Tuesday, February 2, 2010

punk ass punxsutawney

The overgrown rat we have elevated to celebrity status has once again predicted six more weeks of winter. That little shit is even more pessimistic than I am.

I am done with this cold. You hear me northwestern hemisphere? I've had enough! I long for the time when dressing for both work and tango will no longer entail a brush with certain hypothermia. (Can we also please address the current trend of tights made of string in interesting patterns? They are not warm.)

And yet, I fall in love in the winter. I don't know why. It is as if I go down to the underworld with Persephone every year, following yet another man who belongs in such a place, leaving a trail of pomegranate seeds behind me and emerging in the Spring to a crowd of "I told you so"s and other pities, just when I'm meant to be celebrating and sowing oats and flapping ribbons in the breeze . . .

I'm not there this time, but the wistfulness is all over me. Not surrendering to my baser impulses—if love is indeed the dirty fall from grace I now think it is—makes for quite the feat. How long can she stay this strong, you ask, with the trees this barren and the air this cold? Surely a faceless, beflanneled suitor will get the better of her, in a frayed wool sweater, offering her a place by the bookcase and the fire. And won't you just click your tongue at that . . . Poor, stupid girl with a habit of making poor, stupid choices.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Love given open and honestly is always and elevation, if the receiver choses to debase it, that is their fall from grace. So dance along the pomegranite seed way and embrace all that you feel. It is always just one moment in time, whether summer or winter. Love and enjoy!