December 22, 2005
The beauty of ...

Nothing is so conditional, let us say circumscribed, as the our feeling for the beautiful. Anyone who tried to divorce it from man's pleasure in man would at once find the ground give way beneath him. The 'beautiful in itself' is not even a concept, merely a phrase. In the beautiful, man sets himself up as the standard of perfection; in select cases he worships himself in it. A species cannot do otherwise than affirm itself alone in this manner. Its deepest instinct, that of self-preservation and self-aggrandizement, is still visible in such sublimated forms. Man believes that the world itself is filled with beauty — he forgets that it is he who has created it. He alone has bestowed beauty upon the world — alas! only a very human, all too human beauty .... Man really mirrors himself in things, that which gives him back his own reflection he considers beautiful: the judgement 'beautiful' is his conceit of his species.

— Nietzsche, "Twilight of the Idols".

The days have been slowing, as they seem to do this time of year. Perhaps it has to do with the simple fact that it takes me twice as long to get home if I happen to walk through the downtown mall, or a detour via the grocer's on the way home — things that I would normally do. The human fleet is out in full force, driven by the unreasonable urge to empty their wallets for one day in a year, more than any other.

On a train ride some time last week, randomly tucked away as a stray memory at the back of my mind, were two young men, no more than 18. They were sitting on either side of the train, such that they were both by the windows — with the aisle and me on an inner seat stuck between them. Thus, it appeared to make a kind of sense that they should talk loudly to one another above the din and rattle of the carriage as we trundle along. The conversation went something like this:

Young man #1: What day is Christmas?
Young man #2: It's on Sunday.
Young man #1: Oh cool, perfect. Though this is kind of freaky.
Young man #2: What is?
Young man #1: That Christmas is on a Sunday.
Young man #2: Nothing weird about that.
Young man #1: Well, and that New Year's Day falls on a Sunday too, exactly the same day.
Young man #2: It's like that every year, man.
Young man #1: Not on Sundays. Can you imagine, someone asks, "What did you do on the weekend?" "Oh Christmas parties and shit" and then the next week, "What did you do on the weekend?" "New year's parties and shit." Freaky, eh?
Young man #2: (chuckling)
Young man #1: Then you start the real New Year on a Monday. Kinda nice. Freaky though.

Revelations are refreshing, even if they belong to others, and even if they appear somewhat overdue.

Up in the mountains, the snow was falling thick and fast.

Snow has such amazing physical properties. Who would have thought the humble water crystal is capable of such seemingly simple beauty, yet complex on the microscopic scale, displaying a fascinating array of different characteristics depending on conditions. It stacks in a way that nothing else can; it keeps shape. Occasionally, a snow stack is stronger than you think. Other times, it falls right through under your feet. And at night, on the lonely journeys home, freshly fallen snow winks as tiny stars buried into the ground, twinkling brighter than those in the skies.

The snow has piled up to an impressive height on what would have been the picnic table on warmer days. It looked like someone went overboard with the marzipan. We stood outside, first by the fire, though later, we sought shelter under the eaves of the main building where everyone else had sensibly stayed inside to keep warm and dry. While she smoked, I caught snowflakes on my glove.

Happy holidays, everyone. Take care, and best wishes for the new year.

Posted by sniffles at 10:47 PM | Comments (0)