Friday, February 25, 2005
Sense of Place --
ice cracking, loud vibration, felt in soles of boots -- unpredictable, crack at any time
sharp silent wind, not strong, biting cheeks, lips, eyes.
full moon, bright, eerie, will-o-wisp glow of landscape.
air, dense and heavy and clean
snow crunches, breaking underwater silence
the cold coercive
empty and alone, no people, no animals, no birds, no bugs
serene emptiness
When I was a kid, maybe 12 or 13, during the long winter nights, I used to walk out onto a frozen Boulder lake and sit. I was alone, sitting on a huge canvas matte of ice, looking up into the sky, imagining worlds far away.
As I sat there, every so often, the ice would crack beneath me and I could feel the vibration run up my spine. Sometimes, when there wasn't much snow on the lake, I could see the crack spread, almost lightning-fast, across the lake, forming with the other cracks, an enormous jigsaw puzzle of ice and snow. The "wah-wah" noise created by the cracking reverberated in the night air, breaking the abject silence.
There was always wind, a sharp and silent wind biting any exposed skin -- cheeks, lips, ears, and eyeballs. The cold was coercive, but not so much so that I might abandon my reverie. When it's cold, below zero, the air has critical mass; it is dense, but clean, and it moves you of its own volition and reminds you a nature's mighty power, and grand indifference to humanity.
On nights like these, nature is also stripped bare. There are no animals running about, no bugs, no birds, no other people. This emptiness, however, is filled by nature, by the world as it once was, a primal sort of emptiness.
I miss this sort of serene emptiness. Now, I imagine if I was to return to Boulder lake in mid-January, and walk out on the ice at half past 10, I would be surrounded on all sides by the fairy-like lights of people's homes and cabins. Progress, I suppose. But when I was a kid, we were the only year-round residents on Boulder lake's south shore. In each direction, on each shoreline, were only the vague and mystical outlines of leaveless trees with a few homes or cabins here and there. It doesn't seem I can find this sort of solitude anymore, and I miss it dearly.
I guess what I'm missing is that true and absolute glimpse of nature in its purest form. The intense cold, quiet, and solitude reminding me of my place in this universe and providing prospective.
ice cracking, loud vibration, felt in soles of boots -- unpredictable, crack at any time
sharp silent wind, not strong, biting cheeks, lips, eyes.
full moon, bright, eerie, will-o-wisp glow of landscape.
air, dense and heavy and clean
snow crunches, breaking underwater silence
the cold coercive
empty and alone, no people, no animals, no birds, no bugs
serene emptiness
When I was a kid, maybe 12 or 13, during the long winter nights, I used to walk out onto a frozen Boulder lake and sit. I was alone, sitting on a huge canvas matte of ice, looking up into the sky, imagining worlds far away.
As I sat there, every so often, the ice would crack beneath me and I could feel the vibration run up my spine. Sometimes, when there wasn't much snow on the lake, I could see the crack spread, almost lightning-fast, across the lake, forming with the other cracks, an enormous jigsaw puzzle of ice and snow. The "wah-wah" noise created by the cracking reverberated in the night air, breaking the abject silence.
There was always wind, a sharp and silent wind biting any exposed skin -- cheeks, lips, ears, and eyeballs. The cold was coercive, but not so much so that I might abandon my reverie. When it's cold, below zero, the air has critical mass; it is dense, but clean, and it moves you of its own volition and reminds you a nature's mighty power, and grand indifference to humanity.
On nights like these, nature is also stripped bare. There are no animals running about, no bugs, no birds, no other people. This emptiness, however, is filled by nature, by the world as it once was, a primal sort of emptiness.
I miss this sort of serene emptiness. Now, I imagine if I was to return to Boulder lake in mid-January, and walk out on the ice at half past 10, I would be surrounded on all sides by the fairy-like lights of people's homes and cabins. Progress, I suppose. But when I was a kid, we were the only year-round residents on Boulder lake's south shore. In each direction, on each shoreline, were only the vague and mystical outlines of leaveless trees with a few homes or cabins here and there. It doesn't seem I can find this sort of solitude anymore, and I miss it dearly.
I guess what I'm missing is that true and absolute glimpse of nature in its purest form. The intense cold, quiet, and solitude reminding me of my place in this universe and providing prospective.
