New plan ... humility.

Not as foreboding as it should sound, but the excitement for spring has always coupled with a dread of summer, because warm breeze brings realization of failed resolutions ... things promised, none delivered.

Though I do have a way of juicing on self-motivation, believing wholeheartedly that the goddess of fortune will pluck me from the crowd of the discontent, and keep luck tucked away in my pocket, the longer the wait the more languishing I do. So, in the event that luck is a turncoat with a knife, and the wound in my back is fatal, I would like to say, I tried.

 That said. I have completed the sequels (two) to The Civilization [of light & Dark] and am playing with the titles: The Gate at Dusk, and Broken Realms. The former is mystical and the latter is on the metaphorical nose. I arrived at the former because of an obsession with Pink Floyd's The Piper at the Gate of Dawn, title taken from chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Toad help their friend, Otter find his lost son, which leads to catching a glimpse of Pan while he ushers in the dawn. The eponymous piper being Pan, the ancient pagan god of pastures, rustic (country) music, shepherds and the wild. Pan lives in Arkadia (Arcadia) aka a pastoral paradise (a real place in Greece that has been mythologized)

 What does this have to do with my title?

Mole and Toad caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the natural world when they spotted Pan. Ancient peoples created intricate mystery rituals to tap into the wonders of the natural world. If the other side of dawn is daylight and pastures, then the other side of dusk is darkness and what W. H. Auden described as an 'artificial wilderness and a sky like lead.'  

The Civilizations series plays with the mysteries of existence and wonder. Like human life, Maruti life is fragile, existing tenuously between here and there, adhering to rules that no one understands but everyone follows. But who are these gods? Books 2 and 3 are all about unraveling the mysteries of Marut and all roads lead to the Gate at Dusk. 

Toad, Mole and company might not have breached the boundaries between the material world and the world of gods intentionally, but my characters are all about the journeys of self-discovery, with prophecies hanging over their heads and all. But, as always, these violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. The title of book 3, Broken Realms is, well, self-explanatory. 

So, these elementary things got me through the hiemal days. And what will get me through the vernal days?


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I know the song lyric is 'wake me up when September ends,' and maybe 'nothing lasts forever,  even cold November rain' is a better lyric, but either way, the post is dreary.

People are leaving Twitter (yes, I'm deadnaming it). By people, I mean the privileged--middle class, affluent, elitist-orgs, celebrities who are tired of ... being challenged about their dogma? Peasants talking back to them? Elon Musk acting like a rabid fanboy?

It's not clear.Twitter has swung from heavy left-centric to shifting right-centric. Neither option is good.

Bluesky or Threads are all the rage (for now). My old ass tried the former, found it dull and hostile, and now I'm trying Threads after accidentally finding myself on there. In an ideal world, the introvert in me wouldn't be on social media. But the hussle as a small-time author with a small publisher means the job is never done.

That's not the point of this post. I don't like November. The first week of the month should've been the greatest moment and yet the sulk has kicked in--the book release of The Civilization versus the anniversary of my mom's death, a fender bender, the scale, and the cold. There's a delicate unravel as the dark days are here--no more Halloween/pumpkin pie season.

​Nothing lasts forever, even cold, November rain. But do wake me when it ends.

I don't get nervous. I try not to get excited. I am not used to 'good things' happening to me. I am superstitious. Will I jinx myself? What if this is all a dream? So many dreams die in the womb of imagination, never quickening into existence.

It's closer, getting closer, and yet I still can't feel it in my grasp. When is it okay to feel it? When is it okay to say it aloud? Am I an imposter?  I feel safe in the liminal. I feel content in the drift of never knowing, letting the rip tide of the mundane soak me through, never letting up.

But the mundane is so safe for so long. So calm for so long.

And then it begins. 
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 And how will I handle it?