January 10, 2005

In the winter rivers are sheets of ice that crumble beneath your feet. I wanted to do something crazy this Saturday, so I took off my coat and steped onto the the frozen water. The ice groaned, and my left foot broke through the surface to touch the wetness beneath. On the shore, my visionary indian friend laughed, and I flailed my arms to regain my balance. I felt stupid and wonderful as I moved across the cracking ice to reach some impossible cave planted in a wall of rock.

It didn’t matter that the whole river suddenly seemed to be moving. I stumbled in the frigid water and grasped at nothing. Violence. Despair. In a moment of bitterness I realized that rivers in the winter are as frustrating as life. On a frozen river it’s hard to find solid things to hang on to. Everything is slippery; benath the ice there’s a world of pain.

You think about a lot of things when you’re stuck on a frozen shore with ice cracking beneath you. I thought that life, like a frozen river, has its redeeming qualities, its savage beauty. In the last week I’ve been touched by beautiful and sensitive strangers who have given me their compassion and sympathy. Stacey drew me flowers and told me about jazz and mystery; Erica assured me she’s crazier than I am; Helen told me about Virgos and Greek wine; Mace wrote me passionate letters promissing hugs; Simon walked with me in the wilderness and watched me crash through thin ice; and Bernard gave me tootbrushes and talks of lost loves. I found friends I never knew I had. People are lovely and sensuous and full of passion.

With my feet wet and a smile on my lips, I stumbled towards the shore. My visionary indian friend was waiting for me, and despite all the bitterness, everything seemed incredibly beautiful. We turned away from the river and the cracked ice and went home to play drunken Scrabble.