The First Snow


The hour is late and that only leaves me slightly annoyed. I haven’t had time to sit down and think of ways to turn mundane moments into something worth sitting down and writing about. Since I have nothing of significant value, I’ll simple recap my day.

As I sped down 81 South , I found thoughts pouring through me with more ferocity than the rain outside. It won’t be long before the seasons change for good and I mean that in many ways. The day will come when I leave my rear view mirrors in a Syracuse dumpster and not look back (I may look back to see a familiar face), just get in my car and drive south. Seasons change without us granting them permission to do such, so weather your skin and take comfort in the new start. Snow flurries exploded left and right on the windshield of my southbound attitude. I was racing to meet a man in Port Crane to buy a beautiful record player I spotted on Craigslist. Despite much doubt, I arrived on time and the older gentleman and I chatted for a bit about music and the art of records. Admittedly, I haven’t been into records for very long, but there was something that clicked as I cranked the lever, winding up my Great Grandmother’s Victrola. There I saw an art that was dying and I wished to see it preserved. After I made my purchase from the gentleman and thanked him greatly for the record player and conversation, I hopped in my car with a smile on my face stretched farther than I have felt my face stretch in a while; everything worked out. I then met my mother at Sams Club to give some items to her and get somethings I had forgotten while in Pennsylvania over the weekend. I cherish the time that we spend together. We laugh about stupid things and even though she looked at me with confusion as I explained the Pennsylvania/mewithoutYou tattoo I have in mind, at the end she smiled and still loved me. I made a few stops and then ventured northward to Syracuse. The journey was met by a whiteout of sorts and my car shivered at the thought of my treadless tires traveling on such roads in those perilous conditions. This reminded me of a small fraction of my earlier southbound thoughts.

Why do I give significance to insignificant things and life to inanimate objects? Simple hope, becomes Hope, the woman of my dreams who I will always keep my side warm with. My eyes transform into lenses of 8mm cameras and everything looks at me with character. I think I do this because I have an imagination of unexplored depths and maybe far too much time spent living in the caves of those depths. I spend a good amount of majority of my time alone. In the moment, it really doesn’t bother me. I can keep myself entertained for hours and hours and days and days. Inner monologues, hypothetical situations, mind games, simplicity, etcetera. Then I poison that beauty by the thought that life wasn’t meant to be traveled alone and I desperately want to share my adventures with someone to behold. That doesn’t change how incredible some of my (alone) adventures have been, but there is a psychological aspect of it that always feels incomplete. Anyways, my mind drifted in and out of this thought (my original thought of creating living, breathing things out of inanimate objects) for the remainder of my trip.

The northern borders gave me snow as their peace-offering and then I offered a shrug of my tired shoulders in return. It’s Central New York, I’m not surprised. In nearly whiteout conditions, my stereo stayed fixated on the scan button that could not align with my ears. I don’t need music to drive, but its better to sing along when possible. The drive seemed to take forever, but with safety giving me a high-five, I found a parking spot outside of my house (I always make it a point to never refer to any part of Syracuse as my home; it is not home) and ran inside with my new love. I found my eyes wide as the records spun round and round and there must have been a bit of marvel in the corner of my eyes. The records played and now I sit here listening to the compact disc feature expound Simple Math to me. There is a beauty found in listening to records and cds through mediums other than iPods and iTunes. There is a rawness that cuts through and you have to slow down and just listen. You take the time to pick out one record you wish to hear and you meditate on it religiously as it spins you into a coma of wonder. Slow down and let the record spin.

And I don’t care if you and I will take the rest of our entire lives I’m patient here for you.

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