It snowed a lot today, and I honestly could not be happier about it. It was an absolutely beautiful day. Not too cold, and perfectly wintery light. With the exception of a quick trip to the grocery store, I've been at home reading all day like the good, studious grad student that I am, even though my heart was trying to convince me that I should go take a good long photo walk. Well, I couldn't NOT pick up my camera when there was an abundance of snow and the perfect fading light of the end of the day, so I went out (without a coat!) and took pictures just outside my apartment for about 10 minutes. Hopefully the snow will stick around tomorrow and I can squeeze in a photo walk in the morning.
One of my friends came over for dinner on Friday before we headed out to a concert and party, and she left her bike here since it is generally unadvisable to bike after drinking. The weather hasn't exactly been bike friendly since then though, so her bike is still living outside my door. Turned out to be lucky for me, since it made for a couple of great shots this afternoon.
Phantom Limbs
Anne Michaels
"The face of the city changes more quickly, alas! than the mortal
heart."
- CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
So much of the city
is our bodies. Places in us
old light still slants through to.
Places that no longer exist but are full of feeling,
like phantom limbs.
Even the city carries ruins in its heart.
Longs to be touched in places
only it remembers.
Through the yellow hooves
of the ginkgo, parchment light;
in that apartment where I first
touched your shoulders under your sweater,
that October afternoon you left keys
in the fridge, milk on the table.
The yard - our moonlight motel -
where we slept summer's hottest nights,
on grass so cold it felt wet.
Behind us, freight trains crossed the city,
a steel banner, a noisy wall.
Now the hollow diad
floats behind glass
in office towers also haunted
by our voices.
Few buildings, few lives
are built so well
even their ruins are beautiful.
But we loved the abandoned distillery:
stone floors cracking under empty vats,
wooden floors half rotted into dirt,
stairs leading nowhere, high rooms
run through with swords of dusty light.
A place the rain still loved, its silver paint
on rusted things that had stopped moving it seemed, for us.
Closed rooms open only to weather,
pungent with soot and molasses,
scent-stung. A place
where everything too big to take apart
had been left behind.
I'm moving across the country in three weeks. This is both exciting and terrifying. I'm excited because I'm headed to a province I dearly love and find exceptionally beautiful. I'm terrified because I am moving somewhere that I know no one and am leaving behind the people who are dearest to me in the world.
It's funny how places retain the people who inhabit them. How a location can bring back a flood of memories. How going somewhere can make you remember someone who is long gone or who you haven't thought about in a long time. We leave impressions on places it seems; sometimes they are visible and sometimes they are invisible. We literally leave our mark on places with buildings and possessions, the kinds of things that archeologist uncover, but we leave a less tangible mark on a place. And a place leaves a mark on us. It's such a strange thing to ponder, but it's something I think about often, and all the more often as I wrench myself out of the place I grew up in.
l'esprit d'escalier (idiomatic expression) [French]
the feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said
I love learning idiomatic expressions in other languages. Sometimes they are just plain funny, like the French expression for butchering the French language: "vous parlez français comme une vache espagnole" (literally: you speak French like a Spanish cow). Sometimes they manage to capture a greater meaning than English can, like the Italian expression for a close friend: "un'amica stretta" (with "stretta" literally meaning "tight" like "tight clothing"). Sometimes they simply provide a way to say something that can't be said in English. I love English, but it is by no means an all-sufficient language. This is the case with "l'esprit d'escalier". Literally translated it means "the spirit of stairs". I am not really sure that this is enlightening, but the French phrase is so perfect right now. The number of times I have experienced this the past couple of days is remarkable. Generally the fact that I can't explain this sensation just adds to my frustration. So, even if I can't stop being the world's most awkward conversationalist, now I at least have a name for what I'm feeling when I get home.
This is not at all the picture I was hoping for. I have a serious lack of stair photos and the apartment stairwell has lighting that is akin to public bathrooms and school gymnasiums, photography just should not be attempted in these situations. This picture was pretty blah, so I edited it up, fiddling with colours, highlights and shadows until I got something that at least looks cool, even if it isn't what I had envisioned.
