Snow, Snow, Snow

So we gots some snow in Knoxville, TN. Not sure how much, but definitely enough to make me readily agree to reschedule a meeting I was supposed to have today and spend the next twelve hours or so huddled next to a space heater writing, grading, and maybe taking a nap.

Anyway, I got all inspired by the snow to hook up some snow-themed references. I posted this link on facebook to share a little Christmas cheer (and latent racial othering: note the extremely black barman's hand brought in to contrast nicely with the snowy drinks and white people free to roam about the car...) as I was saying, to share some cheer from the 1954 classic White Christmas starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney. Of course, I could never get why Rosemary Clooney was the lead female when my childhood self was so much more easily taken by Vera-Ellen. Maybe Hollywood figured it would get the best out of its female roles and balance Clooney's prestige and acting creds. with Vera-Ellen's sexy legs, pretty face, and solid dancing chops. Say, whatever happened to dancing and singing in film anyway? Not complaining, just wondering what shifted in our preferences (and consciousness?) to cause musicals and dance films to loose their appeal.

Regardless, here's a guy who died the year after that film was produced and apparently isn't too concerned with Dickensian ebullience. That's right! It's Wallace Stevens's...

"The Snow Man"


One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.


So whaddaya say: Nihilist? Spiritual disciple of the via negativa? Mere writer of confusing sentences parading as poetry? Something completely different?

I report. You decide. Or rather, don't decide, but posit your best response in a public forum of constantly developing conversation.

(Man, that would make a horrible Network tagline)