Fahrenheit 13

Snow is snow, whether you’re up north, or down here. It crusted to diamond dayglo this morning. It’s not melting. Not moving. I kicked a pile on a Parsons’ road and hurt my toe. 9 AM, and the real winter persists, far ahead of schedule. Mixin’ it up. Of course, changing my world view based on this is succumbing to state-bounded delusion, but what fun would life be with a fixed point of reference? I’d be happy to abandon my tenuous belief in global warming, even though it would severely fuck up my world view. It would probably shift my whole philosophy to the right, just because of the loss of credibility it would inflict on the coalition of ideals I’ve signed on for.

But I never really committed to the idea, though I always saw the right-wing reaction as noxiously self-justifying. Hardly anyone comes off objective in the back-and-forth. But fractal agnosticism trumps all politics for me. Preachers don’t feel enough for me, scientists don’t reason sufficiently. “Consensus” could be an Aristotlean cosmology, that was once consensus too. I can’t make policy based on mathematical models, as prudent as they may seem to be. But I strongly suspect the “conservative” bastards are bullshitting about the effect climate-change prevention measures would have on the economy.

I wandered around the neighborhood – strange word, community is about as retro as fuedelism, the present is kinetic, the new paradigm is subversion of paradigm. Still there is some sort of collective vibe, a crunch of wavefronts, an aggregate of peaks and valleys, though there’s no practical way to be conscious of it. A mess of victorian houses, modern condos, condemned shacks, strip mall sprawl, connoco, four lane, two lane, alley, plowed snow-glaze and bare trees, seniors apartment the tallest building in the area, nine stories. I wandered past the college, passed a few cuties, couldn’t help notice, one in a sweater, shivering.

I crunched back down Broadway, did some involuntary ice-capades, remained on my feet through the alley, arrived back home. Home. Yeah, feels like it to me. Desiree inside, sleeping. Bright morning but fucking cold. Her car, conveyance, Derby. I understand what it is for her, after all this time. If I had a car, I’d name it too. Cracked windshield, defiant political bumper stickers, metal investment, blood-red, still rolling. We make use of it.

From far below, in our driveway, I looked up at our little balcony and saw the door décor. I’m grateful for Desiree’s wreath. She is, among many things, a decorator. Art spills out into a lifestyle, into what I would leave blank and vacant. I can never go a day without cracking at smile at her cute and handsome blend of convention and whimsy.

Caffeine demons still scream little life-hating obscenities at me. Fragile ego demands to know, in trembling inquiry, where do I rank? After all these attempts to forge a rationale for myself, a place in a relationship, in a community, what worth would I really be, if it was all on the line? What do I really have to offer? I never fortified myself to be a solider, nor did I ever fully commit to being a warrior with words, nor even a healer. I can’t accept modesty, because it seems to me the majority is so much higher than me. Standards sink me. Snow is snow, in Nelson or Parsons. Nationalites, they could fight for their country. Me, I’m sunk. Shivering, northerner out for a walk, barely fortified with two shots of vodka, mixed with fruit punch, fruity, cold, pathetically warm-hearted, parasitic, boomerang from Walmart, bought in but attempting to retain anti-corporate ideals.

We’ve tried to raise a male, but he turned out too sensitive, not strong enough for the job, what job? He used to pack bread, but still he took a sort of pride in that, it paid the bills, it was manual labour. He has fast and dexterous hands, but not agile enough to play Liszt with any fidelity. He has his own spastic improv which he likes in moments of arrogance – tools, manipulation, manual dexterity, his ego can wrap around that sometimes, he can cock rock, feel like a man, as musician, masculine art, kickass.

Where does my fruit punch red tongue fit in? I mixed vodka with fruitpunch for a little buzz, take the edge off the strong coffee dez made me, it was making me think in twisty ways, self-garroting twine, rather suffocating illumination.

Bright day today, but I’m too brilliant to call it clarity. How soon will I groan at these lines? Winter splinter. Sometimes rhyme is all a folk’s got.

I want to give her a little lick to start the day. I’m just transcribing, that’s my excuse. A piano roll, rolling along.