A Question of Winter

5 February 2010 § Leave a comment

Many years have passed since we last walked these streets together. It was snowing then, with a persistent ease that let us know that it was not going to end any time soon. For clarity’s sake, it hasn’t. The culture we had quietly deserted is the one we have so influenced now, with our arguments in beatbox languages about the fluctuating condition of the stars, our involvement in human evolution, and our evasively elaborate plans for what’s going to spark fireworks when the snowdrifts finally melt. Maybe we didn’t know it so well then, but everything is subject to not change – we are no different.

The fantasy of that better world we imagined is possible, though it is easier to hold onto through a book. Images don’t change as waywardly over the course those hundreds of paragraphs and yellowed pages as they do with the musty smell of these volumes: I’ve kept them all this time, locked away up here –  they are waiting to be written, to be read and absorbed and now we’ll be able to nail Importance to a board and torture it with pretty guns and memories. Don’t be afraid to show it your indignant side: we cannot take the blame for its informality any longer.

On snoworange nights, my home rests comfortably in the midst of drowning relationships and circumstances so unfortunate the gold has taken flight. A moose waits for the green light before crossing the street, but stops in the middle for a coffee and a dirty look. Perhaps some gainful employment can be had there – they’ll pay anyone these days! The prices of things are dropping, so let’s hold a festival to celebrate the dying of the dollar and if our dignity is still intact, a bitter and drunken one night stand should complete the task:  post-sex, pre-morning exit. A basket case is rambling down the avenue, luggage and homeless sign in tow – we will love him and her for their sacrifice, devotion to our hopeless plight. We are no better, no more precious, and no sooner do we emerge from the weeds than he finds himself some audacity. To ask for what he wants, that scoundrel, what pretension!

Gleaming from some stupid beacon in the middle of this mess, it’s asking me – What do you really want to say? And I want to know – what this It is that is asking me this? It is depending on redundancy to make a valid point and it has it in the palm of it’s hand. Let’s call it a Her to make things more intriguing. I’ll take her to the vast and unforgiving Patagonian landscape I’ve talked so much about recently, and we will play card games in the wind and sleep within the snow, create the riverportals to the sea, avoiding it for altitude and other godly things.

It’s happening, I can feel it once again – but at least I’m in a place where I can find some sense in it, some realignment with the horizon: it is wide enough that I may play without a place to go, and this hotel suite overlooking an industrial cityscape, sparse with life, is a fitting reminder that while the sky is sometimes the sea, the snow is sometimes the sky, and now I know that winter has taken its hold. I will not abandon it so soon.


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