Messy & childlike, isn't it?
I spent my Friday night with a dear friend. She's full of lady-like attributes, and has the most generous family I know. We got bundled up (t-shirt, flannel, sweater, jacket, double scarves, jeans, snow pants, sorel boots, big furry hat, double gloves) and embarked upon a winter journey down the frozen river. We stopped to lay in the snow for quite some time. I felt five years old, right there. We breathed in the arctic-like air, looking at the clouds overhead. Watching them move with the wind. I saw the man on the moon, through the bony fingertips of the trees of spring, summer, fall's past. It's hard to admire the residual love of the earth if all you are doing is hustling from one schedule to the next.
She led me from the river to a frozen creek. Mossy remains of (once again) another seasons flourished efforts. I was truly humbled by ice ledges, uncharted snow, and especially the underbelly of bridge number one. Imagine a canoe, upside down. You're treading water. I physically felt as though I were under an unreasonably sized canoe, but reality was truly harsher tonight on my wandering mind than all the weather I've endured this winter alone. We avoided bridge number two deliberately, it emitted a strange chill, even from a distance..
To warm our hearts and hands, we dispersed paint materials at random. In time my arms were covered with candy apple red, splashes of sunshine yellow, blotches of sky blue, drops of grassy green. There was no longer cool winter’s air to drill into my bones.
We talked of our favourite instances from Amélie, then I go home to imagine my life being discussed from a third person point-of-view. As if I were Riél from Montmartre. Pardon my horrendous French.
"J'aime petits déjeuners avec oeufs, je préfère écrire seul, promenades dans la nature, et surtout jour rêve."
