Although an old municipal plow has scraped down the street exactly twice—the driver’s head enshrouded in wool—clearly it’s been an effort in futility as the snow continues to fall at a dizzying rate.I’m in the attic. I’ve been spending the last few hours counting the number of people laboring down the middle of my street on cross-country skis. Laboring, not gliding, as one might expect from a sport that uses a pair of long, preternatural runners. There have been seven skiers so far. Velocity-challenged and hunched over, the cross-country skier fights the snow, driving his poles into the frozen crust, desperate for purchase. The snow doesn’t welcome his pursuit the way it coaxes the downhill skier with its powdery, virginal shimmer. It bewilders rather than bewitches.The cross-country skier exists as if trapped in a purgatorial silent movie.It’s strange how full-body winterwear makes gender difficult to identify. Each goggled cross-country skier seems androgynous, machine-like, somehow pneumatic.
What do You think about Know Your Beholder: A Novel?
