I grew up in very warm, if not tropically hot, places. I had only seen a real snowfall a handful of times before moving to the Great Lakes some years ago, and I have never endured a winter like this. I thirst for sun and warmth, and by now the snow pack should melting or gone and the air in the 40's or so. By St. Paddy's, it is usually nearing 50, and the spring begins to appear. Today it is 10, and the wind takes it to 15 below, again. Not my cup of tea. Its more like a shot of some bullshit well Tequila.
(I am a big liquor fan - Tequila, Mezcal, Scotch, Bourbon, Irish, Rye, Vodka - but I'm a snob, drink it neat, and won't drink cheap booze; fuck those hangovers.)
Anyway, I know . . . don't say it. Everyone has been bitching about the cold, B.; suck it up and grow a pair. But its not really about the cold as much as it is everything that the warmth brings with it, like the ability to feel certain things again, for the first time. There are moments, I find, that touch the soul and will always remain alive. Truly alive, not just a fading image or memory, but something that grows with you, and like an old and dear friend, calls or stops in unexpectedly. I can recall these moments, but they live again in the warmth, when I can be beneath sun and moon and star and walk comfortably within them. They are everywhere present, reincarnated, in the warmth . . .
I was nineteen, walking into a strong wind on the beach near Rodanthe, North Carolina. Beside me was my best friend, Seldon, who brought me to the island to surf and meet his family. Seldon, who spoke slowly and with few words, inscrutable as he walked, worked or drank. Seldon, who with his long hair and brewmaster’s gut would curse like Huck Finn because he couldn’t get a joint to light in the wind.
The sun was nearly set behind us as we approached the sandbags around the base of the Hatteras lighthouse, its shadow fading in the growing twilight. We sat beneath it and the conversation faded; the stars appeared and the crashing waves on the wind took on the voices of monks in worship. I became somber, wreathed in incense while we smoked and the mystery before me unfolded. The lighthouse came on when darkness fell, and when the light hit the water it became a luminous blue-green that stole the stars above and my breath below. Then it passed with the hiss of the surf and the stars returned for just a twinkling before the light again struck the water. And so it continued, for hours, until in a thick voice Seldon broke the silence with words every junkie knows:
“I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”
“Where?”
Anywhere you like, bro. I can recall it, but I miss the warm afternoon and setting sun, because when it finally returns, my brother and I will sit beneath the lighthouse again.
Strange little reverie on a cold but otherwise pleasant morning. No clue where that came from. Happens all the time, really.
Enjoy the warmth you have,
B.
