It is amazing how quickly one can forget how exactly f**king cold it is in Alaska. It’s alarming . . . it’s as alarming as it is despicable. (The cold, that is). I spent a plane ride crammed in the middle seat (the most choice of seats), sitting in between “The Jungle” and a guy who looked like Kris Straub.
As I peered out the window at the moonlit ground below, I was actually quite startled at the icy desolate wasteland below. Only a few twinkles of light would appear, probably from cabins inhabited by psychopath hermit rapists. This was not only startling because of how empty it appeared, but I was startled because I was startled. That’s right, it was a double-startle. Cringe! Cringe, English Majors, at the foul redundancy! I guess I never expected to have my home appear so foreign to me. I had to turn off the “urban mindset” which I have been sporting for about the last two years.
As soon as I exited the airport, I started to cough as a -47F (about -44C for the rest of y’alls) blast of air was sucked down into my warm, delicate lungs. This is something that a resistance for which can only be built up by prolonged exposure. Apparently my 50F (10C) weather of comfort and delight back in Seattle has eroded my resistance to cold. Even in the short trek to the truck, my pants froze. Meaning that once in the warm interior of the truck, the fabric of my pants pressed against my leg, retaining the frozen hell of outside. I have been literally molested by the cold.
It’s strange, Alaska has such a liberating sense of loneliness. A loneliness that is always present, just in different ways. I say liberating because that is truly what it is. When I spend time alone in Seattle, it is coated with the glaze of urban loneliness . . . the loneliness where there are people all around you . . . you are aware of them . . . but you are all trying your best to ignore each other. Here, there is nothing. It’s alone. I look outside and see stars for the first time in many months, the moon actually has influence on the level of light, as it hangs purely in the sky . . . so bright that it blurs. It’s pretty amazing. I realized that I could yell, like actually shout something . . . a taboo in a world of thin, shared walls. I hesitated, as my instinct had been reprogrammed to say that it was wrong, that someone would hear and be bothered.
In fact, I have composed a poem in about the true beauty and the pathos that this mystical land of Alaska inspires. . .
Reflections of Elegant Glacial Passion and Depth
by Nathan Burgess
No, not really. Sentimental time is over, bitches! Time to do something manly . . . like eat a raw egg while it is still forming in the chicken.
It’s odd to have an outside that seems like it is trying to murder you. We burn wood for heat, so the dual paranoia makes me an even bigger quivering ball of shame. I am worried that the fire will go out, and I will freeze to death, yet then at the same time I am worried that the fire will burn out of control and I will be consumed by flames. So . . . it’s a conflicting situation.
So now I am seriously hoboing it. While I do have a warm place to live for the week, but I am transportationless, so I need to find people who I can bum a ride from, or figure out how I am going to walk to 10 miles to town in these temperatures.
Especially considering that the sun is hardly up. It’s almost four and it’s basically twilight here. The sun practically just came up too. It was rising at ten so . . . yeah. I will probably have to start walking in the dark, one way or the other. Something I prefer to avoid due to the concentration of vampires here.
Oh, yeah. We have vampires here. Didn’t I tell you? It really sucks.
I’ll probably write a few more posts this week, chronicling my visit here. If I can find the camera, I’ll start taking a few pictures. Why? Because I have a lot of time on my hands.
There should be a PiB for Friday, there is a chance it will be a bit differently done, seeing as my Excalibur has (smartly) remained in Seattle . . . where it does not feel like the icy claw of Satan is squeezing your . . .
-Nathan
. . . balls. I was going to say balls. Oh, or ovaries, ladies.
