When I write, some words about the weather tend to slip out somewhere between the first or second or third sentence. It seems to happen all on its own, really. Sometimes I think it's because: in my mind mind (an entanglement of mostly metaphysical thoughts), it's one of the only things I know for sure. I can feel it with all five senses. It's concrete, real, bona fide. Or maybe it's as simple as: I'm a Canadian. It's what we do. We live through every seasons' extreme, and we talk about it.
Like if I were to write about last Sunday, I would probably write about how we voluntarily set our alarms the night before (during girls weekend, at that) and the next morning found ourselves experiencing the selcouth culture of motocross. I'd write about the three clapping-but-clueless girls on the bleachers (us) and Kazan and Gene's makeshift cargo trailer home. But first, I'd have to write about the frost we woke up to. How it went from below zero to plus twenty and how it felt like every season all at once. I wouldn't intend on writing this. I just would.
Or if I were to write about right now, right here. I might write about how today was the first day since Summer I've photographed anything at home. I'd probably write about how fantastic/terrifying it is to finally be a senior, or how Tuesday night was both terrible and the night that I needed most. And honestly, I'd probably write about how this is the third time I've had toast today (right now, for late supper on the deck. with peanut butter.). And then I'd write about the weather, naturally. It's nice.
But this is better. Just writing what's on my heart, I mean. It's been a while.