273. SNOW
Do you know how you
look for experiences
that are transformative,
things that you'll
remember forever?
That happened a
lot to me. One of
the major ones was
snowfall. That first
Winter in NYCity
turned out to be an
especially good one
for me. The first time
I experienced real
snowfall in New
York, it was
stunning. It was
night, and in the
darkness, amidst
the lights and leftover
activities of the loft
areas and small-craft
workshops in the west
teens, up into the 20's,
those streets were
slowly blanketed in
snow. It was dark,
and the snow had a
lot of the qualities
of the darkness but,
at the same time, in
all the streetlights
and lamp-glows,
as it tumbled, its
brightness and
presence carried
its way though
everything. It
landed - not quite
silent, but with a
silence. Snow
actually makes
its own snow
noise, a sort of
higher register
sizzle or something,
as it falls and lands
and falls. Drifts
maybe, if there's
wind too. It takes
perhaps three good
hours of steady snow
before things begin
to become
unrecognizable
as shapes slowly
round out, bulge,
and transform - after
six or seven hours of
solid, steady snow,
even in Manhattan
where often the streets
and the air are warmer,
a little bit, by Winter
standards. But on
certain magical
nights, or in
certain quite
magical storms,
the snow takes
over, conquers like
a 'William the,' wins
the battle. By the
time of surrender,
of the the next
morning's first light,
the scene is awesome,
totally different and
completely transformational.
Being what I was, an
often-denizen of those
night streets, I experienced
that first real snowfall
as if I were a man
from another land,
one walking strangely
into a world I did not
know at all. It was
as if everything
was slowly shifting
- shapes and forms
seemed to cover over
everything I'd been
used to - and what
was left were bulbous
forms, billowy, swirly
shapes. Cars looked
liked hunchbacked
shoes. The differences
between streets and
curbs no longer existed.
All was covered over
with something other,
some new, weird
manna which, I
thought, perhaps
itself WAS the root
of that old 'Manahattan'
of old-style usage.
Once it becomes
difficult to walk on
the city streets and
sidewalks, and,
especially, once
real traffic begins
dwindling to
absolutely nothing
and the few car
tracks seen are
awesome and rare,
you know something
has occurred. The
Mayors, whoever
they may be at any
time, quake, fearing
for the lives of their
administrations and
futures if they flub
this one up. Snow
removal here is like
blood-letting. New
Yorkers, usually the
most over-ambitious
nature-pretenders in
the world, all of a
sudden demand
clean-up, removal
of the snow, immediately,
no problems and nothing
left around. They swiftly
become 'anti-Naturists.'
It's a very weird turnover,
and it has killed more
than one Mayoral
administration. One
of the qualifications
for running for Mayor
of New York would
have to be the answer
to the question -
'Hey, Buddy, you
good with a snow
shovel?' So much
depends on how
that's answered.
-
Anyway, walking
along in such a form
of snowfall was, and
is, for me, one the
finest scenes and
things I can do,
especially in a
city nightfall.
There's nothing
like it, and to see
endless panes of
glass shining a
snow-light back
to the world is
amazing; to listen
to the swirl and
hush of falling snow
as it lightly touches
down on railings and
steps and porchfronts
is amazing. There
are enough parks
all along the way
in New York City
that every five or
six blocks somewhere
there's something
amazing to see -
bent-over forms of
snow-covered trees
and bushes, fenceposts
piled with new snow,
the ordinary sights
and views now
punctuated differently
and hazed with snow.
The Flatiron Building
seemingly bending
over, withstanding
the white-out. And
then...it all ends.
In a grand, momentous
edge of silence.
Staggering. Used to
be that was the time
for horses, for their
clip-clop and their
plod on the empty,
barren streets. It's no
longer like that, of
course, and now
there are taxis
dodging and
police-cruisers
lurking, The
modern-day has
somehow developed
its own plague of
'cross-country' ski
people, outdoorsy
city-types everywhere,
proving their mettle,
kids and boards and
sleds and all that.
But, underneath all
of it, one can still
find the old, Victorian
almost, era of the
past and all its ways.
-
That's what I stepped
into. By the light of
morning, the world
was different, had
been transformed.
I'd look out from
my street-fronting
basement window
at the Studio School
and manage to see
the padding of little
feet, the boots and
galoshes and the
snow-covers of the
people managing to
barely get along.
Those who ventured
out. Those who
somehow perhaps,
had to work, even
though the remainder
of the city was dead,
shut-down. Moribund.
Without use. I used to
think 'just let it be, take
it in, absorb, remember,
and enjoy.' My friend
Frank would always
start up with his tales
of Scandinavia, how
in those countries,
when the big snows
come, they just shut
everything down,
they simply stay
with it for three or
four days of nothing;
not fighting the storm,
not trying to best it,
just shutting down,
quietly and intently,
and getting through
it, worrying over it,
maybe, later. Time
fixes everything,
even storms. Then
we'd begin laughing
about that weird
level of nervousness
that keeps everybody
here running from
pillar to post in a
frantic over-energy
to best and beat
the storm, destroy
the snow, keep things,
under all situations,
running. Nervously,
capitalist energy, busy
measuring snow in
pockets of change
and payment.
-
There were, I guess
in retrospect, pockets
for me too - of happiness
for myself and others,
everywhere. Somehow,
nothing was ever lost.
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