I’ve been away. Out west, near where I used to work when I was younger. There’s a much longer post I will write about that, later. For now, I’m here to remind myself, and tell you, about the sound of mountains. I spent a day skiing at Sunshine, near Banff. It’s an aptly named resort, high and bright. The season’s ending, the snow is butter-heavy and incredibly fast, and each day the sun steams off a bit more of the base. I followed my husband into one of the back bowls. The run hadn’t been closed yet, but it was posted as an avalanche zone, so we were the only people on it. Away from the hum of the lift motors, alone on the steep, I stopped and stood, and watched my husband carve away. I panted in the thin air. My lungs the only movement in the whole broken vista. No hiss of wind or bird-wing or runners on snow. So I held my breath, and heard perfect silence. […]
In which I am no longer purely decorative
Yes, functionality has begun to return, and with it, all my most obnoxious tendencies, I’m sure. For all I know, the difference is invisible on my exterior, but it makes all the difference from within: it is now worth getting up in the morning again, as I begin to believe I’ll feel something of interest in my day. On the weekend I wrote something that didn’t suck. It’s not done yet, and it doesn’t have a title, but it has a person in a place with a problem. And the place is the World Electronic Music Festival of 2002 or thereabouts. It begins with this: “Severyn sent Rose down among the weather-makers.” […]