"I Hate the Winter in Lexington"
The cold is coming. The air is tinged with the scent of snowflakes, but so far, it hasn't snowed here in Provo itself. This means I win a bet. (The one bet I will ever win, I guarantee you; I owe Jennifer dozens of muffins by now. This does not mean you should take advantage of me.) This also means that the air is more motionless, more quiet, welcoming the softness of the snowfall. I honestly think there is nothing more beautiful than listening to the silence it brings, so still you can hear the individual patter of each snowdrop. I like to stand in it and let the flakes fall on my face, cling to my eyelashes, dust my shoulders--called back to reality finally by echoing shouts of friends, maybe with a few snowballs to throw. (Note to the Honor Code Office: I do not throw snowballs in Provo. I know this is an illegal activity, and I will be fined for doing so. I reserve that kind of scandal for the heathen states back East, where children participate in these murderous games willy-nilly, heedless of any decorum or common sense. Oh, the horror.)
Snowballs remind me of a movie I saw once. And only once. Words fail me in describing this movie, but "horrifyingly psychotic" comes close. It was directed by Jean Cocteau. Stay away from him. First of all, he's French, and you know how those movies go. If they're not killing each other, they're calling their mothers whores. ("Au Revoir Les Enfants.") But this movie was special. I will highlight one brief scene. It was a snowball fight. A misfit child was ambushed by a more popular crowd, and one of the popular boys threw a snowball at Misfit Boy. The snowball hit Misfit Boy. He fell over, blood spurting from his chest and dribbling out of his mouth. Dead. Who knew a simple snowball could be a metaphor for... whatever it was? I'm certainly not even going to try to analyze my way out of that one. Like I said, French.
Snow also makes me want to fall in love. I don't know why. That, and listening to Dashboard while driving past summery-golden fields. Can anyone explain that?
Snowballs remind me of a movie I saw once. And only once. Words fail me in describing this movie, but "horrifyingly psychotic" comes close. It was directed by Jean Cocteau. Stay away from him. First of all, he's French, and you know how those movies go. If they're not killing each other, they're calling their mothers whores. ("Au Revoir Les Enfants.") But this movie was special. I will highlight one brief scene. It was a snowball fight. A misfit child was ambushed by a more popular crowd, and one of the popular boys threw a snowball at Misfit Boy. The snowball hit Misfit Boy. He fell over, blood spurting from his chest and dribbling out of his mouth. Dead. Who knew a simple snowball could be a metaphor for... whatever it was? I'm certainly not even going to try to analyze my way out of that one. Like I said, French.
Snow also makes me want to fall in love. I don't know why. That, and listening to Dashboard while driving past summery-golden fields. Can anyone explain that?
posted by juxtaposer at 11:07 PM
4 Comments:
I can identify. In Brigham City the snow would come down in sheets, and at night the street lamps would throw oranges, pinks, and baby blues all over the silent slopes and throughout the icy ether, making an impressionistic winter paradise. I remember loving the stillness, which reverie in my typical lonesome contemplation would only be suspended by my own crumbling footsteps tearing at the pristine packs of white.
And as for French films, have you seen 400 blows? It has nothing to do w/ snow and everything to do w/ Francois Truffaut and the French New Wave. One of my instructors thought it was the best thing since sliced bread.
Oh, and I don't need an excuse to want to fall in love. We incurable romantics feel the symptoms constantly. Adieu.
Mmmm...the silence of the snow. I love it. There is nothing that brings you closer to yourself than the absolute peace and stillness of God's creations.
It hasn't reached us yet but be sure that when it does I will say "I hate the winter in Lexington". And I'll be in Lexington when I say it. And I'll call you when I do it. So look forward to that.
Does this mean I'm an incurable romantic? Something I had never before supposed.
And I'm waiting for that phone call. You never call me anymore, Rachael. Maybe in your new room, you'll have reception.
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