why this happens to me every time
Give me a clue or tell me why
I just can’t walk away…

“Ye Gods, they’re turning Spiderman into a B-Grade chick flick.”

“If you look closely, you can actually see some undertones of High School Musical.”

“I know: that scene in the second one where Vanessa gets all ‘oh, you’re being so mean’, and Zac Efron starts singing while he’s crying…”

“That’s the one.”

Rose sniffed contemptuously, sinking in her seat and grimacing at the stage where the two actors 

were singing their heart-rending duet.

“The only saving factor in this thing are the funky lights and sets,” she groused. “And the costumes; they’re kind of Alexander McQueen meets Lady Gaga. But honestly, ‘Sinister Six’? Which idiot came up with that name?”

“The same idiot who came up with a name like ‘Batman’.”

“Don’t start!” she warned. “We already did the dramatic exit sequence in the restaurant! We’re gonna be blacklisted there from now on!”

“Ssshh!” hissed a voice from behind them. John and Rose threw apologetic glances behind them and turned their eyes back to the stage.

“Broadway is supposed to be complete and utter musical magic,” Rose sighed, gazing sorrowfully at the actors, who were finishing their song.

“This is your first time on Broadway?”

“No, I came here and watched ‘Cats’ once upon a time when I was a wee lass still in primary. We 

 were visiting my Da’s sister, Marie, here in New York, and she took us. I had already seen it before on West End, but Broadway was brilliant too.”

“’Cats’ is supposed to be a classic. That explains your fascination with felines.” He made a face.

“Oi, don’t disrespect the cats!” She elbowed him in the ribs.

“I would have expected you to name them something weird then, like Grizabella or Rum Tum Tugger.”

“I did consider naming one Asparagus.”

John wrinkled his nose. “I like the name Biggles, personally.”

She poked him in the side, grinning teasingly. “You like my cats!” she said in a sing-song voice.

“I like their names,” he said defensively. “Biggles, Phantom and Haddock. Fantastic choices.”

“My favorite captain, my favorite hero at the time and my favorite drunk.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t name one Bruce.”

“It could have been after Springsteen.”

He shuddered. “I’ll stick with the Proclaimers, thanks.”

“Sssshhh!”

“Sorry!” John and Rose clamped their mouths shut and tried to concentrate on the show. It wasn’t long before John spoke up, his voice a low murmur.

“I watched ‘The Lion King’ here once,” he remarked.

Rose tuned to stare at him so fast that she nearly got whiplash. “No!”

“Yep.”

“Seriously?”

John’s smile turned smug. “Yep.”

Rose fell back against her seat, scowling petulantly. “I hate you,” she muttered at him.

“No, you don’t,” he grinned. She snorted lightly.

“The Lion King,” Rose groused. “You saw the bloody Lion King here. Ye Gods. Honestly, I think Reeve Carney over there and Bono are the only thumbs ups about this whole shenanigan.”

John snorted. “I’ll agree with Bono. Carney’s a weedy bugger.” He looked at her pointedly. “Don’t tell me you fancy him.”

“He’s easy on the eyes,” she shrugged, turning to look John up and down. “And you’re one to talk about weedy.”

“I’m not weedy,” he said loftily. “I’m trim, tall and I’ve got long legs. I do a lot of running. And you love it.” He poked her on the forehead. “Besides,” he added with a nonchalant air. “The MJ girl’s pretty hot.”

Rose laughed out loud. “Liar! She’s not even your type!”

“And how would you know my type, Rosie Rose?” He raised a brow at her.

“You’re dating me, blockhead,” she knocked him on the head with a knuckle. “The MJ girl is 

definitely not your type. She’s not even a real ginger!”

John fingered a lock of Rose’s yellow hair, glancing at the russet roots. “You’re not even a real blonde.”

“You love it,” she retorted, sticking out her tongue.

“Shut up!” the voices behind them hissed even louder this time.

“Sorry!” they whispered back, huddling lower in their seats. Rose scooted closer to John’s side and let him put his arm around her shoulders.

“At least someone seems to be enjoying this clown show,” she muttered.

“If they fancy seeing a guy in a green Power Rangers mask masquerading as one of the most brilliant 

villains in Spiderman history while belting out jingles on top of the bloody Chrysler building…”

“At least he can sing.”

“I’ll give him that.”

She turned to look up at him. “John?”

“Yes, Rose?”

She blinked her large eyes at him. “Do you like Spiderman?”

“Yes, Rose,” he said gravely, “I do like Spiderman. Do you like Spiderman?”

“Yes, John,” she nodded seriously. “I do like Spiderman.”

“Even though he has powers?”

“The fact that he’s a kid is appealing. New angle.” She smiled brilliantly. “Glad to see we agree on 

something.”

He leaned in closer to her. “Then what the hell are we both doing here?”

“This was your idea, genius.”

“Want to bust out?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she beamed.

“And bowling green you’ll see with meeeeeee!” John suddenly howled along with the actor’s singing. The crowd ruffled angrily as people wheeled around in their seats and yelled at the two of them to shut up.

“We’ll bathe in Brighton,” Rose sang loudly, trying to stifle her giggles. ”The fish you’ll frighten!”

“When you’re in your bathing suit so thin, will make shellfish grin from fin to fin!” John grinned broadly at Rose, doing a little jig as he winked cheekily at her.

“Only the shellfish?” she demanded over the irritated protests of the crowd around them.

“Oh, I’m a shellfish, love!” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. “Here come the ushers.” He held out his hand. “Ready to run for it?”

She grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers tightly. “As ready as ever!”

Even as the ushers tried to grab them to escort them out of the theatre, John and Rose vaulted over the seats and slipped around them, running past the angry audience. They didn’t stop until they were out of the theater and far away. Backing up against the wall, they panted for breath, chests aching from giggling. John hoisted Rose up by the hand, which he had not released, pulled her to him, tangling one hand in her hair, and kissed her soundly.

“I love you,” she sighed as she broke away, her arms coiled around his neck.

He winked, pecking her on the nose. “Don’t I know it.”

She slapped his chest playfully. “So what do you want to do now?”

“You want to go back to my apartment?” he asked. “I just got the Avengers DVD. We could watch it to make up for the nosh back there.”

“Just the Avengers?”

“Well,” he dragged the word out, slinging his arm around her shoulders and tugging her against his side. “I’m sure there are plenty of things we could do after to keep us entertained.” He looked at her with a broad grin and waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh.

 “Sounds like a plan,” she beamed. Rose looped her arm around his waist and they took off at an easy pace.

“The Avengers are pretty brilliant,” John quipped as they walked, “but everyone knows that the real core of the team is Captain America.” “Iron Man,” Rose said at the same time.

They stopped and stared at each other, eyes narrowing.