10. WINTER

I have winter longings. Oh, mercy me, do I crave snow! For the first thirteen years of my life I lived in cities with real seasons - first in Spokane, Washington, which managed a respectable amount of snow each year despite being situated in the cultural and meteorological desert which is eastern Washington, and then in the formidable snow-production powerhouse of Minneapolis. But for more than a decade now, dear readers, there has been a serious winter shortage in the life of your editrix, and every year the November pull to the north grows stronger. There are those who winter in St. Bart's, and then there are those who dream of New Years in Stockholm. You may have one guess at which camp I fall into.

This is not to say that I dislike heat. I am, in fact, quite lizardlike - my usual body temperature is about 97° F, and I fall into a fruit fly-like trance at temperatures significantly below 60°. It would not be off the mark to compare my winter longings to mothly lightbulb longings - mysterious in origin, serving no obvious biological function, and almost counterproductive in many cases - though my snowlust is somewhat less likely to lead me to death in the light fixture. If perhaps only because of certain physical constraints.

But ah, long I do, at some deep irrational molecular level. My mitochondria don't care that I have no winter coat or real-life subzero survival skills. I am flooded with a profound, shapeless, arctic blue melancholy at the thought of a quiet, snow-padded Icelandic night, northern lights a great green banner across the sky. When I am particularly afflicted, I settle myself down with one or two of these:

Burt's Bees peppermint lipbalm
The praises of this many-splendored product are almost-thoroughly sung elsewhere in this publication (and by now I assume all of you have a tube for every pocket you have). One neglected detail is germane to our purpose here, which is: Burt's Bees lipbalm, properly applied (to your lips, sparky), can, with a bit of imagination and a mint in your mouth, convince you that you are breathing the sort of perfectly cold winter air that chills your windpipe all the way to the bottom of your lungs. Combines well with most other items on this list.

any record by Hedningarna or Varttina (many of which can be found domestically on the very fine NorthSide label)
Pure, searing full-voiced harmonies and furry warm instrumentation - this puts me underneath a high-vaulted wooden-timbered ceiling with snow on my boots. The first time I heard Nordic folk music I was in tears for a week. I don't know how else to explain it.

Snowbound zine, issue #1, "winter and its malcontents"
It has crossed my mind more than once to do a zine entirely about winter, or perhaps a set of four seasonal zines. Then I laugh to myself at the idea of hitting four deadlines a year, and go read some Snowbound instead. (Much of it is online at http://www.keikomedia.com, but it's quite worth springing for the paper version if there are still copies available.)

Tove Jansson, Moominland Midwinter
You have never seen such charming illustrations. You have never had your heartstrings tugged at so baldly and unashamedly, and never to such good effect. At the risk of sounding sentimental (crying twice in one page!), I defy you to remain unmoved by the fate of the fine-tailed squirrel and the longing of Sorry-oo!

Jim Jarmusch's Night on Earth
I am a great fan of the first four segments of this movie, but it's the last one that really gets me. A wintry Helsinki bathed in ice-blue predawn light, slow deep quiet sadness, life going on.