Random Thoughts From A Winter Interlude Back Home
I. It seems to me that I have been seeing the snow-frosted, western mountains with more clarity of late, particularly in the last few months since I began formulating a plan to leave Montana.
II. The Arctic surface of the frozen river glittered like geological rubble on the surface of the moon. Yet underneath the ice floes and three-car-pile-up chunks of snow, the water was continuing to head north to the Clark Fork. Walking further along that quiet trail behind Kiwanis Park, I came to a gap in the snow and ice, as a channel of water spilled its way along. With the low January sun directly behind this scene, the water was blindingly white. As I moved alongside and passed this little break in the solid surface of the Bitterroot, the water turned green and blue as it sloshed over sheets of ice and eroded narrow land-bridges of snow.
Hamilton is now meant for moments of solitude, a cradle of grace and meditation. It may be time to leave now, but I could see myself coming back some day.
III. I crossed the low-slung wooden bridge, a burnt-sienna flare in the midst of the white of the snow, the grey of jumbled stones, and the brown of wintering bushes. I passed through the stands of aspen trees and along the icy paths down to the water's edge. The trees cut off all connection to and sight of the paved path. So of course I scrounged along the frozen ground and among the dead leaves for a bunch of rocks and fired salvo after salvo into a little island of snow and ice in the middle of the rushing water. Of course, that's the entire purpose for a winter river: a target for throwing rocks.
I think the only thing guys ever really want to do is to throw rocks at things. That does explain our current foreign policy, if you substitute rockets for rocks.
Gradually, I knocked away bits of snow and ice from a narrow section of the mass, enough to cut a new gap for water to sidle through. It's a nice feeling to make a difference in this world.
IV. I spent an evening in front of the fire, drinking red wine and reading. It is a rare thing to read two books in a row that talk to each other. It's like you suddenly become witness to the two authors debating. Sarah Vowell's book Radio On says it's okay to be bored by NPR sometimes, especially by its too-polished news programming; Zadie Smith's novel On Beauty presents people so entrenched in the idea of liberal education and tolerance that they become rigid, fearful, and intolerant.
And after reading that, I watched Firefly with my folks. A bad man took a hostage and began declaiming, setting up a dramatic, drawn-out climax to the episode, until Mal boarded the ship and shot him in the head without breaking stride. In another episode, a crime lord's henchman refused to take the refund Mal offered him for a deal gone south. The henchman said Mal should keep the money and hide, because he, the henchman, would hunt him down and kill him. So Mal kicked him through the ship's engine. Kind of a cross between Indiana Jones watching the Nazi encounter the jet propeller and Han shooting first.
Somehow, it all seemed to relate in one big happy conversation.
V. On a sunny Sunday, Dad I drove forty minutes north and then forty minutes south on an errand, listening to the new Beatles album and just visiting. It was fantastic. We talked about growing older and becoming friends with your parents, and I realized how lucky I am to have such a good relationship with my folks. Not everyone has as good of a support structure for a launching pad.
It's nice to know that you can go home again, at least for a little while.
II. The Arctic surface of the frozen river glittered like geological rubble on the surface of the moon. Yet underneath the ice floes and three-car-pile-up chunks of snow, the water was continuing to head north to the Clark Fork. Walking further along that quiet trail behind Kiwanis Park, I came to a gap in the snow and ice, as a channel of water spilled its way along. With the low January sun directly behind this scene, the water was blindingly white. As I moved alongside and passed this little break in the solid surface of the Bitterroot, the water turned green and blue as it sloshed over sheets of ice and eroded narrow land-bridges of snow.
Hamilton is now meant for moments of solitude, a cradle of grace and meditation. It may be time to leave now, but I could see myself coming back some day.
III. I crossed the low-slung wooden bridge, a burnt-sienna flare in the midst of the white of the snow, the grey of jumbled stones, and the brown of wintering bushes. I passed through the stands of aspen trees and along the icy paths down to the water's edge. The trees cut off all connection to and sight of the paved path. So of course I scrounged along the frozen ground and among the dead leaves for a bunch of rocks and fired salvo after salvo into a little island of snow and ice in the middle of the rushing water. Of course, that's the entire purpose for a winter river: a target for throwing rocks.
I think the only thing guys ever really want to do is to throw rocks at things. That does explain our current foreign policy, if you substitute rockets for rocks.
Gradually, I knocked away bits of snow and ice from a narrow section of the mass, enough to cut a new gap for water to sidle through. It's a nice feeling to make a difference in this world.
IV. I spent an evening in front of the fire, drinking red wine and reading. It is a rare thing to read two books in a row that talk to each other. It's like you suddenly become witness to the two authors debating. Sarah Vowell's book Radio On says it's okay to be bored by NPR sometimes, especially by its too-polished news programming; Zadie Smith's novel On Beauty presents people so entrenched in the idea of liberal education and tolerance that they become rigid, fearful, and intolerant.
And after reading that, I watched Firefly with my folks. A bad man took a hostage and began declaiming, setting up a dramatic, drawn-out climax to the episode, until Mal boarded the ship and shot him in the head without breaking stride. In another episode, a crime lord's henchman refused to take the refund Mal offered him for a deal gone south. The henchman said Mal should keep the money and hide, because he, the henchman, would hunt him down and kill him. So Mal kicked him through the ship's engine. Kind of a cross between Indiana Jones watching the Nazi encounter the jet propeller and Han shooting first.
Somehow, it all seemed to relate in one big happy conversation.
V. On a sunny Sunday, Dad I drove forty minutes north and then forty minutes south on an errand, listening to the new Beatles album and just visiting. It was fantastic. We talked about growing older and becoming friends with your parents, and I realized how lucky I am to have such a good relationship with my folks. Not everyone has as good of a support structure for a launching pad.
It's nice to know that you can go home again, at least for a little while.
posted by Devin at 9:24 AM
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