I'm sure it is possible to feel very much against snow. I mean, some people are absolutely gutted when it rains. I've met people who refuse to leave the house, (not out of the excuse, which I revel in, to stay in and cook and read and surround myself with soft things and listen to the brilliant head massage that is rain splatter) because well...it's wet out there! There must then also be people who see the snow falling and think, "why always this?" Maybe they wish for rain. Some Bostonians proclaimed at the end of last winter, that snow was ruined for them. And certainly, if the nice people of Bangor sit inside during blizzards and complain to pass the time, there's some odds to be assessed. But I worry often that we don't own enough awe for nature, both for it's seeming intelligence (I'm not sure how else best to phrase it) and for the simple fact that it to some degree, cannot be known.
Personally, I love snow (I love rain, too). What's not to like?
Much is made about the difference between our generation (however long that is exactly or who is allowed to identify with it, I'm still a bit fuzzy on) and our parent's. And clearly there is some distance. Isn't there always? I mean parents just don't understand! And there's certainly more to it than just being a growing, hormonal, insecure, sexually budding, emotional volcano of a teenager. Because though everything seems worse than ever, that's not strictly true.
My computer has had a bit of a stroke and even now as I type, I must periodically stop and wait thirty seconds to see if the words were entered correctly (suspenseful!), and find my place on the page again. It is no small bit of fortune then, that my brother is a (computer) witch doctor, and he is right now enchanting a new hard drive and my brave little toaster will go into surgery this week and hopefully come out the other side STRONGER. With cool (internal) scars that other computers will fear and respect. But do you think other computers like my computer? I worry sometimes.
As I am tethered (voluntarily) to the proximity of my father's bedside I can't help but inhale, for the first time in my life, a lungful of wanderlust. Perhaps it is because I have cured myself of the pressure of having to find myself out there somewhere, (I could be anywhere!) and having myself relatively in tow, can't help but think how nice it would be to run away with myself.
There's a short story by George Saunders in his collection Tenth of December called "Escape from Spiderhead" (which is like straight out of the Hardy Boys or Jonny Quest, title-wise) which is about a penopticon-type situation in which drugs are administered through little packs in order to test the subject's reactions. The drugs are powerful and work alarmingly well. The story is of course about the drugs and about studying humans but, under that, there is another question. How does reading about drug induced intelligence and lust and even violence make you feel about the chemicals in your own brain? And their authenticity? Some find it heavy handed, or the question itself ham-fisted (most delicious insult!) but I personally have never been able to let it go.
I think it has to do with your perception of the world. Do you feel a need to have an opinion on it? My sister and her husband don't like sad music (or only in the right conditions: dreary, rainy Sunday skies). It's understandable. We are all dealing with our father on his deathbed and sad music can get you stuck in that pity loop that takes you past exploring your emotions into something much less aware. But for me personally, there is just no other type of music. Music is about emotional connection (I've started dancing to Kate Bush in the mirror), which is why I try and never write reviews (I don't care if you like Chumbawumba, and you don't need to hear me mumbling to myself all day, Hounds. of. Love).
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