Few things in modern life are more virtually exhausting or basically wasteful than anticipating snow-- particularly in vain, but even moreso when it does more than not snow, it sneers in your waiting face with that kind of nyaahh-nyaahh breath of spring in December, that implicitly temporary warmth you so foolishly loved in the Spring with all its golden promise, but that in Winter is merely a mask that yet again mocks your sweater, your scarf, your seeds, your frigid and pointless dreams of sledding, skiing, snowballing-- fantasies fragile as snowflakes. There was frost one morning not long ago, but when I reached out to touch it in primitive awe it was gone. And the scientists revise their estimate a degree or two in the next hundred years, yeah, tell me another one, oh white-robed arbiters of fact.
Monday, December 23, 2002
THE ENIGMA OF SNOWLESSNESS
Few things in modern life are more virtually exhausting or basically wasteful than anticipating snow-- particularly in vain, but even moreso when it does more than not snow, it sneers in your waiting face with that kind of nyaahh-nyaahh breath of spring in December, that implicitly temporary warmth you so foolishly loved in the Spring with all its golden promise, but that in Winter is merely a mask that yet again mocks your sweater, your scarf, your seeds, your frigid and pointless dreams of sledding, skiing, snowballing-- fantasies fragile as snowflakes. There was frost one morning not long ago, but when I reached out to touch it in primitive awe it was gone. And the scientists revise their estimate a degree or two in the next hundred years, yeah, tell me another one, oh white-robed arbiters of fact.
Few things in modern life are more virtually exhausting or basically wasteful than anticipating snow-- particularly in vain, but even moreso when it does more than not snow, it sneers in your waiting face with that kind of nyaahh-nyaahh breath of spring in December, that implicitly temporary warmth you so foolishly loved in the Spring with all its golden promise, but that in Winter is merely a mask that yet again mocks your sweater, your scarf, your seeds, your frigid and pointless dreams of sledding, skiing, snowballing-- fantasies fragile as snowflakes. There was frost one morning not long ago, but when I reached out to touch it in primitive awe it was gone. And the scientists revise their estimate a degree or two in the next hundred years, yeah, tell me another one, oh white-robed arbiters of fact.
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