The snow last night was gone by this morning. But, we did get our chance to briefly gaze upon its falling under electric light. As well, there is a chance of more snow tonight. Which maybe is a good in our small world, because since around the middle of August, The Artist has spent more than a couple of hundred hours preparing shapes, on the off chance it might snow. Tufted Cedars, patterns in grass, the drifting path, leaf pile number two, and my own favorite, leaf pile number one. There's The Dirndl and a host of others, many in the further reaches where I'm reluctant to venture through the course of any winter season, owing to an intense dislike of unnecessary exercise, getting cold and wet, or that fate worse than a Tic bite, "becoming rosy cheeked."
Granted winter is a hellishness, and you can make up any feeble excuse you want
to justify it. My own excuse has basically been reduced to a conviction that
marmite tastes better when day time temperature does not exceed 33 degrees
Fahrenheit. Classic pomposity on my part I know, but I'll go further into
this mire and add that shapes hold a peculiar interest. To explain it, I
could say, "there is the obvious of voluptuousness." A combination of
shape that can defy any ability to control impulse, the lateral habenula
completely bypassed, a circumstance that can reduce mental activity to wailing
and howling, and is sometimes followed by an intense depression that includes
odd behavior and rambling prose. And you can call it a poor reaction from
the endocrine system if you wish to. But me, I am looking forward to snow
on The Artist's hard work, which means I'll be spending today hunting down
balaclava and wooly socks. "It's all rather exciting," which is how
Nietzsche described the Franco Prussian War.