January 18, 2008

Ahh... minus 8 degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill of minus 17.
The kind of cold that begins to live as it's own entity. You bump into it when you open the door going out of your nice warm house, and it spanks your nose. You pull your hood down closer instinctively, quicken your pace, explore your pockets for a spot that should be warmer, but isn't.
Soon you are like a deep-sea diver, breathing some sort of air that's foreign to you and only retaining the ability to view what's in front of your narrow mask. You can't hear save for periodic abatement of the howling wind.
You know your time is short in this odd environment. Soon the river ice will be groaning. The trees may split with a pop. The sun seems so bright, but is so paradoxically cold. It makes no sense.
You house sweats thru it's windows and paints from the soul.
This is frost.
It can be a realist in one window, and impressionist in another.
A surrealist with a little help.

Embrace the cold.