On my
way aboard the D Train during the cyclone bomb winter storm in New York City (Jan.
4), an man gray at the temples is sitting forward in his seat, reading a
hardback copy of the novel, MANHATTAN BEACH, by Jennifer Egan. The cynic in me
says he must be family, or in publishing.
Still, it warms my cockles.
Watching
him, I think cold can be a state of mind. Which doesn’t mean to say that one
can put mind over matter. (Currently a top 5 T-shirt design:
MIND
--------
MATTER)
Rather that, even now, in my
sixties, my blood thinned by age and in my case by a medical condition in which I must take pills to
push that level even lower, wearing the right clothes and being smart about wind chill and, above all,
staying dry, cold sparks the mind. To insights, long-lost memories, stirs a sense community where before was
selfishness, hard-headedness.
Forgive me this as a Canadian
many years out of the cold. But cold can be something to miss, when it arrives, even now, I treat it
like the surprise visit of an old friend.
*
While cross-country skiing in
Prospect Park (Jan. 5), gliding in under a thirty-foot tree, where up two-thirds to the top, perches a
redtail hawk; I’ve pushed the ski, out to the near-sunset harsh glow of park south, when the sun goes the
killer cold icy fingers on beardless skin, face, what no Vaseline?Get my ass home but before I do one last
run until the thirty footer and it’s here I see the bird, glide closer, as
silent as I can, two hours of practice
helps the stealth and there I am, more dark than light, the bird stirs her feathers, puffing out, thick at
her breast, turns to look at me, hooked beak and piercing gaze, cross eyes the feel, and I stare back but
only for a beat because shes hungry for fight, wild meets nuance, one short
time in her woods and I’ve the temerity to stare back at her.
Next: Running for Your Life:
Badass?
