Sunday, January 23, 2005
If he were half as smart, you'd be a work of art
Once there was a funny girl that lived in the colder hemisphere of the world. She lived a fairly non-exceptional life, going to school, hanging out with her friends, never really knowing what to do with all the little spaces of time she had left over. After some thought, she realized that if she were able to bundle all the little spaces of time that usually landed in the middle of various activities, she would have one large chunk of time ineffectually spent on her hands. And the funny girl was in loathe of being unproductive and bored.
Salvation came in the form of some ill-wrapped snowshoes at Christmas time, from her parents who might as well have been wiggling their eyebrows suggestively as they wrote invisibly on the card, "we know that no-one will ever work out for you, so here are some snow-shoes because you'll need to exercise in the cold isolation of the north. Because really, no one will keep you from that teaching goal, we're positive. We're absolutely positive that you will end up fulfilling all your dreams because, simply put, you're too scary already for anyone really. Just like your aunt."
She actually liked the snowshoes a lot, despite the portent of their message. They were sleek and light aluminum, with durable plastic webbing, as well as sturdy alloy crampons on the bottom in the event that she might have to scale an unusually large snow drift. Easy to use straps that were simple to tighten with merely one pull were also excellent, as the funny girl didn't like fumbling with more complicated rigs in the cold. Like fiddling with ski-boot adjustments in blasting wind, it would have been uncomfortable.
The first time the funny girl ever used her snowshoes she dragged him with her. She was excited, elated, bounding away with the light jackrabbity steps that the snowshoes allowed her, and bounding back, like a loyal dog on the frozen lake under the full moon. The funny girl thought it would be romantic if he came with her. His feet were cold. After a while of walking in silence, the funny girl was still enjoying the sensation of padding quietly on top of the sparkling snow. It was warm out, and her sweater and snow-pants were well insulated. He was getting grumpy, but still keeping an optomistic tone for her. The funny girl offered him her snowshoes so he could try them out, but he scowled at her momentarily. I'm much to lazy for that, the boy said. I'm never going to be active if I don't have to, he guffawed, adding that he would just as soon drive somewhere then walk. The funny girl who had been quiet until this, got quieter as the boy started talking more seriously about his plans to move to a warmer place also. And a shiver grew in her that turned into a shudder. The shudder started in her heart and moved down to her legs and back up before blasting into her brain like a stinging sub-zero wind.
You can't use snowshoes in a warm place, she protested. What about my snowshoes? The boy told her his feet were cold, and asked, could we please go back to your house now, it's really much too cold for such foolishness. The funny girl became quiet again and they trudged back to the shore and came upon a landlocked floater plane that her neighbors owned. It was covered in snow and glowed like a huge skeleton in the moonlight as they climbed over the ice crests that littered the shore. Maybe I should learn how to fly and be a pilot, the boy suggests. Maybe, the funny girl says. I could be a commercial pilot and deliver Fed-X, the boy says. Maybe, she repeats, while looking at her feet, her snowshoes piled up with snow make them look foreign. Anchored down Yeti feet that sparkle as they approach the disgusting orange streetlights that illuminate the lane.
As they walk down the driveway in the knee deep snow darkened by ghostly shadows of tall pine trees, the boy holds her hand, tugging slightly, but trailing behind as she breaks a trail with her snowshoes. A huge snowdrift looms next to the balcony of her house. As they walk by it, she realizes she is fatigued and no longer amused by the mighty swooshing of her snowshoes, or the glimmering powder of snow they joyously kick up behind her. The funny girl decided to rest in the bank, and fell gently backwards into the soft snow and looked straight up.
The moon shone bright and luminous, rings radiating away from it in tight and glimmering haloes. The imposing silouettes of the pine trees infringed on the edge of her sight. The boy towered above her, looking down only slightly amused. You're so silly, he admonishes and makes a move to pull her up. The funny girl shakes him off and laughs, a low nervous chuckle. I'll meet you inside, he says and leaves. She hears the door slam with a solid thump that sends a small spray of snow trickling through the air to land on her cheeks. The porch light turns off, and she is alone in the dark, in the shining snow drift looking at the sky.
Another shudder races through her body as she hears the faint creak of the boy climbing the stairs inside the small house. A coyote howls in the distance, and the wind picks up a little bit, spreading more snow over top of her. But she is not cold. Her fingers wriggle warmly in her mittens, and her toes dig into the lining of her boots snugly. The bindings of the snowshoes hold firmly, and the funny girl feels oddly rooted by them, though they stick up awkwardly as she lays in the snow. She is still, and she waits.
The funny girl is certain that the boy will come and get her eventually. He'll start to worry, and he'll come and get me, she murmurs to herself. The wind blows more snow over her, but she doesn't notice because she is warm with the thought of him digging her out of the snow and warming her cheeks with his breath. She becomes more still and waits.
She waits and she waits, and the inevitable happens. The funny girl has become covered in snow, and though she is warm inside, the cold is starting to work into her veins. The legendary winter vampire of local lore, a frost-wringing and malevolent spirit, had found her. She could feel his wintery needles digging into her cheeks, her toes, and spreading slowly up her bones. If I get saved before he reaches my heart, she thinks to herself, I will be ok. And she waits, and the vampire is hovering around her head, she can see his ice-blue eyes looking fondly down at her as he claims the funny girl for himself.
The next morning is clear and sunny. Minus five. The boy assumes the funny girl has jumped into her own bed, only mildly confused as to why she didn't come and say goodnight to him as he slept on the couch. It was the appropriate thing to do afterall, seeing as they were at her parents house. The funny girl's father comes out of his bedroom yawning, and exclaims over the beautiful weather while saying good morning to the boy. The boy does not ever see the strain in the greetings that the funny girl always claims to notice. Hours pass. The funny girl must be sleeping in, her mother says, exasperated that her daughter has not grown out of this habit. The others agree.
Later, the temperature sinks, and the small home warmed only by the wood stove, has started to have the crisp lovely smelling air that only wood-stove burning homes have. Would you start a fire, the mother asks inquisitively of the father. The boy offers to go get firewood, and clomps down the stairs, throwing over the door and stepping into the brisk air. The ghost of the moon is visible as he shivers and walks to the woodpile in the freshly fallen snow. He should go wake the funny girl up, he decides. He's lonely and wants someone to talk to, other then her parents, who really, are quite boring, no matter how much she constantly protests against this.
Walking back to the house, he is startled by the sharp sound of a chickadee breaking the silence. So much noise for such a little bird, he mutters, looking over to the bird feeder which is surprisingly desolate. No birds, and after the chickadee's call dissipates- absolute silence. Next to the feeder is a new drift, a larger drift then the one that had been there the night before. The wind-lines on the drift are graceful and smooth, and a slightly bluish tinge lies in the shadows and furrows of the sculpture. A snowshoe is sticking out of the bank. The boy gasps and drops the firewood with a loud noise and curse. Dropping on his knees before the imposing pile of shining snow, he digs hand over hand, hoping it isn't too late as his hands pull the snow away from the black snowpants and boots. He pulls her out of the drift with a gasp, and a cascade of snow showers down covering him. His breath catches as he brushes the the snow off her face with his warm knuckles.
The funny girl. Oh that funny girl. Her eyes were closed peacefully, her skin was alabaster white, and tendrils of brown hair poked out of her toque. Her lips were blue, but softened in a patient smile, so unlike the scowling frowns she was capable of. He checked her pulse. Checked her breathing. Pulled his head up to her chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. Hastily, he dropped her back into the snow and ran back into the house shouting. And she lay there, by herself again for a while before her eyes fluttered open.
She got up and watched an ambulance slide on the ice at the entrance to the driveway. Watched them load the funny girl into the back with extreme care. Watched the boy drive away in his car, the opposite direction of the ambulance, smoke pouring out of the exhaust she always asked him to fix because it was so loud. She watched her parents drive away in their white truck behind the emergency vehicle with hopefully flashing lights. Then, silence.
Shrugging and tightening her scarf, the girl turned and walked towards the lake, snowshoes quietly shushing through the newly fallen snow. The sun was setting, and it made the snow glow like fire as she walked into the colors of the encroaching darkness. Never had she felt so light.
(I realize this is quite silly, but it was sort of a stream of conscious thing. I'm in a wierd mood. And the sleep thing, that ain't happening. A large part of this is obviously fictional, but it isn't an analogy for anything either, just wierd words based on a small event. And yeah, I went snowshoeing last night. T'was grand.)
¶ 2:02 AM
Salvation came in the form of some ill-wrapped snowshoes at Christmas time, from her parents who might as well have been wiggling their eyebrows suggestively as they wrote invisibly on the card, "we know that no-one will ever work out for you, so here are some snow-shoes because you'll need to exercise in the cold isolation of the north. Because really, no one will keep you from that teaching goal, we're positive. We're absolutely positive that you will end up fulfilling all your dreams because, simply put, you're too scary already for anyone really. Just like your aunt."
She actually liked the snowshoes a lot, despite the portent of their message. They were sleek and light aluminum, with durable plastic webbing, as well as sturdy alloy crampons on the bottom in the event that she might have to scale an unusually large snow drift. Easy to use straps that were simple to tighten with merely one pull were also excellent, as the funny girl didn't like fumbling with more complicated rigs in the cold. Like fiddling with ski-boot adjustments in blasting wind, it would have been uncomfortable.
The first time the funny girl ever used her snowshoes she dragged him with her. She was excited, elated, bounding away with the light jackrabbity steps that the snowshoes allowed her, and bounding back, like a loyal dog on the frozen lake under the full moon. The funny girl thought it would be romantic if he came with her. His feet were cold. After a while of walking in silence, the funny girl was still enjoying the sensation of padding quietly on top of the sparkling snow. It was warm out, and her sweater and snow-pants were well insulated. He was getting grumpy, but still keeping an optomistic tone for her. The funny girl offered him her snowshoes so he could try them out, but he scowled at her momentarily. I'm much to lazy for that, the boy said. I'm never going to be active if I don't have to, he guffawed, adding that he would just as soon drive somewhere then walk. The funny girl who had been quiet until this, got quieter as the boy started talking more seriously about his plans to move to a warmer place also. And a shiver grew in her that turned into a shudder. The shudder started in her heart and moved down to her legs and back up before blasting into her brain like a stinging sub-zero wind.
You can't use snowshoes in a warm place, she protested. What about my snowshoes? The boy told her his feet were cold, and asked, could we please go back to your house now, it's really much too cold for such foolishness. The funny girl became quiet again and they trudged back to the shore and came upon a landlocked floater plane that her neighbors owned. It was covered in snow and glowed like a huge skeleton in the moonlight as they climbed over the ice crests that littered the shore. Maybe I should learn how to fly and be a pilot, the boy suggests. Maybe, the funny girl says. I could be a commercial pilot and deliver Fed-X, the boy says. Maybe, she repeats, while looking at her feet, her snowshoes piled up with snow make them look foreign. Anchored down Yeti feet that sparkle as they approach the disgusting orange streetlights that illuminate the lane.
As they walk down the driveway in the knee deep snow darkened by ghostly shadows of tall pine trees, the boy holds her hand, tugging slightly, but trailing behind as she breaks a trail with her snowshoes. A huge snowdrift looms next to the balcony of her house. As they walk by it, she realizes she is fatigued and no longer amused by the mighty swooshing of her snowshoes, or the glimmering powder of snow they joyously kick up behind her. The funny girl decided to rest in the bank, and fell gently backwards into the soft snow and looked straight up.
The moon shone bright and luminous, rings radiating away from it in tight and glimmering haloes. The imposing silouettes of the pine trees infringed on the edge of her sight. The boy towered above her, looking down only slightly amused. You're so silly, he admonishes and makes a move to pull her up. The funny girl shakes him off and laughs, a low nervous chuckle. I'll meet you inside, he says and leaves. She hears the door slam with a solid thump that sends a small spray of snow trickling through the air to land on her cheeks. The porch light turns off, and she is alone in the dark, in the shining snow drift looking at the sky.
Another shudder races through her body as she hears the faint creak of the boy climbing the stairs inside the small house. A coyote howls in the distance, and the wind picks up a little bit, spreading more snow over top of her. But she is not cold. Her fingers wriggle warmly in her mittens, and her toes dig into the lining of her boots snugly. The bindings of the snowshoes hold firmly, and the funny girl feels oddly rooted by them, though they stick up awkwardly as she lays in the snow. She is still, and she waits.
The funny girl is certain that the boy will come and get her eventually. He'll start to worry, and he'll come and get me, she murmurs to herself. The wind blows more snow over her, but she doesn't notice because she is warm with the thought of him digging her out of the snow and warming her cheeks with his breath. She becomes more still and waits.
She waits and she waits, and the inevitable happens. The funny girl has become covered in snow, and though she is warm inside, the cold is starting to work into her veins. The legendary winter vampire of local lore, a frost-wringing and malevolent spirit, had found her. She could feel his wintery needles digging into her cheeks, her toes, and spreading slowly up her bones. If I get saved before he reaches my heart, she thinks to herself, I will be ok. And she waits, and the vampire is hovering around her head, she can see his ice-blue eyes looking fondly down at her as he claims the funny girl for himself.
The next morning is clear and sunny. Minus five. The boy assumes the funny girl has jumped into her own bed, only mildly confused as to why she didn't come and say goodnight to him as he slept on the couch. It was the appropriate thing to do afterall, seeing as they were at her parents house. The funny girl's father comes out of his bedroom yawning, and exclaims over the beautiful weather while saying good morning to the boy. The boy does not ever see the strain in the greetings that the funny girl always claims to notice. Hours pass. The funny girl must be sleeping in, her mother says, exasperated that her daughter has not grown out of this habit. The others agree.
Later, the temperature sinks, and the small home warmed only by the wood stove, has started to have the crisp lovely smelling air that only wood-stove burning homes have. Would you start a fire, the mother asks inquisitively of the father. The boy offers to go get firewood, and clomps down the stairs, throwing over the door and stepping into the brisk air. The ghost of the moon is visible as he shivers and walks to the woodpile in the freshly fallen snow. He should go wake the funny girl up, he decides. He's lonely and wants someone to talk to, other then her parents, who really, are quite boring, no matter how much she constantly protests against this.
Walking back to the house, he is startled by the sharp sound of a chickadee breaking the silence. So much noise for such a little bird, he mutters, looking over to the bird feeder which is surprisingly desolate. No birds, and after the chickadee's call dissipates- absolute silence. Next to the feeder is a new drift, a larger drift then the one that had been there the night before. The wind-lines on the drift are graceful and smooth, and a slightly bluish tinge lies in the shadows and furrows of the sculpture. A snowshoe is sticking out of the bank. The boy gasps and drops the firewood with a loud noise and curse. Dropping on his knees before the imposing pile of shining snow, he digs hand over hand, hoping it isn't too late as his hands pull the snow away from the black snowpants and boots. He pulls her out of the drift with a gasp, and a cascade of snow showers down covering him. His breath catches as he brushes the the snow off her face with his warm knuckles.
The funny girl. Oh that funny girl. Her eyes were closed peacefully, her skin was alabaster white, and tendrils of brown hair poked out of her toque. Her lips were blue, but softened in a patient smile, so unlike the scowling frowns she was capable of. He checked her pulse. Checked her breathing. Pulled his head up to her chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. Hastily, he dropped her back into the snow and ran back into the house shouting. And she lay there, by herself again for a while before her eyes fluttered open.
She got up and watched an ambulance slide on the ice at the entrance to the driveway. Watched them load the funny girl into the back with extreme care. Watched the boy drive away in his car, the opposite direction of the ambulance, smoke pouring out of the exhaust she always asked him to fix because it was so loud. She watched her parents drive away in their white truck behind the emergency vehicle with hopefully flashing lights. Then, silence.
Shrugging and tightening her scarf, the girl turned and walked towards the lake, snowshoes quietly shushing through the newly fallen snow. The sun was setting, and it made the snow glow like fire as she walked into the colors of the encroaching darkness. Never had she felt so light.
(I realize this is quite silly, but it was sort of a stream of conscious thing. I'm in a wierd mood. And the sleep thing, that ain't happening. A large part of this is obviously fictional, but it isn't an analogy for anything either, just wierd words based on a small event. And yeah, I went snowshoeing last night. T'was grand.)
¶ 2:02 AM
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I agree. I suppose it didn't really strike me until today how much was actually imbedded into this. But something needs to be done, regardless of anything else.
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