Tranche de vie

There is exactly one (1) good thing about New England winters. It is as follows: after the sun has set and the sky is dark, there is an occasional perfect melding of light, nature, and man-made contrivance, such that a smooth carpet of snow -- virgin white, totally unsullied by the vulgar gaping cavities of footprints -- is gently illuminated by the powdery pink-and-blue rococo tinges of strip-mall neon. It's as if these exact hues, which had just minutes earlier been present in the twilit wintry sky, bled out of the heavens and into the very earth itself, leaving the former black and blustery and the latter quietly luminescent.

Other than that, New England winters can pretty much suck it.

Of all the many affronts to human dignity that this world of ours offers, none are quite so painful as the remnants of heavy and prolonged snowfall. It is only then that the veil of modern convenience is ripped away from us, and we are exposed to the reality of a universe that has no concern for our safety, well-being, or sock dryness. It is also this time of year that highlights the reality of America's pedestrian existence as the halfhearted sham that it is. Sure, in summer, we can pretend that it's no problem to take public transit and trundle around to get where needs going. But in winter, all you need do to realize your pitiful place in the navigational hierarchy is look at the sad, neglected state of most sidewalks: caked in the yellow-gray detritus of snow plows, under which lurks the menacing frozen ooze of ankle-breaking ice. In stark contrast, a mere hour after the flakes start falling, the roads are as meticulously salted as the hallowed ground of Carthage. Thanks a lot, "America's Walking City!"

Obviously, I took my first long snow walk today, and obviously, I fell. Of the many affronts to human dignity that this world of ours offers, the absolute hands-down worst is slipping and falling on ice. Actually, probably the very, very worst moment in all of existence is that infinitesimally short instant when you realize that the ground you've stepped on is not the solid footing your boot was searching for. You know what's coming, and though you might splay out your arms to steady yourself, or make some sort of "oh oh ohgawd" noise to draw the attention of helpful passers-by or, at the very least, friendly dogs who might summon help, in the end you are powerless to stop your body's downward momentum. Paul de Man, with his esoteric interpretations of Schlegel and Benjamin, links falling with irony -- according to him, just as the fall makes us momentarily terrified that we will henceforth exist in a perpetual state of falling, so, too, does one instance of irony open up the possibility that everything around us is ironic and therefore chaotic, meaningless, absurd. Every time I fall, all I can think of is de Man's smug Belgian face breaking into an "I told you so!" grin, and then shuffling off to go mutter something pejorative about the Jews. Well, screw you, too, de Man. I like Benjamin better, anyway.