Haiku
Cold air tumbling
through the window, dissipates
on warm fingertips
lost in my own head
hooked back into the present
by a cat’s bright eyes
Tag Archives: Cold
The Vermeer
After the manner of Vermeer: a beautiful redhead in silk performs her household chores in quiet peace. She squats before a litterbox, scooping feces and excrement, but the fortunate child does not grimace, as she cannot smell anything. This is rendered apparent by the artist’s acute attention to detail: notice the watery snot dripping from one nostril, straight into the bag of scoopings. Her eyes are distant, as if imagining a sunny pasture far, far away, or perhaps she is writing a blog post in her mind. A shaft of light from a household 60-watt bulb basks the scene in a warm glow, drawing the viewer’s focus toward her nostrils, which are brightly limned in variegated reds.
Yes, dear ones, this is my current reality. Remember, it is a sin to envy another’s situation. I’m sure everybody wishes they lived in the domestic bliss of a Vermeer.
That was last night. This is today:
How cold is it?
It’s so cold outside.
“How cold is it?”
It’s so cold, I couldn’t go for a run, or even a walk, without turning right around and going back inside.
It’s so cold it was not a one-pants, not a two-pants, but a three-pants day.
It’s so cold that my house window was iced shut.
It’s so cold that Cowdog Creatives’ car refused to open its door and afford me shelter.
It’s so cold that I could lean my weight against the bitter wind and lose my eyesight at the very same time.
It’s so cold that if I opened my mouth to talk, the wind on my teeth felt like biting ice cream.
It’s so cold that work sent an email blast giving us tips on how to dress warm. Apparently layering is key?? Do I wear my waterproof jacket on the inside or the outside layer? Are gloves a good idea? Still confused on how to dress warm, need more help.
And it’s just. Getting. Colder.
When I was a kid, I loved the cold. I was just brimming with vitality, and layered with brown fat, a little living toaster. I always warmed my friends’ hands for them. My resistance to cold was a point of pride. But I’m just getting older and wimpier with each passing day. I prefer bed to everything. Bed is warmest. If I must leave the house, you’d better believe I’ll be wearing my hat and scarf and gloves and several outfits.
I blame the cats. They sleep on my feet every night and keep me warm, thus raising my heat threshold. In the words of every old man I’ve read about but never met, I’m gettin’ soft. Need to start sleeping on the floor, it’s good for the back.
Oh God I just aged again didn’t I?? It happens when you stop paying attention!
I tell Cowdog Creatives that we must never let errant gas escape us without the other calling us out on it. I don’t want belches and farts to stop being funny. I don’t mind the wrinkles and I really don’t mind the cold but please, don’t let the farts stop being funny.
New Year’s Haiku
Frost on the window
Fractures the morning into
Confetti colors
AC
She exhaled. The air froze her breath, turning it to mist.
She turned, her high ponytail bouncing, and headed towards the fridge.
In her home hung icy stalactites. The floor was slick as a rink.
She cracked off an icicle as she passed through a door and picked her teeth with it.
Once this room was stiflingly warm, full of chaos and arguments and pets and children and steaming meals. Every blanket was a shared blanket. There wasn’t enough house to go around.
Now things were much better.
She checked her fridge and swore to herself. There wasn’t enough milk for her to make the ice cream. It was already time for another grocery run?
Grabbing her keys, she put on a visor and sunglasses, a light shawl, considered sunblock but decided against it.
When she opened the door, the sun hit her hard, even through the sunglasses. She took a deep breath of conditioned air before heading out. Her mantra would get her through this: only five minutes, only five minutes. Then she could be back home, making ice cream, enjoying the cold dark quiet isolation of her safe, safe house. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to talk to a single person.
Fresh Hell 