It’s winter again, so I’m bleeding; my knuckles are cracked and scabbed like I’m a street-fighter with the pox. The chill follows me around, down the street, into the lees of buildings. It hangs around my ankles, waits for me in my bed, under the covers.
Winter tells me: you’re tired, you’re hungry, you need sugar, you need fat, you need to sleep until it reaches 25C outside, until your blankets get too hot. Sleep. Eat your chocolate. Find yourself a little warmth and hug it close. In the mornings, when you would rather escape the boiling fume cupboard his bedroom has become, roll back under the doona and be grateful for the heat, instead.
I still get cravings for icecream, even when I’m covered neck to toe by skirts and stockings, long sleeves, collars and scarves. I venture out into the winter sunshine and bask in its ray-gun glare. I eschew head coverings. I create static. I demand to visit beaches because I love seeing the pristine sand and the water and the rocks without people getting in the way of my view.
Winter makes the light numinous, quite unlike the harsh glare of summer light. The weather achieves a chilly sort of visual perfection; blue skies peppered with fluffy white clouds. Even the breezes seem crisp and formal. But it can’t keep it up for long. Dawdle in bed too long and risk missing the day altogether.
Cold fingers hurt less when they knit, in winter. The cold takes the ache of RSI away. Speed knitting makes me invincible.
I had boots, in Denmark. All-weather, all-terrain boots. But I left them there, so my Australian ankles must learn to live independently. Denmark. Frost on the ground, wind burning your face. Sydney is not as cold as Denmark, I know this, but my body tells me that right here, right now, it bloody well is.
Especially when I forget my jacket.
WORD OF THE DAY
divine; suggestive of the existence or influence of a god.
I’m not sure if a functional atheist can actually use the word “numinous” to describe something, even figuratively.