It’s been snowing.

I’m going to guess that a lot of you live on the east coast (possibly the poor, “beleaguered” Mid-Atlantic, which I have stopped calling the “Frantic Mid-Atlantic” because what’s going on down there is verging on surreal) and you are basically thinking, yeah, duh, so I’ll just move on.

So like most of you I’ve spent way too much time thinking about snow. Mostly it’s lovely, except for the sheer weight of the stuff, which freaks me out. It’s like a tsunami in super slo-mo. My mother’s new(ish) house is leaking from the weight of snow and ice sitting on it. People are complaning (justifiably) of aching sholders from moving massive piles of it around. And it’s perplexing, like tangible cosmic clutter–people simply don’t know were in the world to put all of it.

Overall, it’s just not as much fun as it would seem in say, August.

In a completely unrelated brainstorm I got up last night at 4:00am and wrote 1,00o words on an idea that may or may not make any sense. It’s a topic that I’m laboring under a bit as it isn’t particularly comfortable to me, but, alas, needs to be done. (How’s that for cryptic?) So now I have all this blathering in 4:00am-speak about a topic that is likely too esoteric to be of any interest to more than, say, a dozen or so people anyway. (Okay, a dozen is generous. I’m hoping one person might find it sufficiently interesting not to call me a total freaking moron.)

In any case, at 4:00am it seemed like brilliant idea.

Perhaps when buried under it, even beautiful stuff isn’t such a good thing. I know the Mid-Atlantic folks would agree. In any case, everything finds its way eventually, right? Stories and essays and novels and snow. Things fall, filter, and dissipate. In July this will be a good story. Now? No. Not really. Now it’s not very much fun at all.

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