28 January 2004
The snow stung my skin, pierced my eyes, so that I had to squint and struggle against the wind while traversing Sixth Avenue. I was on my way back from my first time at the ballet. During the ballet, I was struck by how the dancing only looks effortless from the nosebleed section. Once we moved closer, I could see the arms trembling with the weight of air. I could see the bodies moving imperceptibly with the effort of stillness. But if I ran my eyes over the dancers, not looking at any specifically, they wove graceful patterns, patterns that I recognized as being my stereotypical picture of ballet.
As soon as I turned onto a street, sheltered close between brownstones, the wind died, and I was in a peaceful street blanketed with snow. It was the very picture of charming snow.
As soon as I turned onto a street, sheltered close between brownstones, the wind died, and I was in a peaceful street blanketed with snow. It was the very picture of charming snow.