Brrrrr

It’s getting cold in these parts, relatively speaking. “Cold,” to a central Oregonian, means “under 40 degrees.” Last winter was anomalous—we spent half of January covered in snow that soon turned to ice, turning the streets into a skating rink. The whole city panicked because it never snows here, and iced-over paved surfaces are simply unheard of. It was very dangerous to even walk anywhere without cleats.

The apartment in which I live (photo down below on the blog) is very old. A converted fin de siecle frat house, it’s heated by old fashioned clanking, hissing steam radiators. The whole building (which houses 8 separate apartments) relies on a single thermostat that decides when we need heat. The radiators seem to radiate only when they feel like it, which isn’t very often. I’ve taken to wearing an undershirt, a sweater, a hoodie or fleece-type device and a beanie hat around the house. It’s warmer outside.

Cold weather means the smell of fireplaces and woodburing stoves. It means orange and red and yellow leaves. It also means (at least this year) The Cure. I was ordering my usual triple Americano this Tuesday from Bethanie, my usual coffee worker, when I noticed that the coffee folks were playing The Cure, specifically, “Catch” from Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. I received that cassette for Christmas in (I think) 1987. Also on my wish list was Billy Idol (for some reason). The songs on that record always make me think of late fall or winter, and to hear it again after so many years was a particularly sweet moment. Later the same night, I crawled into a local dive bar to meet an old friend, and what was on the jukebox? The Cure. “Catch.” I guess I’m not the only one who thinks it’s a cold weather song. Really, the whole album is “cold,” but in a good way.

I visited my brother last night. He has a cold. I kept my distance.

Sometimes poetry leaves me cold. Poetry that is too thinky leaves me cold and I wonder if this is because I’m lacking mental facilities that other smart poets have. On the other hand, some poets, Twemlow among them, are very thinky, but their work is accessible to me because it manages to be emotionally engaging as well.

John Cale, the whitest man in the world (next to Tony Tost), seems to be a poet of emotional depth, even though his work can seem strangely cold. Paris 1919 is a “cold” album. It’s also brilliant.