Snow, White, and the Psychotic Captain

The assignment is in response to Freewriting, Writing101.


I’ve written before about the empty white space, about the fear of bespoiling it. It’s a perfect landscape of freshness, unadulterated, clean. When you wake up, look out the window at uyou garden and see that it has been snowing. It’s brisk and fresh and you dress quickly after your shower to try to regain the warmth tha tyou were loathe to leave from under your duvet. Jacket scarf hat. But when you open the door there’s a second of trepidation before you place that footstep. Not a Neil Armstrong moment, sure, but just a splot second of tristesse, before you change the perfect canvass. After a few steps you feel the exhileraiton of the the light muffling piff of your boots pressing the snow into the cold ground, and you look back at the neat trail you’ve left. Looking around more closely you can notice that the canvass wasn’t so perfect after all; there are little trails where sparrows have hopped around in eccentric circles, and padded pawprints from cats who have raced from where they peed in one corner, across the lawn, through a swinging cat flap like the door to a saloon, to awarmer porch where they shakeshiver the cold off their feet.

Elsewhere the snow canvass tells different stories. In the city, it never has the chance to be pristine, quickly muddied, grimey round the edges. Moulded into straight lines, banks, furrows, by vehicles. Trampled by a forest of feet into smmudges . In the cityhere is not a difference between snow, and notsnow, or whiteness and blackness, but everything is muddied and brown. Inevitably brown, like When an artist rinses out a pallette in the sink.

In the wilderness, the fallen snow might never be disturbed. On the moutainside, on the heights, it will remain unseen untouched, until it is re-covered, or melted.

I’d like to imagine a shore of, a northern shore of ice and snow. And an oil tanker. Imagine he, the Captain, psychotic, from too long at sea, wrecks it on the pure white shoreline, and escapes the wreck, gets to shore and walks, struggling through the deep drifts, precariously from floe to floe, to a distance in order to see what he has done. The gluuey black oil spreads over the expanse of crisp ice white, and oozes in tendrils. An ink monster from sea invading the land. The psychotic captain sits back, and looks at the fight between the duo of tonality,pleased at the terrible thing he’s done.



About j.a.prufrock

Ex-journalist, lapsed writer, sometimes teacher, Francophile (not James Franco), candlestick-maker. After a lengthy sabbatical from all forms of writing, I've retaken to it in the form of blogging, at first. I keep two blogs, with my journalism (Assorted Bylines: separate from my creative writing (WritersWriteWords:
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