The Abominable Snow Fan
Snow has fallen for seven hours and the world will sleep tonight under a blanket of water five inches thick. In the morning scarves will be found, gloves will be matched, boots will be stomped. Winter is here.
From my third-floor apartment I am among the trees. I wander from window to window, peering from each at a different winter postcard. Everything has been whited out, each frosted branch a pixel on the lens of Adams, each car an annoyed commuter wondering where the ice scraper is stashed, each sidewalk a stream of supple cotton. I'm reminded of a table-top model, those intricate recreations of towns, buildings and trees, stoplights and roads, children and mailboxes, winterized by a glittery chemical snow from a can. Foam snow covering foam grass.
I am compelled to go outside though I have no rational reason to do so. Most people wouldn't choose to go outside in weather like this and more often than not neither would I. Call it the wild, call me crazy, call me impulsive or maybe ordinary, but some circuit in my brain seems insistent on being a creature in the haze, a participant of the night, a stomper in the snow. I decide to walk to a nearby gas station to buy a bottle of milk.
On snowy nights, especially the first of the season there is a tangible peace to be found by being out of doors. This peace is fleeting, not unlike the first few minutes of a new pair of socks. At some point during minute four, the socks become used. Before the plow trucks and salt spreaders rumble through, belching destruction upon the tender surface of snow I must join the fray. Slush, grime and slippery reality have a persistent way of overwhelming such halcyon winterscapes. Shovels and footprints and shivering pits of cooled dog shit counteract the effect. Admittedly though, there's something unimpeachable about a single set of Man prints alongside a Dog's happy traipse. Leather shoes and light steppers beware. But during the first few hours of a snowstorm there is perverse safety and perfect silence, the kind of thing that can't be bottled or sold, only presented by Nature for those simple and indulgent enough to enjoy. So for that reason I put on my coat, hat and gloves and step outside. Plus I am out of milk.
My boots are on a shelf in the garage, next to a can of stain and a milk crate of softballs. They fit well. They are familiar. Whatever memory my feet carry these boots elicit. After a quick footwear exchange I make my way down the alley. Save for the crunching of snow beneath my feet there is complete and utter silence. The kind of silence that can only be heard. So rarely achieved or observed. Every surface softened. Rooftops shimmer. A tire track curves into a garage. A woman laughs. The buildings doze.
I am a lone figure marching happily among the chaos of peace.
Fat flakes of snow fall silently from the sky. An uncountable chorus of vertical lines, not a sliver of wind exists to disrupt their descent, their long fall from dark ethereal clouds above. Grace defined, as much as tired minds are allowed. Bushes and trees support ribbons of stacked snow seven, eight times the height of the branches themselves. Each twig confidently sporting a mohawk of white. Occasionally a chunk will break loose and fall to the ground -- absurd flakes that penetrate the surface of the blanket. Nature's unnoticed divots.
The gas station has a line, an oddity at tenpee'em although not unexpected. While in line I grab a red-bull. I am not in need of it but the small child in me is. I need a slight change of consciousness and I'd rather not spin around in a circle in order to achieve it. A hefty shot of caffeine will have to do.
Walking home the street lamps, headlights and windows cast their beams upon the airbound flakes but it is from the blanket of snow on the ground that a mystical Earth has emerged. Instead of the dreary shadow of a late-fall night there is a soft orange glow, not unlike the final seconds of a dying flashlight. There is peace in the air, falling one frozen molecule at a time. It is a fool's paradise. I am given the gift of night-vision, modernized, sure, by many pools of light pollution, but just as pupil-dilating as the moon-driven night travels of the past. I imagine with sadness and comfort that there are still places where pine trees cast shadows at night.
From my third-floor apartment I am among the trees. I wander from window to window, peering from each at a different winter postcard. Everything has been whited out, each frosted branch a pixel on the lens of Adams, each car an annoyed commuter wondering where the ice scraper is stashed, each sidewalk a stream of supple cotton. I'm reminded of a table-top model, those intricate recreations of towns, buildings and trees, stoplights and roads, children and mailboxes, winterized by a glittery chemical snow from a can. Foam snow covering foam grass.
I am compelled to go outside though I have no rational reason to do so. Most people wouldn't choose to go outside in weather like this and more often than not neither would I. Call it the wild, call me crazy, call me impulsive or maybe ordinary, but some circuit in my brain seems insistent on being a creature in the haze, a participant of the night, a stomper in the snow. I decide to walk to a nearby gas station to buy a bottle of milk.
On snowy nights, especially the first of the season there is a tangible peace to be found by being out of doors. This peace is fleeting, not unlike the first few minutes of a new pair of socks. At some point during minute four, the socks become used. Before the plow trucks and salt spreaders rumble through, belching destruction upon the tender surface of snow I must join the fray. Slush, grime and slippery reality have a persistent way of overwhelming such halcyon winterscapes. Shovels and footprints and shivering pits of cooled dog shit counteract the effect. Admittedly though, there's something unimpeachable about a single set of Man prints alongside a Dog's happy traipse. Leather shoes and light steppers beware. But during the first few hours of a snowstorm there is perverse safety and perfect silence, the kind of thing that can't be bottled or sold, only presented by Nature for those simple and indulgent enough to enjoy. So for that reason I put on my coat, hat and gloves and step outside. Plus I am out of milk.
My boots are on a shelf in the garage, next to a can of stain and a milk crate of softballs. They fit well. They are familiar. Whatever memory my feet carry these boots elicit. After a quick footwear exchange I make my way down the alley. Save for the crunching of snow beneath my feet there is complete and utter silence. The kind of silence that can only be heard. So rarely achieved or observed. Every surface softened. Rooftops shimmer. A tire track curves into a garage. A woman laughs. The buildings doze.
I am a lone figure marching happily among the chaos of peace.
Fat flakes of snow fall silently from the sky. An uncountable chorus of vertical lines, not a sliver of wind exists to disrupt their descent, their long fall from dark ethereal clouds above. Grace defined, as much as tired minds are allowed. Bushes and trees support ribbons of stacked snow seven, eight times the height of the branches themselves. Each twig confidently sporting a mohawk of white. Occasionally a chunk will break loose and fall to the ground -- absurd flakes that penetrate the surface of the blanket. Nature's unnoticed divots.
The gas station has a line, an oddity at tenpee'em although not unexpected. While in line I grab a red-bull. I am not in need of it but the small child in me is. I need a slight change of consciousness and I'd rather not spin around in a circle in order to achieve it. A hefty shot of caffeine will have to do.
Walking home the street lamps, headlights and windows cast their beams upon the airbound flakes but it is from the blanket of snow on the ground that a mystical Earth has emerged. Instead of the dreary shadow of a late-fall night there is a soft orange glow, not unlike the final seconds of a dying flashlight. There is peace in the air, falling one frozen molecule at a time. It is a fool's paradise. I am given the gift of night-vision, modernized, sure, by many pools of light pollution, but just as pupil-dilating as the moon-driven night travels of the past. I imagine with sadness and comfort that there are still places where pine trees cast shadows at night.
posted by ET @ 8:18 PM
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