The air in our neighbourhood has been full of falling white puffiness
all day. It has sucked the colour out of the background and my
enthusiasm for shoveling. I know that the frozen tire ruts and ice
chunks still lie under all that smooth, leprous Wonderland, and I
know I will not enjoy the shocks my shovel will deliver to my wrists,
shoulders and spine when it runs into all those little surprises lurking.
I know, I know: it’s a winter Wonderland and all that crap, White Christmas
jingle bells and so on; but it just makes me want to wrap up in a shawl
and play old guy for a while. And please don’t try to cheer me up
by singing Christmas Carols, they make me want to be jolly, and I don’t.
I really sympathize with Scrooge: while his position derived from
mean-spiritedness, there is a lot of forced levity that seems to require
copious amounts of booze to happen at all. Christmas is a favorite season
for checking out; we seem to have set it up so that if you don’t have
the requisite fluffy/sparkly/aromatic/cozy family love in, you can get pretty
depressed. The predominance of darkness really doesn’t help that either.
So here I am, at the bottom of the space, having been pretty depressing,
and I’m looking for a way out into the sparkly sunshine that is bound to
follow; it always does. And of course that is because fluffy snow is
a very reflective substance. And I guess that’s what it has going for it.
Fluff can be substantial, even if it is full of air, as is your humble, etc.