sunshafts for comparison
It is a beautiful day. Slowly spelled out. Languidly taking its pleasure across the sky.
It has to be stoped.
Not literally, mind you. I don't want to see the sun drop out like a lead marble, run down the sides of the cosmos, and wing little circles into oblivion... not yet. What I want, is to see this visceral appreciation of light, of final warmth; the emergence from that lowest of holes, winter, into this spring; this life; I want to see it be given it's due.
Fuck, man. We've tried hard. We've toiled hard. We've sloughed, and sloughfed, and plowed our way through winter; more than once; knowing better. Having been taught a lesson once or twice already. We've been as demeaned as any green recuit to this op could be: frostbite on the homestretch, dead animals up the flew, a city of 4 million laid low by the frozen emblems of the condensation fairies. What have we been thinking?
And what have I been thinking? Why have I imagined that the unadulterated funk I've been experiencing for the past few months has not been intrinsically bound to the rants of the weather? And why now is everyone so willing, and able, to pass it out; sit on a patio, beam their faces into the sun, and forget?
Well, it's because we have no option. Geography is a brutal mistress. That ball of hydrogen is set, fissioning, at a set point. Energy bleads out into space at a fixed rate. There's only so many angles that can bring a sunbeam to Canada, only so many ways you can turn your lidded eyes to catch it.
But I want to give this Northern hemisphere something to think about. Oh, yes. Mark my words; there'll be no more random joy from birdsong; no cavorting children; sexually explicit younguns making out on park benches. There will be a banner, out across the sky, procaliming that this tranistory visit, this tease, will evaporate in five months time, that it is just a carrot leading us into the jaws of winter. The best option is to leave; abandon this project and see it off, waving into the breeze.
We've done our time, and now we're finished.
It has to be stoped.
Not literally, mind you. I don't want to see the sun drop out like a lead marble, run down the sides of the cosmos, and wing little circles into oblivion... not yet. What I want, is to see this visceral appreciation of light, of final warmth; the emergence from that lowest of holes, winter, into this spring; this life; I want to see it be given it's due.
Fuck, man. We've tried hard. We've toiled hard. We've sloughed, and sloughfed, and plowed our way through winter; more than once; knowing better. Having been taught a lesson once or twice already. We've been as demeaned as any green recuit to this op could be: frostbite on the homestretch, dead animals up the flew, a city of 4 million laid low by the frozen emblems of the condensation fairies. What have we been thinking?
And what have I been thinking? Why have I imagined that the unadulterated funk I've been experiencing for the past few months has not been intrinsically bound to the rants of the weather? And why now is everyone so willing, and able, to pass it out; sit on a patio, beam their faces into the sun, and forget?
Well, it's because we have no option. Geography is a brutal mistress. That ball of hydrogen is set, fissioning, at a set point. Energy bleads out into space at a fixed rate. There's only so many angles that can bring a sunbeam to Canada, only so many ways you can turn your lidded eyes to catch it.
But I want to give this Northern hemisphere something to think about. Oh, yes. Mark my words; there'll be no more random joy from birdsong; no cavorting children; sexually explicit younguns making out on park benches. There will be a banner, out across the sky, procaliming that this tranistory visit, this tease, will evaporate in five months time, that it is just a carrot leading us into the jaws of winter. The best option is to leave; abandon this project and see it off, waving into the breeze.
We've done our time, and now we're finished.
Comments