the soul in its striptease
the january thaw is here.
yesterday i walked though centretown, buffeted by the winds with grey clouds racing past, catching on the tops of buildings and dripping fog into every imaginable space. today the sun was out, the temperature colder, and the wind slightly less willful, but the air still holds that particular something that always comes with unseasonable warmth in the dregs of winter.
i'm searching for a job- something temporary, something that will let me work out everything through repeated motion; non-intellectual stimulation. i turned down a day of envelope stuffing with twenty-somethings to have more time to wander tomorrow, to decide which piece of meat liberated from my mother's freezer will be pan-fired or oven-baked or seared or roasted or stir-fryed. i guess i need time to sort my socks and throw out old pairs of underpants. or something of the like. i just can't seem to put my finger on it, but i need the space to process.
in the meantime, it's vitamin b at odd hours, and the thrills of new books. i indulged myself with somerset maughm and- when it fell off the shelf and hit my in the face- douglas coupland.
i can't ignore signs like that.
i want this thaw to last forever. i'm dreading the return to snow-blighted sky and ice-encrusted windows and negative double digit temperatures before wind-chill. the bare bones of pavement, bleached white by too much salt, comfort me more than anything else i can imagine right now.
proably because they give me time to process. and breathe.
in. and out.