Category Archives: metaphor

On sleet

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Sleet is one of those easy metaphors for the difficulties life drops on your head: frozen rain. Walking in the sleet this afternoon, I was reminded that you cannot only not predict what might happen at any given moment, but that life is a tenuous adventure at best. Sleet stings as it hits your face, cold and icy. In vain, you put up your hands to block this icy sand that hits your tender skin. Sleet is anti-aesthetic. Snow gently falls on valley and field, horse and rider, but sleet just piles up in the corners like so many dead crickets. Sleet is death-like, the bottom pit of winter. It freezes on your windshield, turns into shiny ice on overpasses, turns steps into a death trap. Whatever is bad and evil and uncomfortable about winter is embodied in those stone-hard pellets of ice that tumble aimlessly through the sky and hit you on the head. Sleet seems to be an outcast of Hell, even unworthy of one of Dante’s circles. Cars spin madly out of control, people slip and slide wildly in a surrealistic comic ballet, and your tulips develop a shiny death glaze that will leave them brown and wilted. The birds hide, the peach blossoms fall off, and the squirrels sleep the sleep of the just plain tired.

On sleet

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Sleet is one of those easy metaphors for the difficulties life drops on your head: frozen rain. Walking in the sleet this afternoon, I was reminded that you cannot only not predict what might happen at any given moment, but that life is a tenuous adventure at best. Sleet stings as it hits your face, cold and icy. In vain, you put up your hands to block this icy sand that hits your tender skin. Sleet is anti-aesthetic. Snow gently falls on valley and field, horse and rider, but sleet just piles up in the corners like so many dead crickets. Sleet is death-like, the bottom pit of winter. It freezes on your windshield, turns into shiny ice on overpasses, turns steps into a death trap. Whatever is bad and evil and uncomfortable about winter is embodied in those stone-hard pellets of ice that tumble aimlessly through the sky and hit you on the head. Sleet seems to be an outcast of Hell, even unworthy of one of Dante’s circles. Cars spin madly out of control, people slip and slide wildly in a surrealistic comic ballet, and your tulips develop a shiny death glaze that will leave them brown and wilted. The birds hide, the peach blossoms fall off, and the squirrels sleep the sleep of the just plain tired.

On the final journey (swimming the river Styx)

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Since no mortal has ever made the return trip, none of us knows anything about that last trip across the river. Since the only two things that are guaranteed in this life are death and taxes, from time to time we all need to talk about both. Death has been a mystery since before people could write and the focus of writing ever since a quill scratched across a clean surface, leaving behind a muddled mess of liquid goo in lines of what looks like random bird tracks. All meditations about death are necessarily speculative, filled with metaphors and other poetic tropes which we use to mask the reality and finality of death. We seldom dwell on the face of death, deciding instead to close the casket, look off to the side, or close our eyes altogether. Philosophers, poets, artists have contributed to the mountainous pile of literature that attempts to answer the hard questions about death, but even that mountainous pile is little more than a big collection of guesses, speculation, and imagination. We shore up that pile as a shield against facing the reality that we will all have to face at some point. What we hate about death is the implied trope of change, and we all hate change. There are no guarantees about tomorrow or the day after, and since we are not in control, we fear change even more. Life will always be what you make of it, and death is also a part of life, so why fear it. Those of us who still walk the earth, are still saddened, however, when one of our number dies, hoping that that soul which once burned with so much fire, knows how to swim the cold, cold waters of the river Styx.

On the final journey (swimming the river Styx)

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Since no mortal has ever made the return trip, none of us knows anything about that last trip across the river. Since the only two things that are guaranteed in this life are death and taxes, from time to time we all need to talk about both. Death has been a mystery since before people could write and the focus of writing ever since a quill scratched across a clean surface, leaving behind a muddled mess of liquid goo in lines of what looks like random bird tracks. All meditations about death are necessarily speculative, filled with metaphors and other poetic tropes which we use to mask the reality and finality of death. We seldom dwell on the face of death, deciding instead to close the casket, look off to the side, or close our eyes altogether. Philosophers, poets, artists have contributed to the mountainous pile of literature that attempts to answer the hard questions about death, but even that mountainous pile is little more than a big collection of guesses, speculation, and imagination. We shore up that pile as a shield against facing the reality that we will all have to face at some point. What we hate about death is the implied trope of change, and we all hate change. There are no guarantees about tomorrow or the day after, and since we are not in control, we fear change even more. Life will always be what you make of it, and death is also a part of life, so why fear it. Those of us who still walk the earth, are still saddened, however, when one of our number dies, hoping that that soul which once burned with so much fire, knows how to swim the cold, cold waters of the river Styx.

On false starts

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Ever start a project only to find out you were doing everything wrong and you need to start over from scratch. Some times writing projects are like that–you write a page before you realize that you were on the wrong track, that you were in left-field, that you were lost. There are nights when no matter what you write, you aren’t going to like it, and it turns into a false start that you mercifully throw away the next day. False starts are strange mirages that seem real enough, but then they quickly turn to sand and flow away through your fingers. I can’t even count the times I’ve written four or five sentences, realized it wasn’t working, and thrown it away. The development of a real idea, something concrete that catches the imagination, is often a very fleeting moment, a bit of creative lightening that never strikes twice in the same spot. That lucid moment when you decide to write about love or death, war or peace, is not always or ever obvious. Often, the creative juices flow, but slowly, sometimes painfully, in the middle of the chaos of a regular day, hidden within the mundane noise of everyday routine. That one great idea–a mere fragment of an idea that pops up in a lecture, a reading, a song, a newspaper headline–does not announce itself as a great idea. I use my false starts to weed out the vegetable patch and find that one clear idea that is yearning to be developed into something elegant, more elaborate, more complex. But the false starts fall into the gutter like autumn leaves, brown and gray, having served a purpose, now discarded, turning slowly to dust.