I’ve been meaning to write about winter. But every time the inspiration hits, I’m far from the computer. And I hate writing when I’m not inspired, because my audience is too large. The negative feedback, or the lack of any feedback at all, is inhibiting. Once upon a time I labored in near-obscurity. It didn’t matter what I wrote about, I could mention people’s names…but now when I do they read it, so that door is closed, you know, the one wherein you reveal personal experiences, from your viewpoint. Like rejection by wannabe girlfriends. And abuse by males. Why is it that people reach out to put you down? I’m not complaining about it, I just don’t understand it. I never send e-mail to public figures, why would they want to hear from me? But I’ve got people who I have not met who e-mail me religiously, to tell me how ignorant I am, or to set me straight when they haven’t completed reading what I wrote to find out I mentioned it.

But now I’m too far off point.

But maybe that is the point. Winter is lonely.

But there are activities. Like board games. And indoor sports like basketball and swimming. They do those in Los Angeles, but without the same ferocity as the east coast, parents don’t force their kids to participate to get the out of the house, they go out of the house on a regular basis. With their mobiles in hand.

Yes, we live in a connected world.

But winter is desolate.

That’s one thing Alexander Payne got right in the movie “Nebraska.” The bleakness.

And that’s what I experienced Saturday last, when we landed in Denver. The gray plains with an equally gray sky, as if we lived in a tiny snow globe and exit was restricted.

We were supposed to arrive the night before, but our flight got canceled, it had dumped feet of snow, and now they text you to tell you you’re not going and the flights are full so you just can’t rebook the next day.

Which is why we ended up in Denver as opposed to Eagle. In a van. With a thin coat of snow covering the Interstate as we crawled along trying to get past an accident. No matter where you go, people can’t drive in snow.

Did I ever tell you I was in two accidents in two days?

I wasn’t driving.

The first was coming down the hill from the Middlebury College Snow Bowl. Evan’s parents had bought him a brand new Datsun 1200, which was just one step above a Tonka toy. It was so weird, this was long before anti-lock brakes, the car we hit was stopped a hundred feet away. Evan just stood on the brakes and we slowly slid right into this Chevrolet, which emerged without a scratch, the Datsun’s front end was so crumpled you’d think it had been in a demolition derby.

The next day, in a Volkswagen squareback, someone I don’t remember the name of, since I’d hitched the ride, stood on the brakes and we rear-ended a vehicle in town. Violently. But with no resulting damage.

That’s winter, it’s the land of accidents.

And growing up in Connecticut we yearned for what didn’t always occur. In other words, snow would be predicted but it would rain. You’d walk home and end up soaking wet and peel all your clothes off in the bathroom and you’d feel sticky and warm and… That’s right, we walked home from school, back before everybody was paranoid their children would be stolen.

And if it did happen to snow, we woke up and turned on the radio, praying that school would be canceled. We didn’t care that we had to make up the day in June, we just wanted a holiday, wherein we could go outside and play and come inside and drink hot chocolate and the world would be so quiet.

And then I went to college in Vermont.

Because I got addicted to skiing.

I started in my friend’s backyard (that’s right, I’m not mentioning his name, I’m not sure I can handle hearing from him), and then my family graduated to Mt. Snow as a result of a promotional film my sixth grade teacher showed us and…

I ended up with two interests, music and skiing. And although I pursued both at college, to say I was an outcast would be an understatement.

You see I just could not take it seriously. I’d played the game, of getting good grades to get into a good college, I was done. But the students at Middlebury, they studied like their lives depended upon it. As if at age thirty, forty, fifty or sixty, someone would want to know where you graduated in your class, as if they’d be interested in what you studied, as if they’d want to know what institution of higher learning you attended.

But they don’t.

They try and make you believe life is about jumping through hoops. But the truly successful veer off at some point. The rest are slaves to the grind.

So I went skiing. Every day. Rain or shine. Literally.

And riding that chairlift in the blowing cold, or startling sunshine, I was at peace with myself. Oh, that’s not true. I’d aggravate about my equipment, but it’d be my own private sanctuary, a respite from the college doldrums.

I especially liked it when it stormed. Because of the quiet. Because of the isolation.

That’s what’s been happening in Vail this week. It’s been blowing and snowing, it’s been cold, at times even brutal, and I’ve loved it.

Because it reminds me of who I am.

And illustrates that despite our hand-held devices, it’s truly just us versus nature. And despite our desire to connect with others, ultimately we’re alone. And when you’re away from the city, and it’s just you and God, it’s a religious experience.

And when I think of winter I think of Tori Amos’s song. She lost the plot. Tori was so good, she decided she could follow her own muse and we’d all be interested. But the truth is, she forgot that we desire a modicum of comprehensibility. And her audience got older and younger people don’t know how good Tori was.

And there was that great song on the subpar Rolling Stones album, you know, “Winter,” from “Goats Head Soup.” Slow and dreary, it’s got that wintry feel.

And now our nation tends to be divided in two. Those who’ve said SCREW THIS and moved to Florida or sunny Southern California, and the stoics in the northeast, who still remember their SAT scores and where they got rejected from college and believe they’re better than the rest of us because they endure the weather.

And that leaves me stuck in between. Because the east made me who I am.

But the west set me free.

So that’s kind of what’s on my mind. I don’t think I nailed the essence of what it feels like to be sliding down a ridge, barely able to see what’s in front of you as the snow stings your face.

Nor have I been able to convey the majesty and scariness of the mountains. They’re both your friend and your enemy, and too many people don’t realize this.

But these thoughts have been rambling around my brain. And instead of waiting for a moment I doubt will come, I decided to lay them down, because that’s what a writer does.

And I’m a writer.

It’s too stressful to strive to constantly excel. It makes someone refrain from playing. After all, I don’t want to lose my audience, like Tori Amos. I’m thankful for it. But I don’t want to be constricted by it.
And that’s what’s going on in my brain on a Friday afternoon as the sun is setting and it’s intermittently blowing and snowing and I’m now warm and toasty inside, but outside the window is…my lifeblood.