l i f e
the terms of winter
contributions
christopher@30seconds.org
Not only do I get claustrophobic, but the loss of daylight at 5:00 p.m. is unbearable. I usually drive home and hibernate. Hide really. Yeah, hide. I don't want to hide. I don't want to be alone, but I can't bear to be anything but. I can't go outside or into the smiling coffe shops. I hate those fucking places with everyone all gathered around close and all I want is to be far away. Except I don't want to be far away. I want those people to a degree. I just don't want them that close, and I want them on my terms. Seems like I've heard that somewhere before, and I know I'm not the first to feel it, so I'll guess you know where I'm coming from.
In winter the terms are dictated to me so I hide.
In my second floor apartment I read or I write and I see people when I want to.
I hate it while at the same time refuse to do anything about it. Winter does that to me.
Well here we are the first day of winter and a Cheshire cat moon. The shortest day of the year. Which means that tomorrow the daylight lasts a little longer. I've made it. One more year and I'm through the darkest part.
I thought I'd share a little story about loneliness on this night, technically the longest night of the year...
It's an easy story. Not long. First some setting. Cold evening, I'm just coming in from a long dreary day, long drive home, up two flights of stairs an into my apartment. I left a window open and it's damp and chilly inside. Dark. Dark, damp, cold. The second I close the door and the landing disappears with a click I'm lonely. I knew I would be. Lonely and hungry except I don't feel like eating alone again so I open a can of tomato soup while the electric pilot clicks three times and fires into blue gas flame. Something quick. Easy.
Got it all so far. Cold, lonely guy in a darkened second floor apartment who doesn't want to eat alone.
Okay... Action. I think maybe I won't feel so alone if I had some background noise, a little music. I give the soup a small stir and try to think up something to listen to when I remember playing along with some Echo & The Bunnymen the night before. Yeah that'll work just fine, so I bend down, notice I need to dust my shelves, and hit play. Except there's no Ian McCulloch. No Will Sergeant. Instead I hear a melancholy riff. Some distant snare, a little acoustic guitar, and by the time I get back to the kitchen an unmistakable voice. David Bowie.
Denouement... Someone came into my apartment while I was gone. Someone made themselves at home and listened to a little Bowie. End of story. Except that in that one moment I wasn't alone anymore. My place wasn't cold and vacant and I didn't feel like hiding. Of course I know who changed the CD, but the point is I didn't expect it. I expected the terms of winter. I expected Echo. I expected one more night of having to convince myself I'm not alone.
I was wrong.
goodnight 12.21.97
