Walked around this morning in the snow and then wrote a story about walking around in the snow. The creative process is hellishly simple sometimes, isn't it?
First Snow It's the cat that wakes him up, rustling in the plastic bags under his bed so loudly that he can no longer pretend it's part of whatever dream it is he's having at the moment. There's snow outside, which takes him by surprise—but what really takes him by surprise is that despite the fact that it is freezing in his room he is almost uncomfortably warm. With an effort, he gets up (can't waste the snow after all, especially not the first snow) and (following the normal morning routine of showering and breakfast) looks out the window again.
The snow's stopped. It's disappointing, but he figures it'll be melted soon anyway and promptly forgets about it for a while until he looks out the window again and sees flakes falling once more.
Now he's ready for it, so he throws on his shoes, grabs a hat and coat, and rushes outside, pausing briefly to make sure he's got his camera.
The camera was a gift from his parents before he went to Oxford, ostensibly for the taking of pictures. He's always felt slightly guilty that he didn't use the thing as much as he could have, though he's always been one to trust to his memory and the fact that everyone else had a bloody camera (so if he really needs photographic reminders he can ask someone else) so his wasn't absolutely necessary. Still he knows it was a big present, and now seems like the only time he'll bother to use it here, where it's very rare that something photography-worthy happens, if it happens at all.
The entryway and steps leading to the building have already been cleared off and salted, which is disappointing but probably a good thing. He steps onto the sidewalk (also clear and salted) and crosses the street (also clear, though probably not salted) to the other side where the snow hasn't been removed.
He takes a few steps, relishing the whump-crunch of his footfalls, muffled and distinct at the same time, one leading to another. He's got no purpose, and indeed lacks even a basic circuit to wander around—he hasn't bothered to learn all of the side-streets here, they remain mysteries to him. Still, it's as good of a time as any for a mystery, so he blindly heads in one direction and finds himself in a car park.
There's nobody here, except for the cars—and at the moment humanity's noise has yet to intrude. He takes a few more steps and faces the old church across from the back entrance to the car park (is it the back or the front? He doesn't really know, but he doubts that it makes a difference. It's the back in his mind, and that's the important thing), and then stands still, listening to the sound of his own breathing and the noise of the snow falling (a thousand little prickles, quiet enough one by one but raising to a chorus thanks to their numbers). The church looks out of place, next to an apartment building built in the 1940s or some other decade lacking in architectural creativity, a cookie-cutter that looks like his own building and the one next door, and the one next door. The church belongs in better surroundings, he thinks, and before he knows it his mind is back on Oxford and the cathedrals there.
Those had been in place, he thinks to himself. Immediately he laughs, out loud in the silence-that-isn't-quite-a-silence, at his own pretension. He sounds like a New Yorker, unable to think of anything but how much better his home is than here. The laughter dies down, and he wonders if anyone heard him echoing down the streets; perhaps they wondered what the hell was so funny that someone would laugh like that, out in public.
Hastening to leave the scene of his crime, he walks back across his apartment building's front and turns down another cleared road. The sidewalks remain unclear, a fact that continues to delight instead of vex (as he's sure someone must be vexed, after all you could slip and hurt yourself—a quick trip backwards and then your head's ringing and the world gets fuzzy, all the while snow falls quickly to cover your embarrassment) and he sees a young girl making a pile of snow on the sidewalk, which delights him. The girl is watched by her father, who is clearing off the front steps of their house and doesn't seem to mind his daughter blocking traffic. He sees the father watch him as he approaches, wondering if this figure is here to yell at his daughter for being a nuisance, ready to defend her actions (she's just a kid having fun, don't they remember having fun?) but the figure only grins with an amused expression and deftly steps around both child and pile, giving a friendly nod as he does so.
An older woman (old enough to be responsible) crouches behind hedges, packing a snowball while her (brother? Lover?) watches from the doorway, she in a pink coat and hat and gloves, he unprepared for the cold outside but uncaring of the fact. As she packs her snowball, her acquaintance secretly makes one of his own and fires the first shot, and the two are laughing and now he's out of the doorway, dashing through the front yard, scooping and throwing while she retaliates. He walks between the two, ducking a flying snowball as he does so, feeling more and more amused by the day as it goes on, watching the two friends battle it out in the frozen quiet.
Another side street presents itself and he heads down it, relishing the sound of a passing car on the snow covered surface, a quiet rumble that sounds not at all like the loud splashing of a car on a wet street. There's a tree here with all of its leaves still clinging to the branches, and he stops again and listens to the snow falling through the tree's branches, different than the snow in the car park—a sharper, crackly sound as dead leaves receive frozen company. He listens to this for some time, remembering earlier winters when he'd ski with his brother, and even earlier winters with fancy steerable sleds and a massive hill outside a hospital (you can't go down the hill now, they planted hedges to keep the children off and avoid lawsuits. It's a shame, he thinks, that adults bitching at one another has ruined something that was once fun and innocent, ramping sleds, trying to make it to the shores of the pond there (less a pond, more a glorified puddle), then jumping off to leave the sled on its suicide course to a watery grave (though it never made it all the way)). Or his friend's house, which had a slope down to a creek bed, where they'd gleefully crash their sleds, riding them down onto the rocks below, later taping themselves so they could watch the crashes inside with hot chocolate.
He sees larger flakes falling now, and wishes that he could freeze the moment, package it, bring it back to show everyone else—but even his camera is not up to the task, unable to take in the snow and the scenery itself. He tries a shot anyway, but he can't quite get it to work out like he wanted it to (he's alone on the street, the noise of drawing his camera out echoing, drowning out briefly the sound of the snowfall, the electronic click of the shutter shatters the stillness, pieces it together again, and displays it for him to review). He's given it his best shot, and continues walking.
Strains of some classical piece drift across the stillness, and he's surprised to see that someone's got a window open. A kindred spirit, it seems (he keeps a bedroom window cracked, preferring the cold to being overly warm). The music fades as he continues to walk, replaced by a high, jaunty whistling that echoes up and down the streets. The neighborhood is coming back to life, it seems, shaking itself out of a frozen slumber. He's disappointed, but the tune is lighthearted and completely unfamiliar, so he sets out in the direction he thinks its coming from to find the source.
The source is an old man in a coat, head down, walking down the street toward him (perhaps doing the same thing as he, enjoying the weather). He nods at the old man, wishes him a good morning, and the two pass one another without further comment—small talk would ruin it, the old man must whistle, and he must continue to walk.
A pristine driveway, devoid of tire tracks or indeed even a car, looms to his right and he stares down it, beyond it, over the garage and all the way to everything that comes behind the garage, trees and houses and more snow. It seems like a pathway to a different world, a portal begging to be stepped through, the way to a land of pristine beauty. He does not step on the driveway, unwilling to spoil the view—it will be spoiled soon enough, he thinks, but for now it has to last as long as it can. For now, it remains unsullied.
The snowfall's slackened and so he turns to his apartment, beginning the walk back and that's when he notices that he's surprisingly warm. He briefly worries about hypothermia setting in, but realizes that it's merely a matter of being used to the temperatures. He was born for this weather, put on the planet to enjoy the cold and the snow, and as he brings his hand to stroke his chin he finally notices that his beard has frozen. Snow has caked his coat and his face and his hat, but he remains warm, relishing the feeling of frosted hair.
Just as he reaches his apartment it begins to snow harder, and he pauses, considers going back out—but no, the rest of the world has finally shaken itself awake. The stillness is gone, and he must go with it. He'd had his time with the world to himself, and it is time to share it again.
He goes back inside.
