Salinger and Snow Flakes
I whip through memories, like individual snow flakes being blown in the wind, as they fall in front of a street light in the dark night sky. Oh, to be able to read Salinger again for the first time. Locked in a bedroom after school high on acid and alone. Why do I still want a cigarette? It’s been months since I quit. If it wasn’t for that promise to my young hearts, I would be smoking now. Did Salinger smoke when he was alive? Did he once and then have to quit like me, did he make a promise to someone? Could he see the snow flakes at night without the artificial light?
To be awoken each morning to the whipping snowflakes of my mind. Dreams that linger into thought and persist into day. The faces of acquaintances and friends still fresh.Feelings normally foreign persist until the rational mind can distinguish my fact from fiction, or at least blur the lines till an emotional satisfaction can be rectified. Did Salinger wake at the end of a restful slumber without the whipping snowflakes of a racing mind? Did he awake and have a cigarette? He probably didn’t make a promise, he probably could smoke if he wanted to or not.
So I wait with my coffee, as memories earlier free, begin to slow down and thoughts turn to the purpose of the day. Is it self oppression or depression, do they feel the same? Without instruction I wait as feelings normally foreign fall and are blown through the streets of my mind to the alleys, docks and other out-of-the-way places. Did Salinger feel depression was he ever self oppressed? Does smoking make this go away? I can’t remember it’s been months since I made my promise and had a cigarette.
Now I pace with anticipation. I pour a second cup of unsweetened coffee, I hope the morning remembers it’s a long day and it is patient. Certain thoughts already gone, as they become the memories to wake me from my dreams. Foreign feelings, blown by the winds, become frozen in the alleys, docks and other out-of- the- way places. Yet one or two remain, they always do, too strong to be blown away. Like snow flakes collected at the base of a window, they are part of my view, how I see the day. Is it self-preservation to hold on to these feelings, is it lust, an emotion to strong to be blown away? These will become the inspirations that I will use to work today. What was Salinger’s inspirations, did he have foreign feelings, did they make him want a cigarette? What would he have thought of me, alone on acid after school locked in a room reading his words for the first time?
What would he think of me now? Freezing thought and sending foreign feelings to the alleys, docks and other out- of- the- way places of my mind. But anticipation, like melted wax, forms quickly into acceptance. My memories and whipping thoughts, though frozen, still remain and will return tomorrow. Foreign feelings still new and not frozen, slowly assimilate into the morning mass of rational thought and inspiration. The odd face of a friend remains, more inspiration for the day. My thought turns away from cigarettes, but Salinger will remain. I wonder if he would mind or even care? So as I settle on the faces and feelings, as rational thought slips into my beginning day, I find myself still wishing I could read Salinger again for the first time high on acid alone locked in my room. I have an anxious feeling he wouldn’t mind.
