filter the snow.

it was a snowy ebullience outside, and the city’s effeminate best would be shaking its hips a little slower that night, he imagined. he could see their minds in his mind: a little extra time would have to be added in tribute to the collective de-cadence as winter came to help us reflect, each raised waistline paused in contemplation, gathering silent prayers, crystallizing the zenith of a thousand relationships, as they all silently consented to fall again, together, in his icy hometown.

it was a laconic, reluctant ebullience, he thought as he tread heavily through those snowy sidewalks, and he could only give due justice to his steps’ heavy tread with penetrating, other-worldly, alice blue eyes. their gaze leaped between snowflakes falling to embrace each twig, landing in unified waves; a collective affirmation of what must go under again.

but Winter was late, and so with the heart of a lover returned from some distant land, the need to renew oneself threw itself back into reality, cutting into all of our lives. some of us were studying, some of us were fucking, and more were trying. but some of us were trying to carve something new out of the world, each to his or her own cathexis, grounded in a kind of presence free of seasons, seeking an archetype invulnerable to contingency itself.

proposition 1.1 of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus tells us that “the world is the totality of facts, not of things,” and so one might think every raised hip, each symbolizing a truth and not a fact, i.e., whether each hip is spoken for or not, would collectively constitute the world Winter wanted to come back to. and its return was not out of lust or wont of unrequited love; it needed to be visceral. it was supposed to touch and Move Us All, it was supposed to saturate our senses, send us rolling and vulnerable and scared, in secret anticipation of the awe which comes from a morning baptized in white. the word that comes to mind on such morns is the ancient Greek apeiron; the unlimited. we were supposed to feel freed by the infinite embrace of freshly fallen snow, by the power of what one does not know one does not know.

but as with any thing, the potential of life’s lived recognitions, in art, in love, in bringing the unknown into being, of the very possibility that a single magnificent day could exceed one’s capacity for absolute, total, social, sexual, financial, intellectual, spiritual satisfaction — that to even imagine fully sating the multiplicity of our pan-psychic desires, we require an imagination in view of utter absence, slumber, lack; non-being.

and so as winter consumed the city, killing foliage and filling fissures, he was supposed to be moved, he was supposed to be Touched and brought back into the social fold via a mass acquiescence to cyclical time. like the good folk of the city, he was supposed to be re-cycled.

but he was mourning that kind of time because he’d lost the sense of seasons as destination; as a place to go and stay a while. a place became a dimension, a story reduced to hypothesis, and all narration collapsed into another self-consciously Modern iteration of the fall. becoming this in-difference, he could not recycle his soul, because he was not moved by any one thing, because, when falling, no one stationary sentiment or mono-mythic recognition can claim him.

and so Winter did not embrace reality because that reality was a broken sequence of dead undulate foliage, repeating onward as intermittent substrates between which were the multiplicity of disparate ends each raised hip inevitably fell into, and the whole ordeal of the Winter’s Return took the form of a great carving up, a cuckold winter whose monochrome white arrival became an eviscerated sameness for us to defer, and to transgress and to enjoy.

in time, what the real said to winter was “filter the snow.”

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filter the snow.

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