Winter Blues

The Northwest winter is hard to explain. I can feel the presence of an old dark magic. The short summers are rich and warm, like turkish delight. But the last remaining colors of summer are all but gone, what is left are naked rain soaked branches that creek in the wind. The sky presses down, low and cold-- a haunting fog that never burns off. Everything turns brown and grey, everything is moldy. The cold drizzle outside makes me think twice about getting out of bed. Lonely street lights reflected in black puddles at 4pm, make me want to go home and cook hot fragrant dinners. I shun my summer hiding places--the cement slab downtown will be frosty soon, and the dusty porch which is so inviting in the summer, is muddy and lonesome in the winter. Blackberries, apples, pears, cherries are replaced by slimy mushrooms that taste of a spiceless earth. But even the mushrooms won't be around much longer. On the streets, the familiar curves and lines of the human figure are replaced by the clumsy bulk of sweaters and overcoats. Human faces are veiled by hoods. And people tend to look down so not to get rain in their eyes. I can smell the scent of wet human, as people clammer into the cafe from off the street, shedding their rain soaked jackets and wiping wet hair out of their eyes. Wet hair is a strange and fascinating sight.

I have this theory that spirits are regional. The spirit that awakens in a Northwest winter is a great solitary spirit. Both beautiful and plain. And extremely melancholy.