They'll tell you it's a time of gentle flakes, floating through the air; a million tiny artists, painting a beautiful blue-gray picture. They'll tell you it's a time of warm fires and cozy beds and snuggling up. They'll tell you it's a time of fun in the snow, romping and prancing like goats on a hillside. They'll tell you it's a time of dazzling sunsets and crisp morning air. They'll tell you it's nice.

Don't believe them.

(Madison, WI -- Currently -14°C(6°F), feels like -19°C (-3°F))

Blogger's block!

Running after a bus is such a futile but fun exercise. The pump of adrenalin. The thrill of speed. And the slightly stupid feeling when you don't catch it. Especially when the temperature is -6°C with wind chill.

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost
I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.
Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine.
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Bob Dylan - Blood On The Tracks
Copyright © 1974 Ram's Horn Music

Thank you Bob.

Winter never fails to frustrate me. It's too stuffy indoors and too cold out. We had our first flurries yesterday - little clumps of flakes, floating down, and melting on your face.

http://www.google.com/press/zeitgeist.html

Beginning.