While everyone seems to speak of the weather, and how it's slowly changing from pleasant to brisk, I seem to be one of the few admiring it's change. I've never had a problem with cold, to me it's always been more manageable than heat.

Actually, one of the best feelings is going to bed with nothing on but boxers and a t-shirt, and putting mass layers of blankets and quilts over you. You feel naked and bare, but you continue to harvest and amplify your own body heat. It's a bitch to have to wake up and get out of that though, I'll tell you that.

Another reason I appreciate the cold is the fact that it's fire season! And by fire season, I don't mean San Diego, I mean fires in a fire place! I've always found the concept of having a maintained fire within a very flammable house peculiar, but nonetheless, I appreciate it. I suppose what I appreciate most is the mystery you get from simply watching a fire. The ever so subtle roar of wood turning to ash, and the eventual crackle and pop you hear from who knows what; certainly not me. I sometimes curl up into as small a ball I can manage, and just lay there on the ground next to this flame, eyes adoring all it's beauty. How the fire brings pleasant sights and sound to make it all the more relaxing to delve into your own thoughts and fantasies. Oh how I could leap past those buildings, and have the strength of a thousand men combined, to be the perfect specimen of a man with the trio of beauty, brawns, and brains, all while continuing to be curled up into a ball, as vulnerable as I was when I believed these to be possible.

And with colder weather, there in lies another probability... snow. Another year, another place, another trip down memory lane.
"Stop recording! I look horrible," my mother would say. Would dad ever listen? Of course not.
"You never look horrible, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." A corny remark, but who says corniness doesn't work? Certainly not my mother, as she laughed while decorating the Christmas tree with my sister. My sister was born 6 years before me, so in this memory of mine she was 9. Old enough to know how to change the record to play Bing Crosby's version of "White Christmas," not old enough to understand what he's singing about; or perhaps not old enough to care? Either way, clearly there was merriness in the air, everlasting memories caught in both film, and our hearts.
"Where was I during all of this?" you might ask. I was quiet, looking at the snow dwindling out of the visible moonlight, with my nose pressed against the icy glass. My head stayed tight, my eyes had an agenda of their own. It was the first memory I've had of snow, probably not the first time I'd seen it, but definitely the first time I quietly questioned it. The snow didn't fall straight down, as it hardly ever does, rather it glided on an angle, flowing with the steady current of wind. The shed which was distant in the background gave life to the snow accumulating on top of it.
"Hey little bub, what're you looking at?" My dad's camera was now pointed in my direction. I didn't lift my face from the glass, or even bother to turn my head. I didn't even open my mouth to speak any sort of words I barely had a grasp on at the time. The only reaction my dad received was the smile of sheer delight as I continued to peer out to the falling sky.

Jump to present day.
"Man, it sure is cold outside," you say to me, clearly desiring an alternative, to which I blissfully reply,
"Yes... yes it is."