Winter

It's cold. More than that really. It's adjective-defying cold. Painful. That might be a good one. Yes ... painfully cold. The type of cold that calls the television meteorologist into action: "Stay inside, venture out only when absolutely necessary." Well. Who defines what is necessary? All due respect, Mr. Weather Man, I don't believe you have an exclusive stream of information from God. Shit, the car isn't alive and it knows it's cold. Well, as much as it knows anything. Turn the key, and it stutters and coughs and eventually - grudgingly - engages. Even steel, rubber, and fiberglass resist action in this ... this cold.

But you venture out. And you walk. Yes, you have 3 pairs of pants on, with 2 pairs of socks, and oh, 3 progressively thicker layers over your abdomen. And that's not to forget the gloves and the hat, recognizable yuppie brands that you overpaid for 4 years ago but appear, at this late date, to have been worth every penny. Mama didn't raise no fool. And you move forward. Why? You move forward because you can't go backwards, not in this universe at least. Yes, you have another option: you could stop, both literally and figuratively. A literal stop, in this weather, that would be rather ill-advised - a betrayal of the meteorologist's trust, if nothing else. And the figurative stop, well, that's not something you've really considered, outside of the abstract. True, you did try to read Camus' essay on the topic, but gave up after 20 pages. You conceded that ole Albert was smarter than you, and frankly he - dead now for five decades - probably wouldn't mind.

And you walk. Perhaps the cold brings out your morbid side, because the wind on your face brings to mind that short story, "To Build a Fire." You had to read it for one of those grade school English classes, the ones you've resented since Graduation Day. Most required pieces have long since been forgotten, but this one sticks with you. Jack London, it was. Or Service. Probably London. Anyway, that fellow experienced far greater cold than this, 75 below zero in the Yukon. He approached it with logic and a significant chunk of stoicism. He also froze to death. And was fictional. Regardless, what struck you about the story is how the nameless man stared death in the face. He knew that survival meant a fire - and that no fire meant death. His brain knew this as certainly as it knew that it was cold outside - but his body wouldn't cooperate. His fingers, numb and useless, couldn't properly strike a match, and it didn't matter a goddamn bit what his brain wanted, needed, or believed. That type of shit happens, indeed, you just hope it never happens to you.

Still walking. Searching for the moon. You know it has to be hanging over this dingy downtown. Somewhere. It was beautiful, the full moon earlier in the week. Now it's hiding behind clouds. Or maybe it too has decided it's unnecessary to venture outside this evening. It's likely cold as fuck on the moon. Back to downtown. More than 20 years you've lived in this town. More than a few, that is. It's not moving up and it's not necessarily moving down. Shit, not really moving at all. God knows it's changed. For the better? For the worse? Irrelevant. Change is just a small word we use to describe the grand effects of little events. No one asked your opinion anyway. Not when Leo's Roller Rink closed, nor when BNSF ripped out the rail line. Certainly not when Wal-Mart opened the SuperCenter - one of the first you're told - and most everything in town started sliding northward, caught in its gravity.

Onward. Don't really understand why people can't come to a full-stop at a stop sign. That must be the 6th car in an hour to just roll on through. It's not difficult. It's not even one of those things we can fool ourselves into thinking are difficult - like visiting the inlaws or eating right. You put your foot on the brake and let it remain there until the vehicle comes to a complete stop. You don't have to stand up. Sure as shit don't have to get out in the cold. Just depress that brake pedal. People are funny. At least, that would seem to be the least offensive way to say it. This has always been a problem of yours - trying to attach reason and motivation to the actions of others. Sometimes people do shit because they just don't care. And once again, nobody asked your opinion.

Pacing it out. Trying to be more zen, more in the moment. Not really into the meditation thing. The walk is meditation. Perhaps not in the empty-mind sense, but in the roving, probing, exercised sense. Impressive, this mind, the things it does without us ever thinking about them - the heart, the digestion, the breathing. Hell, even the feet seem to be moving of their own accord. Ironic that it is able to control all the necessary business in the background, so the trivial can occupy center stage.

Step after step. The movement is good, produces heat. Actually sweating a bit under the layers. That's where most of those calories go - everything from the Chinese food to the hot dog and the baby carrot can be used to create heat. Speaking of which, not really sure what's going on with the hands. They alternate periods of toasty warmth and unpleasant chill. Same gloves, same outside temperature, schizophrenic hands. Hands betrayed the nameless man in the Yukon and most certainly these hands would fail upon the moon.

Closing in on home. Proxy home, but home. It has a bed and a place to pee, so yes, home. Been outside for more than an hour - none of it necessary - and don't feel bad at all.

Your move weather man.