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01/06/2004: "Slush"

It is disorganized snow, which has not yet reorganized itself into water. But its descent into chaos doesn't make it interesting; it is snow with all the fun and novelty worn off. Slush is the plodding, dreary side of winter: as snow-in-fall is its wonderful, magical side. snow is the weekend and slush is Monday morning, back to work and a long way till Friday rolls around again. It is not by accident that slush is cold and wet, like that dutiful yet repugnant humor, phlegm. A snowball is playful, a slushball is just cruel. Slush is transition, it is the adolescence of ice, a chrysalid that holds nothing of interest inside, it is part history, part potentiality, but in itself is just pure misery. Which is nothing but a privation. I'm tired of slush. Hush.