Mina Rowen

Yes, it has been too long. Wrapped up in my erratic Internet availability and the sudden onslaught of college work, I was forced to choose between a few things. I chose exercise over writing this blog. But I'm back with not a bang, but an airy sound of relief, signalling that this blog will not be abandoned, not completely at least. What to write about? Yes, in the past three weeks, I touched a dead arm with my bare hands. No, I didn't go all Dexter Morgan. It was a dissected hand, we were studying the anatomy of it. I also pricked my finger five times on purpose, for a blood test. Not fun at all. In my spare time, I crossed the 50,000 word mark on my novel Dragon Day, and managed to learn to whistle. Quite an accomplishment. Well, this post is short and has no point. It had to end somewhere. That's here. 

                The city that I currently reside in is in one word, wet. There is no other word to describe this city. Believe me, I have tried. In the two weeks since I have arrived, it has only rained once. Nonetheless, let me assure you, the city is wet. It rests next to the ocean, and the air is filled with water and salt here.                 My home is a town that masquerades as a city. It has a certain rustic charm. In the street next to mine there is a diary with real live buffalos. There is more heat than one could ever wish for, and enough sun to light up the entire world. It is a city famous for its cotton and chili peppers. But the heat there is dry, it’s stifling but there’s comfort in that heat. It’s the daily fire that I grew up in.                 My temporary home is not dry. Even the heat is murky, soiled by the intervention of the sea. Usually the mornings start with a slight fog and one of my sneezing fits. Then the fog lifts up, but the cloudy sky doesn’t