Wednesday, 11 February 2009


I really didn't want for this blog to turn into This Sort Of Thing.
But I also don't know what else to do right now.
The following is a story I have written and wish I hadn't.
I wish it hadn't happened, I wish I could go back in time.
Something sticks in my throat when I think about how this story makes me feel and how I feel it is based at least partly on a massive fucking misunderstanding.
Or how possibly now I am feeling that perhaps I was misled.
Maybe even taken advantage of.
Maybe there are moments which mean everything to one person, and everything can stop still perfectly for a moment, but for the other person the seconds just tick on and that moment is one of many, which may not be forgotten but will never be so important.
Fuck it. I can't deal with it so I won't.

The snow outside my house was too amazing to be false”

I walk to your house through the park where people get raped and stabbed. I walk this way all the time and sometimes really late at night but I have never had reason to be scared by stories like these so I just walk with my earphones playing old radio shows from 1994 and my head down trying not to slip on the slick cold paving. It is slippery tonight so I walk on the grass alongside the path and have to dodge bins and benches along the way. The weather website says it is cold and we can expect heavy snowfall. It is cold. The website is right. I have always strongly disliked snow. When I was younger I slipped over a lot. When I was younger I was hit in the face with balls of ice pretending to be snow, black eyes set against the white hats on top of parked cars.

We watch the film everyone has been talking about and I guess it is good. I tell you how I invented an impression of the actor and now all our friends do a similar impression but I do not ask for credit because I know that my impression will always be better and more funny. We laugh at the ridiculous ending which is fun but ridiculous and it is the moment previously menacing and serious characters cross the line towards melodrama and comic strip violence. It is hard to concentrate on the film. Other things crawl through my brain but not close enough to come out of my mouth.

I am cold. I am always cold in your house. This in itself is curious because I have always enjoyed the cold. My parents' house was always cold and I have never liked central heating. Central heating mostly makes me feel ill with headaches and makes me remember childhood asthma statistics I heard somewhere one time which detailed how there was virtually no childhood asthma in Victorian times but now we all huddle around radiators as soon as the sun sets and Our Nation’s Children cannot breathe properly. But I am cold in your house. Perhaps it is my body's way of seeking attention. You turn the heating up and I’m grateful.

It’s snowing” I say whilst holding back the curtain. I am not sure you believe me because you walk to the front door and put your shoes on. I walk to the front door and put my shoes on. We are not wrapped up warm but we go out anyway. Your neighbours are on their front step and it is a bit weird at first but we say hello and we walk to the end of your garden and through the front gate and prove that we are more interested in the snow than they are.

In the street lamps. On your street. At midnight. On a Sunday. It is the most beautiful thing. The snow falls slowly but heavily and I can feel it pounding against my face and every flake leaves a numbing scar which has it's own memory and now it's own first step in history, and maybe at some future dinner party where I am stood in the middle of the room with a glass of expensive wine and everyone's attention on me, there I will tale anecdotes of every point on my face, with the moment the snowflakes landed being the beginning.

I am happy.

I watch you. You are also happy. I look at your face in profile and I watch you pick up pieces of snow and put them in your mouth to taste them. The snow must taste so fresh. You tell me about the house across the street and how you would like to live in there. It is big and set back from the road and I suggest we go and knock on the door right now and ask them or tell them that we are going to live with them now and I explain how they will look at us, stood out in the snow, and think of us as weary travellers and take us in and look after us with warm, dry bedding and treat us as their own. Perhaps I would make us all delicious soup.

I put my arm around you. Then I put my arms around you. We are both cold by now so I hold you tight and it feels like your chest belongs there against my chest and your head against my shoulder and my arms around covering you as best they can from the damp chill the snow leaves in the air. The fat snowflakes dance around on the wind and I close my eyes. And I keep my mouth shut. But right now I am happier than I can remember being. And now I love snow. I love snow but this right here is what I will remember.

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