upon the exit of my son and parents to church this morning, i hurried to make myself presentable, an act of relatively low maintenance, yet higher maintenance than i'd prefer. former me used makeup as an option; current me is enslaved by under-eye concealer. the burden of my prepping is focused on taming those be-damned dark circles and that mane that can't decide if it's wavy gravy or straight arrow. with those details sorted out, the rest is determined by mood. i love blue jeans in theory, but in practice they make my legs feel itchy and confined. itchyandconfined: it's not just for legs, you know. it can apply to the entire self if you're in the wrong place, even if at the right time (wrong place, right time? oh yes, entirely possible. ah, clarity, you pesky little fly). i fancied the thought of spending my two free hours (or one and a half, if you count driving time) at terra cafe or the blue moose or jay's daily grind (that jay isn't open on sundays is of no importance since i'm speaking in wishful terms anyway); mid-fancying i found myself at starbucks in bridgeport: the consolation prize of proximity.
there was nothing to speak of at starbucks in bridgeport, west virginia.
on the drive home, it was radiohead that turned the dime of the day. they're the ones who'll spit at you. you'll be the one screaming out. it sounds ugly if you take it at face value. ( <— psst: anything can.) for me, the song was lifeblood just in time—a few minutes from my parents' house, driving into the unwelcome hug of that too-narrow road populated by dilapidated-yet-inhabited houses; a sorrowful yard just far enough past the city-limit line to legally house two sorrowful ponies; haphazardly strung christmas lights past their prime; that group of 60-somethings, made to look 70-something by hard living and hard life, smoking in concert on that precarious porch. all that, and still, i felt the rush, from my gut to my heart: i will be bold. and i smiled a loud smile.
the drive could've only been better had there been snow.
the cold is not anathema to me. nor is it a thing to tolerate until its venerated opposite, the great thaw, returns. the cold, i appreciate purely for what it is, with no expectation of what it cannot be: warm, or even warm-ish. a scarce few examples of this type of purity exist in my life of yearnings. this is not to speak poorly of yearning, by the way. if you want for nothing, you get nothing. yearning is movement, even when at a standstill (even? oh yes. bzzzz goes the fly of clarity). for me, winter at its most authentic—with its splintery winds, cool-blue aura, and plump specks of snow—is a distinct solace. winter embraces a stillness that summer can never achieve.
when one thing cannot be another, acceptance is a kind of nirvana, isn't it.
the sleeping boy stirs. my thoughts at rest. till next time ...