Met a young man who was in tears, he asked me,
"What induces us to stay here?"
I said, "I don't know much and I'm not lying,
But I think you just have to keep on trying."
And I know I am naive, but if anything
That's what's going to save me
That's what's going to save me"
One of my Flickr contacts posted this song yesterday, and I can't stop replaying it. I suppose partly because we keep asking ourselves, what induces us to stay here? The days, currently, are 7 hours 36 minutes long. So many of our friends have moved away, are planning on moving. Maybe you have to be naive to live here. To let the particular silence and solitude of this place eat into you. The darkness, the cold of winter, turns you brittle. Delicate in ways that you can't imagine in summer. The place tries to erase you and you let it you want to disappear into the snow and you wish on the snowflakes that land on your eyelashes as easily as others wish on butterflies or lottery tickets.
Maybe it's walking along this stretch of the highway that has me strung out these days. The huge power poles, the way the wire hangs in the sky for impossible lengths. And the coyotes that live in these trees, waiting, their hungry eyes watching you as you walk by. In the winter we are all coyotes.
The pink sky at sunrise, hallucinatory, fleeting. The frost, never lasts. Dreamers like a severe winter, so says Baudelaire. But it's one thing to talk about the cosmic negation, and another to live the obliteration.
Maybe it's the winter that makes poets of us. Maybe that's the thought that's going to save me. If anything.