and there is not much outside, friend, tonight. The gases of the atmosphere are lined up as if to buffet the glass and force a kind of entry. I know it's not personal (such solipsism here, the world aligned for you) but it's hard not to think of world in terms of self, how external and internal weathers relate. To what extent they correspond. Think Poe. Think whiteness, pallor of flesh, the slow creep of death, shadows spectral along the snowfield.
Weird day for weather: everything gusty, but nothing via precipitation. No prestidigitation from the up above. No trickeration via lightning and snowcloud oncoming, none of that illumination. The plus about words ending in -ation is that they rhyme inherently. That they imply a state of action, a snapshot of the act diminished in our naming and cordoning off of it. The body's movement, the magic of storm, becomes manageable through the mind's decision to just think about it. Which is something.
My whiteness. My whiteheads that dot my back like mushrooms awaiting rain. My wiving of the weather. My avatar of W, that wingspread and impression of sudden motion. Everything in winter is associated with the letter, the worst in some ways of the seasons. But the weather has its reasons. I love it—love to be underneath it, under its spell, its thumb, its cool control. I would be great as a kept man, a toy, cared for, collared, leashed, within.
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