It's snowing today. And it's the platonic ideal of snow, at least it is now, at this very moment that I'm in, that none of you will be in by the time you read this because this is going to take me some time to write. But right now, at 12:15 pm on the 8th of March, it is snowing. It's the kind of heavy wet snow that settles in a blanket on your hair and face and feels as good as any two-dimensional blanket ever could. It is the kind of snow that calls to mind the Wallace Stevens poem, "The Snow Man," and the closing lines:
But the truth is, that even now as I write this at 12:30 pm on the 8th of March, the snow is turning into rain. If I were to go outside now—and I won't because I'm working—there would be no more white blanket covering me, there would be only water, sliding off my skin, being absorbed by my hair, and it just wouldn't be the same. So, instead, I will sit here and lament the death of winter, which, even though winter is not alive, it can still die. Ideas can die. They can be extinguished. Especially by water. And while most people I know celebrate the coming of spring and all the bright greenness it ushers in, I can't honestly share in that joy. Because spring is really about waiting for something, spring is about anticipation. I hate waiting. I hate wanting things. Winter never disappoints. It is always as terrible as you think it will be. Whereas spring? Spring is never as good as it's supposed to be. So, while everyone else celebrates the fact that winter is dying, I'm going to comfort myself with the bottle of rye that I keep by my side and curse the tyranny of the seasons.