Kat’s Pause 

- The five-month-long process is over: my credit card finally came in the mail today. WEBCOMIC T-SHIRTS, HERE I COME.

- I screwed up submission of an assignment for computer processing, which was supposed to be my bird course. It was due a week ago and I just figured out today what I did. I am starting to regret taking this course more every day.

- My Reading Poetry TA looks 16 but has finished her MA. She is like the crystal ball showing my future.

- I am hungry. Time to make some chicken noodle soup. I am still without my own bowl; Lindsay and I went to the mall last night, but we didn’t have a lot of time, so several necessities went unpurchased.

Update: I just checked online and the $1200 that was left owing on my tuition after my OSAP came in has been paid. Thanks Ontario government!

My dear and lovely friend Lindsay, with whom I hope to live next year, lent me a bowl. I can eat soup again!

I just ate a delicious dinner of peanut butter.

Our dining hall closes early and has the most meager of choices on the weekend. The Terrace is open much later, but they only have fast food and I can’t eat that. (All around brilliant because we have to spend the majority of our meal plan dollars at the Dining Hall, which has crappy hours, so we’re forced to go to the Terrace to eat junk. Wilfrid Laurier: keeping students healthy since 1911.) I have soup here in my dorm, but someone on my floor took my bowl… again.

Now I am off to bed. Maybe I’ll go to Computer Processing tomorrow morning… probably I won’t.

I’ve been sleeping poorly for some time now — trouble falling asleep, trouble staying asleep, and trouble waking up. I do everything they recommend to get a good night’s sleep: darkness, no caffeine or sugar six hours before sleep (in actuality I consume zero caffeine and very little sugar ever because my digestive system decided to hate them), relaxation techniques, etc, and I do sleep for a few hours at a time, but it must not be doing much for me because for the last few weeks I’ve continuously felt as though I haven’t slept in days. It’s gotten beyond just feeling a little weary to the point where I’m frequently dizzy, can’t concentrate or absorb information, almost-hallucinate little things, and am either a walking zombie or an emotional wreck during waking hours. The slightest exercise, like walking up a flight of stairs, leaves me exhausted almost to the point of falling over.

I should probably see a doctor — I could be anemic or have chronic fatigue syndrome or whatever — but I’m sick of doctors. I must have gone to Health Services on campus a dozen times in the past five months. Just for a little while I want to avoid that place and function like a normal human being. I know that won’t happen, but I desperately want to pretend.

My point in saying this (because contrary to appearances I do not enjoy discussing my myriad of health problems on my blog) is that being chronically tired has kept me from doing much of anything constructive lately, such as writing. I write in tiny bursts, if anything, and I often have trouble putting words on paper or computer screen because I’ll forget them as I’m writing.

Today was not a good day. I skipped my 9:30 class, which has become the norm, didn’t understand half of my biology lecture which I normally love, and struggled through my biology lab wondering why it took me three hours to learn what I did about mollusc, crayfish and echinoderm anatomy. Since then, though, things have been looking up: I lucked out and got 9 out of 10 on the dissection quiz, then came back home to a nice time with Ning — 23 months today. He bought me roses and we went out for dinner. (He’s stepped out for a short while just now to return an overdue videogame after I unwittingly returned them its empty case, and I’m too tired to walk there with him.) I’m trying to be nice to Ning, but I blame the defensiveness and short temper he’s felt from me lately on my lack of sleep. And that makes me sad because he doesn’t deserve that.

Tonight Radiohead came on my playlist and I suddenly felt hyper and wanted to dance, so I did. In my dorm room, alone. At 1pm when I had been planning to go to sleep at 10.

Who dances to Radiohead? But damn, Idioteque is catchy.

Tomorrow’s useless 9:30 lecture is going to be skipped.

Kat has not written anything in days because she’s felt crummy and panicky about Life Decisions. She knows she ought to hurry up and make said decisions but she’d rather just whine about them.

It was brighter here… wherever “here� was. Farah blinked until the hazy glow resolved itself into warm candlelight. She gasped at the scene it illuminated.

Steam rose from a pool of clear water which glittered in the golden light. Surely it was too beautiful to be real. She walked in awe to the edge of the water and dipped her hand in; it was warmer than blood.

The practical parts of her mind told her the place could not exist – why would it? Maybe that’s why she found herself stripping off her sweaty, sand-caked garments and dipping her sore feet into the deliciously hot pool. If this wasn’t really happening, then it could cause no harm to rest here for a while, just to regain her strength. As the panic of battle drained from her, so did her energy – when was that last time she had slept? Before she could argue against her more indulgent side, she was chest-deep in the water.

A thought floated up to the surface of her conscious mind: Where was the Prince?

He must still be up in the mausoleum. If only he could see this wonderful place, she thought with a luxurious sigh. Well, he was bound to find his way eventually. She hoped he would stumble upon the exit soon.

And just why was she hoping he would join her? a sly part of her asked the other parts. Well, that was clear enough – the Prince was an attractive man with a good heart and any fool who had been through what they had would be falling for him. She smiled to herself; there was no point in denying it. She ran a hand down her naked hip under the water and wondered how far away he was.

Was that his voice? She wasn’t sure. “Where are you?� she called, sitting up. She listened intently for a response but heard only the quiet lapping of the water.

After some minutes had passed, she took to languidly treading water, occasionally murmuring delighted things to herself – it was so blissfully beautiful there – and calling to the Prince in case he was nearby, although she did not hear him. Surely the way out was not so hard to find… unless perhaps, she mused, there were another… but no, that would be ludicrous, two exits from a seemingly inescapable tomb. Still, the possibility that he had ended up elsewhere chilled her for a moment before the warm water reassured her that everything would be fine.

She was not startled when he finally came in; it was not the sort of place for surprise, or for shame. She merely smiled and beckoned him in, making no effort to hide her smooth body where it rested under the water.

If it was not real, it was the kind of dream one cannot dismiss as mere night-fancy. No, it was something in between; perhaps the solid part of them was elsewhere, but some part of both of them was together there, she was certain.

He joined her without a word; speech was no longer necessary. Still it did not stop him from teasing her with a hushed “kakolukia� – she tried not to giggle at his frisky tone – before they leaned in together for a long-desired kiss.

Worm dissection today. No matter how much I wash, I can’t get the smell off my hands — some delightful mixture of preservative (do they still use formaldehyde?) and worm viscera. I am sure there is diluted interstitial fluid in my hair, which is still wet from being washed six hours ago. BUT I got 10/10 on the dissection quiz so I am happy. Biology is fun.

Ning is in Toronto right now hanging out with Nat — I would be with him if not for some complicated miscommunication, poor timing and swiftly-changing plans. I’m sure they’ll have fun.

Much thanks to Ren for putting up with my neverending questions… both now and in the future.

—

The dark silence of the mausoleum brought a new kind of terror after the whirling sands in the hourglass room.

“A tomb,� the Prince said heavily. How apt. He moved to join Farah.

The princess was still reeling. “You were there,� she cried. “The dagger was in your hand. Why did you hesitate?� When she received no answer, her eyes and voice narrowed harshly. “You think you’re cleverer than everybody, but you’re just like the rest of them. Those soldiers…� She shuddered a little at the memory of the sand monsters. “All they can do is fight, destroy.�

The Prince sat against cold stone, cradling his head. She didn’t know whether he had taken in her words or not, but his guilt was weighty and obvious. Kneeling down to his level, she spoke bitterly but with a softer voice, “Why did I trust you?�

The Prince could not face her. She lifted his chin to force him to, quietly begging, “Why didn’t you trust me?�

The two were surprised by sudden darkness. “Ow!� Farah complained as a limb hit her, eliciting a quick apology from the Prince. “Where are you?�

“I’m right here,� his voice assured her.

“Hold my hand,� she commanded. He found the slender thing and obeyed, smiling to himself despite their fear. “Don’t let go.� In response, he gave her hand a slight squeeze and some of his guilt was transferred to her. After a few long seconds of silence, she said gently, “I didn’t mean what I said.�

“No,� the Prince said miserably. “You’re right. All that’s happened is my doing; I wanted honour and glory.� He shook his head in disgust. “I brought this on us.�

Farah held his hand tightly in the darkness. “You are brave and good,� she insisted, and continued on resolutely, “If this tomb is to be ours, at least the dagger will be buried with us. And…� Just say it. “We are together.� Her heart beat faster at the confession.

It was matched by a sudden acceleration of the Prince’s breathing. “What is it?� she asked. Had she gone too far?

“Nothing,� came the quick reply, but his hand shook in hers.

“You’re trembling!�

“I just don’t like close spaces,� he lied. He remembered his confident decision to ask her to marry him. Where was that brashness now? He kicked himself for all opportunities he’d missed. Now it was too late. Well, perhaps it would amuse her. He took a breath to share his thoughts when her hand suddenly pulled at his – she was searching the room for an exit. Of course she would not give up so easily. “There must be some way out of here,� he declared hopefully.

“When I was small,� Farah began lightly, “my mother taught me a secret word. She said that when I was afraid, all I had to do was speak that word and a magic door would open.�

How sweet, the Prince thought with some disdain.

“I’ve never told that to anybody,” she admitted.

He retorted, “I can see why. It’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard of.�

Her hand left his. He could imagine her slightly hurt expression. Alright, he would indulge her. “What was the word?�

It spilled easily from her lips, familiar as a childhood friend. “Kakolukia.�

“Kakolukia,� the Prince tried the foreign word while groping around for her hand. He was astonished to hear a grinding sound, as of moving stone. He grinned. “You did that – didn’t you?�

There was no answer.

“Farah?�

Light appeared from somewhere, but Farah was nowhere to be seen. Had she found a way out? His eyes fell upon a stone tomb, its lid removed. He was sure it had been covered before. Shivering with superstitious thoughts, he climbed inside.

No longer on repeat, but still fondly repeated several times when it comes on in my playlist.

Ning found the song online and I uploaded it properly.

Which I discovered only upon arriving at my empty 9:30 lecture. No matter — anything’s better than having class until 6:30 (except having class until 10).

After going back to sleep and not waking up until 2:00 (oops), I’ve used my day off to:

- have a shower
- go to the bank to get laundry money and apply for a credit card again
- do one load of laundry (currently in the machine)

I know I should do some reading, but I really feel like playing games, but I know if I start playing games then I’ll feel guilty for not doing something productive, so I’ve settled on the tense limbo of doing nothing and worrying about it. Welcome to my wonderful mental processes.

Being fans of Neil Gaiman, Ning and I watched MirrorMask recently and loved it. If anyone’s seen Labyrinth (also a Jim Henson film), Mirrormask was reminiscent of that, only newer (read: better effects) and more gorgeous. If you like pretty things and a good story and funny lines, hunt down a copy.

My favourite scene was the main character’s “makeover” into a brainwashed punk princess, mostly because it features a version of the song “Close to You” performed by demented mechanical dolls. It’s beautiful but creepy to watch. I’ve been looking for just the song online because it won’t leave my head, but I keep stumbling upon movie clips instead, so I thought I’d share it with you. (Scroll just down the page to Video Clips.) Currently on repeat in my playlist. I blame it for the eyeliner I’ve been wearing lately when I normally eschew makeup.

The past week has been a hellish blur of computer problems, sleeping through classes and nearly breaking up with Ning on three separate occasions. (Technically the first of those occasions occured on New Year’s Eve, but eh.) Things finally started to go right yesterday when I forced them to by taking care of some of the more urgent items on my to-do list. Said list is now more comfortably short and includes such doable things as borrowing someone’s psychology notes, finding the poetry anthology I need for English, going down the street for bloodwork (my gastroenterologist — fancy name that means stomach-and-intestines doctor — wants to make sure I’m absorbing nutrients correctly), calling my bank to ask in which alternate dimension the credit card I ordered back in September ended up, calling Laurier’s tech department to bitch about how this school’s technology despises me (I have bookmarked two of the web pages necessary to reset my email password when the system spontaneously decides it doesn’t like mine anymore), and working things out with Ning to the point where we can find a place to live next year without worrying we’ll break up before our lease is up.

I am sad to say that the word quota has been necessarily sacrificed of late — I have a 2500 word debt today — but I hope to get things back on track and maybe even read some of my textbooks as well.

I hate my dorm microwave.

My brother-in-law managed to procure a Wii for himself, and he’s been ridiculously generous in letting my whole family play it. Here at long last is my post about the console.

The first thing I played was Wii Sports, which comes bundled with the console. Let me say first — I am not one for sports games. I grew up tiny and frail and afraid of hurting myself, and this fear matured into a general disinterest in sports. The most fun I remember having with a sports videogame is with Quidditch — even though I don’t like Harry Potter — because it was uncomplicated and seemed easy to pick up. And that, in a nutshell, was my first impression of the Wii.

We played tennis, bowling, baseball, golf, and boxing. Boxing was without a doubt the most exhilarating, and not just because I got to (virtually) pummel my older sister, her fiance, my nephew, and my mother. Tennis was a great deal of fun, as was bowling. Chris mentioned that an acquaintance of his is an excellent bowler and when she played on the Wii, that translated into “strike after strike,” which needless to say credits the dedication that went into programming the games. Baseball was pretty meh because I wasn’t very good at it, although not as royally terrible as I am at Wii golf.

The Mii system of designing and then playing as your avatar is a lot of fun, and just seems to make so much sense. Customization panels give you a lot of control over your avatar’s appearance even though they have a strong Wii-simplicity spin to them. Although it was odd to cycle through everyone’s Mii in baseball, playing as myself in the other games felt smooth and natural.

Using the wireless controller and pointing at the screen takes some getting used to. With few exceptions, everyone who first picks it up and tries to select buttons on the screen gets a confused look on their face as they’re so far off that their controller’s little hand doesn’t even appear on the screen. Of course it gets much easier with practice, and soon you don’t think about it. One Rayman: Rabbid Rabbits minigame we played involved tracing outlines with the remote, and we were all astonished by how adept my 11-year-old niece was at “drawing” remotely — much better than any of us.

While I’m on the subject, Rayman was a lot of fun. My personal favourite was the collection of musical minigames in which you use Wiimote and nunchuk attachment (yes, the name sounds stupid, but you forget about it in about two seconds) as drumsticks to play along to a song. Other fun games were milking pigs (you should see us all furiously waving our controllers to be the first to fill three pails), racing — what were those things? warthogs? I don’t remember — and pulling worms out of a bunny’s teeth. Yanking is one of the most appropriate and satisfying actions for the Wii remote - a quick flick to get rid of a worm, smack a radio, or discipline a wayward bunny (hee hee).

In the same vein, Super Monkey Ball was also a blast. Even my five-year-old niece got in on the simpler games, like hurdle racing and Red Light Green Light. The minigames were much happier and more kid-friendly than sometimes-gross Rabbid Rabbits, and the actions (of the games I played, at least) were extremely simple and intuitive, so I enjoyed Super Monkey Ball a little more, but they were both great games for slightly different audiences.

Lastly: Zelda. Everything you’ve heard about the graphics is true; they are not that great. But they are plenty good and it just doesn’t matter as much as the rest of the game. If you are finicky enough to turn your nose up at the game’s gorgeous scenes because it’s simply not a 360, then you deserve nothing more than mindless pretty games and you will probably enjoy them, you poser. Anyway, I didn’t play for very long because it was getting late at night and I had to go home, but I hope this gives some indication of my experiences: swinging the sword and fishing and reigning in Epona felt so cool that since receiving Twilight Princess for GC this Christmas, I’ve been hesistant to open the package knowing that it just won’t be the same and that the money could be put towards a Wii and its Zelda.

Just in case you couldn’t tell from my glowing post, I was pretty impressed with the Wii. No, the console doesn’t boast the wicked awesome cool graphics of its current-generation siblings, but I promise you, you will be having way too much fun to care. That emphasis on gameplay, in my opinion, should be praised above all else. As for those gamers who say the Wii doesn’t appeal to them because it’s meant to attract non-gamers: boo on you. Give it a shot and, hardcore or not, you’ll like it for what it is.

And you know those commericials where the whole family is playing the Wii? That’s not just marketing cheese, that actually happens. My mother, uncle, and little niece all played and enjoyed it. That’s three generations of players spanning almost 50 years. Need I say more?

“Foreign” has been tweaked and polished and even somewhat proofread (!) and uploaded to ff.net. I kept most of Ending A - he’s going to graduate but there’s no word about college because that was just too much.

If you’re not too sick of it by now, I would humbly recommend reading it in its entirety. I’ve made a lot of changes to almost all the different bits of it since posting them here, not to mention the ones to the ending this morning, and I think it came together rather nicely as a whole.

I’m not sure I like this ending. The alternative I have in mind would be a much shorter version without the dramatic changes which feel a little cheesy to me — it would basically skip to the very end written here without exposing or even implying Ico’s lovely little life. Please tell me what you think.

–

He waited for her to return, for her tiny smile to come into his courtyard. He waited for weeks and then months. He listened to the rumours – hospitalization, death, foster homes – until the rumours quieted down – the students stopped caring and forgot about her. It made him furious and very sad that he was the only one continued to care. At home, as the months went by with no news of his friend, he grieved the loss of her. When his parents asked what was wrong with him, he told them his friend had gone missing. They tried to sympathize, but they didn’t know he meant his only friend, and they could not begin to understand the depth to which Yorda’s impression on him extended. He couldn’t stand to drink apple cider. He developed infatuations with pale girls and tall girls and foreign girls.

And she affected him in ways no one could have foreseen. When on a black day in English class he happened to catch his teacher’s reading of Keats’ “To Hope,� he heard the word ethereal and inexplicably (to his mind) thought of her. After class he approached his teacher with wide, suspicious eyes and fairly demanded to hear the poem again. His teacher was shocked at the request but pleased to oblige and spent an hour after dismissal that day explaining the poem’s more accessible parts to the boy. Ico found himself paying just a little more attention in the class, as much because of the teacher’s patience with him as his newfound interest in written expression. By the end of that year, his English marks had improved enough for the other teachers to think there might be some chance of the boy’s success, and their renewed efforts made all the difference. With vast amounts of encouragement and praise, Ico became more articulate, and his innate sensitivities began to show through beneath his crude exterior. Over time, his tentative studies in literature led to an appreciation for intellectual pursuits.

It was as much a surprise to him as to anyone else when he reached his coveted age of licence and found that he no longer intended to drop out of school. He was passing his classes, so he figured he would try to stick it out until graduation. Then, an even greater shock: he wanted to apply for college.

His parents had never been prouder than the day they opened an acceptance letter from a local school.

And although he missed her, as he knew he always would, he grew content there. He adapted to his new life as a student, and even surprised himself by using the fresh start to make friends. People were not as cruel as he remembered.

On one cold day in March, he went walking around campus, watching the grey sky and remembering snow. That magical day seemed a lifetime a way. He thought of Yorda and tried not to pay undue attention to the pale girls and the tall ones and foreign ones he saw as he walked. That is why he almost didn’t see one lanky girl, whiter than fresh snow, sitting against a tree reading a book.

He tried to look away but found he couldn’t; there was something very different and equally familiar about this girl. So he approached the tree.

Pale violet eyes looked up at his, and he saw a tiny smile make room for itself on her face.

“Hello,� said Yorda.

There’s one last section after this which is currently sitting almost-complete in another window. I’m not sure if I like what I’ve done for the very end, so I’m uploading this part and then the iffy part will come separately.

–

Without any idea about Yorda’s condition or when she would be back (if ever, a small voice inside him said mournfully), he waited for word to come to the other students and spread around the school, as it eventually always did. For some time there was nothing, but then he began to hear the whispers: she was in the hospital. The doctors thought it might be—

“A broken leg,� a boy said, “from climbing a tree around the school.� Ico ignored this one. She hadn’t had the strength to really climb the courtyard tree in weeks, and her isolated last attempt had only scratched her arm and dress.

“Her appendix,� another boy declared. “It burst right here at school. Just exploded, boom! There was blood everywhere.� Ico didn’t know much about appendices, but he knew there had been no blood, so he figured that one couldn’t be it either.

“Poison,� a girl said excitedly, as Ico listened unnoticed around the corner. Her friend replied, “Wow. What kind? I wonder who did it?�

Ico cried out and hurried down the hall away from them. He knew who had done it, just as well as he knew that somehow, however impossibly, he should have tried to stop that hateful witch. How his blood simmered with fury and shame! His friend, his angel and goddess, was fading away in a hospital bed somewhere because he hadn’t had the guts or the sense to challenge her evil mother. The hag had triumphed, he thought as he wept in his courtyard. She had heartlessly destroyed her own daughter.

I haven’t been able to update lately because my internet’s been screwy. Here’s the latest Ico. Only one or two more sections left.

–

They watched in awe from the cozy fan as the white stuff fell. In minutes there was the faintest film on the ground, and by the time lunch period was over, everything had been thinly coated with white, and still the flakes came, thickly now. Yorda didn’t get up and run to class when the bell rang. Even if she hadn’t been glued there watching the snowfall, clutching Ico’s arm for support, she was too tired to go to class – or so she told herself. Some part of her knew that this was an opportunity that should not be missed. The other children would be gawking at the windows anyway; this was not a day for learning, except for that particular kind of lesson which cannot be taught in classrooms.

The children sprang up from the fan, curiously energized, to delight in the snow. It caught and stuck in Yorda’s hair, sparkling like a crown of diamonds. She was shivering and smiling and Ico could not figure out why he found his eyes fixed on her. She was not so much beautiful as untouchably different in the most exquisite way. He laughed and she laughed and she began to spin in circles under the falling snow, ethereal, a ghost, a dream. She was impossible, he knew; yet she was here beside him.

If Ico had been a little bit older or smarter, he might have struggled for words to describe that moment and settled on spiritual. If he had been younger he would have firmly declared it to be magical. Yorda was so obviously part of another world, a place outside from her cruel mother and her meagre life… she belonged to an entirely different set of realities. She came from the same place as the snow. The quality inherent in those things was wrong, and so undeserved by mortals such as him, but it was so wonderful that he had to breathe it in or feel as though he was not really living.

Much later, Ico would look back and wonder if he had been in love. In a sense, he fairly worshipped the girl, but he couldn’t get past the sensation that he was supposed to, independent of his feelings for her – as if it was the right thing to do, as if awe was the appropriate reaction to her, as if her very existence demanded reverence.

But none of those thoughts crossed his mind on that cold January day. He was wholly taken by the white on white on white of Yorda spinning in the snow. Then the moment turned terrible as she swayed and fainted.

It was like watching a leaf fall, but also like seeing an iceberg crashing majestically into the ocean. There was something inevitable about her turn from liberated excitement to the confines of unconsciousness. He shouted in her ear, but she would not rise. Her lips were slightly open and he could barely feel a breath.

He knew he should go for help, but he could not bear to leave. The delicate snow melted when it met the tears running down his face, until at last he ran into the building, sobbing.

A teacher who knew of the “troubled child� spotted him and, once she understood through his gasps what had happened, peeked her head into the courtyard and then hurried off to call an ambulance. Ico ran back outside to be with his friend.

When they arrived, they had to pry the boy off her before they could try to resuscitate. He hugged his knees in a corner of the courtyard and wept quietly while they did all kinds of things to her that he didn’t understand. He jumped up when they picked her up and began to carry her away, demanding to know where they were taking her and declaring that he was coming too. They barely gave him a glance as he followed behind them. Soon she was in the back of an ambulance and he was screaming to come with her. One of them tried to explain to him why he wasn’t allowed to, but Ico thought the reason was stupid and refused to listen, instead attempting to push through them into the vehicle. But in the end he was left crying in the street, numbed by the cold and the lovely snow, as the ambulance rushed away.

Continued my fanfiction tonight, at the expense of sleep. (The best kind of trade-off.) I knew it would be easy if I just got past my laziness because I wasn’t really stuck in any of the stories I’m working on. I still have only a hazy idea of what will happen next in Ico, but I know what’s happening now so it’s easy to write. The current situation has been building for a while.

Words written today: 740. I’ve been musing on and off about including a daily count or even a fancy meter, but the fact is I don’t blog every day (although I would like to) and also it’s not usually the last thing I do that day. It would be more practical to have a “words yesterday” feature, but I think that’s terribly unexciting.

Hmm, hmm, I was going to wait until I finished this little section of Ico before uploading, but I realized I haven’t posted any of this story in ages, so here it is, cut off in the middle just before a big climax I have yet to flesh out. I included the last paragraph of the last uploaded bit as a refresher.

–Ico–

Since then, her mother had mostly ignored her, giving her gruel for breakfast and dinner and snapping at her if she tried to say anything. Worse than her mother’s rage, Yorda said, were the times when she kept her resentment quiet. She could overflow at any time, and that was sure to happen tonight when Yorda returned home with a torn and bloody sleeve.

Ico tried to console her, but after hearing her story he was almost as worried as she. At the end of the day, they parted with gloomy faces and he hoped for the best.

~

It was cold the next day, colder than usual even for January. But Ico was warmed down to his skinny ankles by the sight of Yorda’s smile as she entered the courtyard. She showed him the mended tear and excitedly told him that her mother had stitched it without so much as a harsh word. He tried to share in her absurd happiness despite the pity he was sure he couldn’t keep out of his voice.

Some of the hope drained from him when he saw that it was another one of her tired days. They sat side by side against the wall and he struggled to keep her awake, saying anything that came into his head on the chance that it might arouse her interest and provoke a response. Anything to keep her clear, timid voice from dipping low and sleepy as her words turned to murmured gibberish. Anything to keep that soft head from slipping down onto his shoulder.

That day, nothing he did could keep her conscious. He watched her violet eyes disappear under the white eyelids as they talked. In desperation, he probed the subject of her mother, but even that failed to excite her. He was beginning to think her suffering distressed him more than it did her.

Then, a miracle.

Ico sat slumped against the wall, despondent. He had given up trying to talk to Yorda and instead turned his mind toward his own gloomy thoughts. As if to add to his melancholy, he began to feel bits of cold pricking his skin. What could make this day any better but rain, he thought bitterly. The courtyard offered no shelter, so they would be forced to move indoors and find a secluded spot for Yorda to doze. But there was something odd about this rain. It wasn’t as cold, he thought, puzzled. No – it wasn’t as wet. And it was – was it? – it was, he realized joyously, white.

Thrilled, he shook Yorda awake. When her bleary eyes finally showed themselves, he shouted, “It’s snowing!� She looked more confused than ever. He laughed as he realized that he had never taught her the word for snow because it was unheard of in their climate.

I resolve to go back in time and not stay up this late tonight.

New Year’s doesn’t excite me much. I guess the bland logical side of me insists that the calendar is a man-made construction and that there’s no actual change from December 31 to January 1. I don’t make resolutions because I think if something is important enough to do or change, it should be done as soon as it’s thought up. I will, however, use 2007 as an opportunity to reinstate my faltered word quota. I’ve been slacking off terribly for a number of reasons — Christmas and holiday busyness as well as sorting out things with Ning being among the top few. I swear to pay more attention to my blog too. I have a few choice games I want to talk about, including a half-written Wii post that needs to be updated and uploaded.

I go back to Waterloo tomorrow night and classes start the day after. This term will be busier than the last, but I’m still going to consider Ning’s suggestion to get a part-time job at EB Games, something he’s much more likely to do because he’s used to working and making money. We’ll see how things go.

PS: Ren! I have an extra little surprise for you, to be mailed tomorrow. (Hooray for late Christmas presents.) I’ve stayed up late packing and doing boring necessary stuff tonight so I think I’ll stay up a bit later and work on it, because it fulfills a certain other goal of mine.