Sublimity in Snowfall

There is a sound that only the snow makes.
It is quiet, almost silent
But if you listen, you can breathe it in,
Absorb the dampened air through your skinpores.
The snow is cleansing.
Not because of its blanketing whiteness but because of the cold that shakes you.
The consciousness of flakes gathered into one; you can hear them chatter,
“Come here. Come stick to me.”

A single snowflake is almost nothing,
Many simply melt on tongues.
Even these flakes have a purpose—they guide a smile, create a shine.
Just take a look at all the snow mounds, the caps of mountains, the north and southern poles—
Single snowflakes had to land there, had to gather.
Single flakes spoke to each other, “Hey there, you can come stick with me.”
Suddenly single is septillion,
a septillion become one.
Suddenly a single snowflake is most sublime.

I see the sun on your back

I was walking last week in the snow, stomping around the mounds and ice, wearing my great coat (a Civil War replica) for warmth. The wind was in pure form that evening, chilling the air by at least ten degrees. As I pulled the cape of my coat over my head and tugged the edges tight about my face, I was reminded of the fable of the north wind and the sun. In this story the wind and the sun both attempt to make a man take off his coat. The harder the wind blew, the firmer the man's grip on his coat, while the sun only had to beam in order to get his way.

The moral of course is through gentleness, one will be able to achieve what they want, especially when it comes to getting others to act. A good lesson, I suppose, on just how one should interact with people, but what about the man? During my walk I kept seeing myself in his shoes, being beaten down by the harsh north wind and I wondered, "When is my sun going to come?"

Now coming from someone like me, it sounds like a sad question. A loaded question full of wistfulness, longing and despair. But as I gazed upon the snow drifts, clutching at my hooded cape, I was not begging. I knew my time would come, like the man in the story. For the moment, I simply had to keep holding on, despite the rough hands of the gales life was blowing towards me.

Hanging out with boys

I am wary of Biscuit the Beagle because he has on a few occasions humped my leg and arm. But I allow him to rest his head on my leg and his left ear is all flopped onto Jake’s knee. He is calm and I am relaxed at the moment.

The boys are yet again discussing sports and super hero comics/movies/games. This season is football and we’re approaching Super Bowl Sunday so this shit is important! I add to the conversation when I can guarantee that I’ve been following along properly. Sometimes when I have absolutely no idea, their words just stop registering altogether.

I’ve noticed lately that after years of stumbling blind confusion, I actually am beginning to understand the concept of football. I don’t know any of the ref or announcer terms (besides “touchdown” and “flag”) but I know the basic objectives of the players—essentially I know what they got to do. I don’t really care to know more but knowing has certainly made watching games far more interesting. I consider it a phenomenon almost.  It makes me wonder anyway.

A game is on but with this notebook in front of me, I find no need to know who is playing or why/how/where blah, blah, blah.  I’m just trying not to squish Biscuit whose head is now resting under Jake’s and my knee cracks. He’s warm. I enjoy his company.  A pet is always good to have around. Their friendship and company can be far more wholesome than most human interaction. My body draws healing energies from Biscuit the Beagle. But I don’t want to squash his face in. 

Biscuit looks up and regards the room. Pushing his head back between his legs, his eyes are so concerned—his brow furrows. He is probably in wanting of pets and so I give him some. When he moves away I turn my focus to the football game. I ask who is playing and the boys think I am referring to a Chicago Bulls game playing on the computer. I ask them more specifically and it turns out the answer is everyone. It’s a pro-ball game. Oh.

Public Observance

 Oh shit a Gladys pulled up at the store across the street. Got all these pens in my bag that I don't remember putting there that barely work. The one pen I did put in there is mysteriously broken. It's brick and I wish I had my iPod for accompaniment. The police are near by, parked outside their baby substation as the 92 passes by. It is headed off to RI College. There is a jeep that passes by with red LED headlights like staring robot eyes. The kid at the bus stop with me is growing impatient. I just shiver and write.

I am on the bus now. The kid in his impatience missed the bus and was shitting around in the park behind us when it arrived. It is warm here and quiet. Mostly there are just a few women on the bus , including the driver. More passengers are on the bus and the traffic is making us slow. We arrive at the hospital and two veterans get on. The stop is at least useful.

I guess I could be writing a book at the moment but these thoughts seem just as useful right now. Noting the passing moment simply for what it is—acknowledging the life that does exist. The seats on these buses are not very comfortable—they keep warping my back. I have to be careful to sit straight and keep my shoulders aligned. We are almost in the city now and the bus, while well populated still has plenty of empty seats. I have yet to move my purse from its window seat to relinquish my comfy aisle seat to another.

There are quite a bit of cars by the mall—I hope they do not delay our trip around the corner by much. I would like to meet my mother promptly in my current tardiness. The cold from outside has permeated the bus with its chill. My legs are shivering. I am not looking forward to leaving the bus for more cold. Hopefully I am able to catch the next one soon. I missed the 40 at 5 pm (it leaves promptly on the nose of the hour). I shall call and see which one I may catch. Oh shit, it just occurred to me that I will be at the brandy new Kennedy Plaza for the first time. This changes things.

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There are a lot of passengers aboard the 78 but I am almost at my mother's job. She hasn't texted so I bet she's still working behind the counter. The front door of the bus is congested—such a contrasting mood from the 56. I should probably get off soon too.