I forget how
quiet it gets here in the winter. It's the only time of year that I get up here, out in the wilderness, and details are easier to notice. Everything around is so still,
it makes me wonder how the ice can gleam in the afternoon sun the way it does.
I suppose it must be pretty still and quiet in town as well. I guess
I don't think about it much. Up here my sighs are rich and foamy, and highly visible in the cold. I feel like my breaths would just be
lost in the crowd down there. Maybe it's
petty to compare.
I've kept
sober today. So far. It's a rough anniversary, I know tonight will be pretty harsh. There are some days when it's just better to hurt. Personally, I plan for it. Set aside time and emotional energy for it. I wouldn't say I relish it but I don't dread it either. For now I'm focused on these trees. Not that there's anything to be done with them, just looking at the frosty limbs. They make me think of
movies. The slow kind that make you feel like there was never a clear beginning, and the ending was sharp and precise, but you don't really understand how you got sucked into the middle of it. You just kind of swirl in it, like a whirlpool. Maybe I do need a drink. No. Stop that.
I haven't seen another person since the last time I went to the little store
on the edge of town. I try to buy a week's worth of supplies whenever I'm down there. It's a long ride but I always enjoy it. It's a family-owned store. Nobody speaks English, so nobody talks to me. And they all hate each other, so they don't talk to one another much either. The only sounds are the rattle of carts and the elevator music from the P.A. They ring me up, I see the total, I leave the cash on the counter, I
never ask for change. I'm quieter in there than I am when I'm at home. Alone. It's so nice there.
It's about time I went out to collect some firewood. To tell the truth I've been putting it off. It's hard to sit in front of the fire without thinking of her. By the time it's
burned through the bark, into the center of the logs, my senses get tangled. The smell of the woodburning is
associated in my mind with hair, shoulder blades, lips, sweaters, thighs, exhales.
It all blends together. It gets dangerously cold at night, and I have no choice but to sit by the fire.
But it burns.
Maybe if I knew anyone intimately from Australiasia I'd try to live there for a year or two. Just to see how
December feels as a Summer month. To see how different it was. At this time of year
it's hard to comprehend life as anything other than this--hibernation, isolation,
frozen in thought and in space. It's hard to wrap my head around a set of seasons that are inverted from my entire life's experience. I guess you could say I'm a little caught up in my associations.
It's pretty
easy to get sentimental in the winter though. I spend so much of this time becoming
mentally and intellectually sharper, and at the same time I become so emotionally frail. It's involuntary but
I don't resist it. For better or for worse, it's the perfect time to exude creative energies. I guess it's important to try to make some progress on
writing that letter today. And I know what that means. So before I get into all that,
first things first. Out to the stacks. I'll just grab an armful of wood, close my eyes, bring them inside, and drop them by the fireplace. And I'll be done with it.