It's dark here, it's dark here because
it's always dark here. At the restaurant on the 30th
floor, we looked out the windows. Richard said, “wow, it's dark,
already.” “Yes,” I said. I looked at my watch. Quarter to
five. “The solstice is still five weeks away,” Richard said.
This conversation was already five weeks ago, now. “Yeah,” I
said. “It's going to take another ten weeks to get back to where
we are now.” “Amazing,” he said. “Amazing,” I echoed.
It's dark here, it's dark here because
it's always dark here. In my mind it's wintertime here because it's
always wintertime here. No, this is not the contagious case of
global cooling that they pitched to us back in the 70s. They pitched
a bunch of nonsense to us in the 70s. It's not cold here, it's cool,
but never cold. It's raining here, it's raining here because it's
always raining here. The streets are wet, the black of wet asphalt
makes mirrors. The depths of reflection are the preeminently gray
skies, the grayest of clouds that are ceiling of Portland, Oregon.
Once, many years ago, I wandered
through the city with a mood of polite optimism. Those days are
sadly gone, gone the way of the cynic. On this particular day, I
calculated that the days were lengthening by a noticeable amount. I
realized on the walk between the canyons of highrises that once the
winter solstice passes, winter is essentially over.
I feel differently now. In the rain,
striding over the sidewalks of town, the winter and the rain are
never going to end. It's going to be such a gradual change,
unnoticed when seen day to day. Come May, flowers on trees, and
dull, dry asphalt. But until then, it's dark here, it's raining
here, and it's wintertime here, because that's the way it is, always
has been, perhaps always will be.
We retreat indoors. Out of the rain.
Out of fray. Some inside activities become the neurotic niggling of
creation: art and music and needle point. Other activities fall into
the glass, poured from taps while the TVs above the bar are dancing
with stars, zombie soup operas and automobile fast food ads. Some
inside activities are dominoes, old LPs, 60 watt light bulbs. Some
activities happen in the bedroom, and if athletic those activities
spill out into the hall all the way to the kitchen and back again.
And subsequently those activities produce the stir-crazy activities
of teething infants.
And sometime in the silence of the
falling rain at night, clearheaded and still, cracking a book
produces yet another indoor activity. One sentence after another,
one book, then the next. Walking through the short days and long
nights, rain filling, child rearing LPs skipping wintertime Portland,
Oregon, when is there time to crack a book? The date changes once
every 24 hours, but the days feel significantly shorter than that.
What about it? Reading the winter
away. Does the human intellect rest, like the wintertime soil, and
flourish again in the spring? Can we nourish ourselves all winter
with books and come out in the warmer seasons in bloom? How can we
prevent ourselves and our neighbors from falling into the
anesthetization of gadgets, TV and depression? Under the lamps of
hearths and desks and bedsides, over the rims of reading glasses and
tea cups, the tactile sounds of flipping pages and pulp and ink, we
are reading. Talk about power.
This winter, I intend to read books
that are yet to be published. Of those that are in print I chose
these:
What Am I Doing Here Bruce Chatwin
Under the Ribs of Death John Marlyn
Brazil Jesse Lee Kercheval
One Flew Over the Cockoo's Nest Ken
Kesley
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