{"id":12694,"date":"2013-02-01T11:40:31","date_gmt":"2013-02-01T16:40:31","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=12694"},"modified":"2013-02-01T11:40:31","modified_gmt":"2013-02-01T16:40:31","slug":"cold-so-cold","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2013\/02\/cold-so-cold\/","title":{"rendered":"Cold. So Cold."},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"'ice-creeksicles,'<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “ice-creeksicles,” by Jeremy Hiebert. For more information, see the note at the foot of this post<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Winter Afternoon by the Lake<\/strong><\/p>\n

Black trunks, black branches, and white snow.
\nNo one nearby, five o’clock, below zero,
\nLate January. No birds. No wind.
\nYou look, and your life seems stopped. Perhaps<\/p>\n

You died suddenly earlier today. But the thin
\nMoon says no. The trees say, “It’s been this way
\nBefore, often. It’s cold, but it’s quiet.” We’ve experienced
\nThis before, among the messy Saxons putting back<\/p>\n

The hide flap. A voice says: “It’s old. You’ll never
\nSee this again, the way it is now, because
\nJust today you sensed that someone gave you
\nLife and said, ‘Stay as long as you like.'”<\/p>\n

The snow and the black trees, pause, to see if we’re
\nReady to re-enter that stillness. “Not yet.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Bly [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter<\/strong><\/p>\n

It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
\nThe only things moving are swirls of snow.
\nAs I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
\nThere is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
\nDriving around, I will waste more time.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Bly [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but, for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Neil Gaiman [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Paradise<\/strong><\/p>\n

January finally drags into February and one fumbles with
\nnumb fingers at the ordinary knots and hooks of life. People
\nare irritable, difficult. Some days you want to stay in bed
\nwith the covers over your head and dream of paradise. A
\nplace where the warm sea washes the white sand. There
\nare a few palm trees on the higher ground, many brightly
\ncolored fish in the lagoon, waves breaking on the reef
\nfarther out. No one in sight. Occasionally an incredibly
\nlarge, split-second shark darkens the clear water. Sea birds
\nride the wind currents, albatross, kittiwake, … and pass
\non. Day after day, sea wind and perfect sky …. You make a
\nbig heap of driftwood on the beach.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Louis Jenkins [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

February<\/strong><\/p>\n

Winter. Time to eat fat
\nand watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
\na black fur sausage with yellow
\nHoudini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
\nto get onto my head. It\u2019s his
\nway of telling whether or not I\u2019m dead.
\nIf I\u2019m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
\nHe\u2019ll think of something. He settles
\non my chest, breathing his breath
\nof burped-up meat and musty sofas,
\npurring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
\nnot yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
\ndeclaring war. It\u2019s all about sex and territory,
\nwhich are what will finish us off
\nin the long run. Some cat owners around here
\nshould snip a few testicles. If we wise
\nhominids were sensible, we\u2019d do that too,
\nor eat our young, like sharks.
\nBut it\u2019s love that does us in. Over and over
\nagain, He shoots, he scores!<\/em> and famine
\ncrouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
\neiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
\nthirty below, and pollution pours
\nout of our chimneys to keep us warm.
\nFebruary, month of despair,
\nwith a skewered heart in the centre.
\nI think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
\nwith a splash of vinegar.
\nCat, enough of your greedy whining
\nand your small pink bumhole.
\nOff my face! You\u2019re the life principle,
\nmore or less, so get going
\non a little optimism around here.
\nGet rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Margaret Atwood [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Lines for Winter<\/strong><\/p>\n

for Ros Krauss<\/em><\/p>\n

Tell yourself
\nas it gets cold and gray falls from the air
\nthat you will go on
\nwalking, hearing
\nthe same tune no matter where
\nyou find yourself—
\ninside the dome of dark
\nor under the cracking white
\nof the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
\nTonight as it gets cold
\ntell yourself
\nwhat you know which is nothing
\nbut the tune your bones play
\nas you keep going. And you will be able
\nfor once to lie down under the small fire
\nof winter stars.
\nAnd if it happens that you cannot
\ngo on or turn back
\nand you find yourself
\nwhere you will be at the end,
\ntell yourself
\nin that final flowing of cold through your limbs
\nthat you love what you are.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mark Strand [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Ugh, I hate January. It’s dark and freezing and everyone’s wearing bulky coats. You can do some serious subway flirting before you realize the guy is homeless.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Tina Fey as Liz Lemon, 30 Rock<\/em>\u00a0[source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Second Investigating Officer<\/span>: Good. (Exits as <\/em>Snowden<\/span> appears from the other side of the stage in combat clothes. He is doubled over, clutching his belly, and sinks to the floor.)<\/em>
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: (Stopping.)<\/em> I’m freezing.
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold. I’m cold. (<\/em>Yossarian<\/span> turns back from following the <\/em>Officer<\/span> and notices <\/em>Snowden<\/span> with surprise. He hangs his bathrobe on the coatrack and puts on a parachute harness. He take up a first aid kit from desk or coatrack and moves across the stage to <\/em>Snowden<\/span>, crawling on his knees as he comes near.)<\/em> I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>. (Inspecting <\/em>Snowden<\/span>‘s thigh.)<\/em> You’re going to be all right, kid. You’re going to be all right.
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold. I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: There, there. There, there.
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold. I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: There, there. There, there. (<\/em>Yossarian<\/span> begins treating <\/em>Snowden<\/span> for his thigh wound. <\/em>Snowden<\/span> moans.)<\/em> Did I hurt you?
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold. I’m cold.
\n…
\nYossarian<\/span>: I’ve got two aspirin.
\nSnowden<\/span>: (Shakes his head. In delirious fright.)<\/em> I’m cold. I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: It’s very warm. It’s very warm here in the plane.
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: I’m scared!
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: The edges of your mouth, they’re turning blue! How do you feel?
\nSnowden<\/span>: Cold. I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: You’re going to be all right. There’s no more bleeding.
\nSnowden<\/span>: I’m cold. I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: There, there. There, there. We’ll be back on the ground soon. You’re going to be okay.
\nSnowden<\/span>: (Shakes his head and points, with his chin, down toward his armpit. <\/em>Yossarian<\/span> opens his jacket, gapes in horror, and screams wildly.)<\/em> I’m cold. (<\/em>Yossarian<\/span> looks again. He screams a second time and squeezes both hands over his eyes.)<\/em> I’m cold. I’m cold.
\nYossarian<\/span>: I’m cold. I’m cold too.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Joseph Heller [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/a>___________________<\/p>\n

About the image:<\/strong>\u00a0I met Jeremy Hiebert<\/a>, a British Columbia-based photographer\/musician, some years ago,\u00a0among the \u00a0regular commenters at the\u00a0Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast<\/em> blog. A few months later, Jules featured his work in one of her weekly “7 Kicks” posts<\/a>, although she normally writes about authors and illustrators of kids’ books. Because of some of his comments there, I’d already visited his site and seen many of his photos of ice<\/a> in its sundry forms: bubbled, chipped and slivered, melting, broken, jagged and spiky, icicled, blocky, and sometimes combinations of those types in a single photo. Many are closeups, revealing previously unsuspected depths and variety; when we see icicles and frozen lakes and shards from a distance, our minds must sort of blur over, thinking not\u00a0Hmm, I think I should look more closely!<\/em> but rather\u00a0Omigod omigod I have got to get further away, preferably to an enclosed space!<\/em>\u00a0 But Jeremy masterfully upends that priority.<\/p>\n

He has since collected some of his favorites in a book called\u00a0looking into ice<\/em>, now in its second edition<\/a>. It’s drop-dead gorgeous — and strangely warming.<\/p>\n

[back to top<\/a>]<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “ice-creeksicles,” by Jeremy Hiebert. For more information, see the note at the foot of this post.] From whiskey river: Winter Afternoon by the Lake Black trunks, black branches, and white snow. No one nearby, five o’clock, below zero, Late January. No birds. No wind. You look, and your life seems stopped. Perhaps You died […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,250,5,251,713],"tags":[684,852,1395,1645,1808,1809,2500,3356,3357],"class_list":{"0":"post-12694","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-everyday-life","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-art","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-humor-writing_cat","13":"tag-mark-strand","14":"tag-neil-gaiman","15":"tag-robert-bly","16":"tag-margaret-atwood","17":"tag-catch-22","18":"tag-joseph-heller","19":"tag-tina-fey","20":"tag-jeremy-hiebert","21":"tag-louis-jenkins","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-3iK","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12694","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12694"}],"version-history":[{"count":20,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12694\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12714,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12694\/revisions\/12714"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12694"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12694"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12694"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}