Crossing the Central Reservation of My Imagination

Sat in a mile-long traffic jam this morning due to a boat parked in the middle of the road. I'm guessing it was broken down, but maybe it had just run out of wind. I didn't see T-Pain anywhere; only some very confused looking police.

Temperature when I left home this morning: 28 degrees of frost.

I drove to work today kitted out in full arctic explorer gear, with the heater blasting away, and yet I could still feel my body's warmth draining away. Walking across the car park to the front door, a journey of less than 50 feet, it felt as if knives were stabbing into my cheeks. All the while, a feeble dying sun hung limply in a dim grey sky, refusing to rise.

Normally, I don't feel cold, but lately I have felt nothing but. God has forsaken us. Mother Nature has turned her back on us, and we shall not see her face again except in fury, hurling yet another deadly storm. Meantime, our world is a lifeless lump of ice covered rock, swathed in murk and shadow, whose very air is grit against our lungs.

I sit at my desk clutching my winter coat about me against frigid draughts which enter at will and mock our building's heating system. A mug of tea is good for about ten minutes' delicious warmth, but I've already had five, which will not do much for my efforts at sleeping tonight. I dread the journey home with the breath of death's angel to numb my flesh, feeling this unworldly chill work its way deeper and deeper into my bones, extinguishing all that clings to life and nourishes hope.

That feeling of hope is what I miss the most.

Geez, what a lame storm. It had potential, but somehow lacked that certain je ne sais pas conduire that we've come to expect from a typical nor'easter. It most definitely was not a French Toast Emergency. I didn't even notice many crashed out-of-state cars on my drive to work.

The (remaining) staff at LiveJournal are working hard at convincing us that the crunching sound coming from the hull is nothing to worry about and certainly not in any way an iceberg. I follow LiveJournal on Twitter and yesterday received a tweet which said (along with a pointer to yesterday's press release), LJers! Don't worry, the news of our demise is premature. Yes, there were layoffs, but that does not affect your LJ! What a relief! I am certain that those who lost their jobs yesterday shall be comforted by the news that their employment was in no way important to the success of the company. And it was ever so thoughtful of LJ Inc. to give such public recognition of the contribution of these fine individuals. We shall not forget them. To the Thirteen Who Made No Difference: I salute your irrelevant sacrifice. I dedicate today's post in your honour.

Whether or not yesterday's hysteria will prove to have been justified, it has had the positive effect of forcing a lot of serious thinking about disaster recovery. I was happy to see people looking into the various available options for backing up their stuff and, critically, asking for help when needed. Please continue to do so, and I will continue to provide help where I am able. Clearly we can count on official support from LJ even less now than we could before the layoffs, so it falls to us to help one another.

I was also gratified to see that my post yesterday may have helped spark a general "how to find me in the post LJ world" meme. Even under the best of circumstances, I expect most of us to outlive LJ, and although I intend for the forseeable future keeping LJ as my primary means of communicating with you all, I am keen to establish as many redundant paths as possible.

Yes, we're in the midst of a full blown French Toast Emergency.

The first few flakes of snow are falling. The radio is telling us to expect 8 to 12 inches of snow over the next 24 hours. And that means New Englanders everywhere are seized with a crazed, irrational desire to purchase large quantities of milk, bread, butter and eggs. Some twisted scrap of DNA, latent race memory or mass hypnotic suggestion drives the populace. We shall all be safe, goes the little voice, so long as we cook up plenty of French toast.

This morning the first signs of rationing were visible, with customers in major super markets limited to two gallons of milk. One of our local convenience shops had a hand-lettered sign reading "NO EGGS" (punctuated with a little drawing of a cracked egg for some reason). As of 14.45 EST I doubt there is a slice of bread to be had anywhere in Middlesex county.

Snow has picked up dramatically since I started writing this, and the phone has just now rung with an automated message from the town declaring a snow emergency until tomorrow morning. Nothing to do but sit and wait things out.

And yes, eat French toast.

Driving to work was a bit of an adventure this morning as several of my usual roads were diverted around fallen trees and power lines. We have been told to expect much more of this due to rapid melting from today's sharp rise in temperature (60°F or 16°C today, up from just above freezing yesterday). I observed many homes with crushed roofs, makeshift tarpaulins covering gaping wounds, and many, many damaged cars.

Roughly half of my colleagues are yet without power, and official forecasts for restoration are vague at best. One week maybe two, if the weather holds. It is a fact mentioned casually in conversation and evokes no special response beyond a sympathetic look and perhaps a pat on the arm.

Our fridges here at work have been packed to overflowing with perishable foods from homes with no working power. Most people keep generators but a few were caught out by the ferocity of the storm in places not normally affected. One person who works in my area owns two generators; both had failed.

New Englanders are no strangers to weather, and take this sort of thing well in stride, with a stiff upper lip and characteristic wry humour. Very few absences today and, to my knowledge, none related to the storm.