Maddening January
Days of the Volcano.
In a Blast of an Atomic Mania,
She Runs Wild, Tosses Caution to the Winds,
Revels in the Premonition of Spring Fever.
By Jennifer McGee
Saturday, January 27, 2001.
DATELINE: Fayetteville, Arkansas
Special to corndancer.com
I am a volcano, ready to explode.
During the cold winter, early arriving this year, the magma trembles and murmurs deep within; outside, the snow falls, keeping the rumblings in tenuous hibernation.
Then the temperature rises, the sun shines, and the southerly wind blows. The molten rock melts and stirs. An agitation swells. Tension lets loose. In a frenzy, I erupt into my deception that it is spring when the calendar indicates otherwise.
These are the maddening January days of the volcano, days when the sun peeps from behind a solitary cloud in the vast blue sky, when the air is so crisp and clear in the Ozark hills, when the wind whips the blue fringe of my scarf as I coast down a hill on my bicycle, gearing down as smooth as silk.
They are maddening to every atom and cell in my body.
An Atomic Anguish of Comatose Reflection.
They become cramped and frigid, leaving me unmotivated in the cold. The chilling winds of December invigorate my atomic self to rouse to necessary motion, but I do not enjoy it and return as soon as possible to comatose reflection in sluggishly warmed rooms. Chores lie undone; homework begs to be left alone; tasks bring heaving, heavy sighs of anguish as I bend in rebellion to pick up a fallen object, or tie my shoe.
Then the sun emerges, always. I lose control of my whole body; vegetable limbs ache to be loosed. I become a dangerous machine, volatile. I am the loose canon.
I clean and straighten like a maniac. Any bit of trash or piece of rubbish lurking in hidden crevices immediately finds itself in the yawning abyss of the garbage can. Any rumple in the bed is meticulously smoothed out. Pillows are aligned in perfect geometry. Frightened by my mania, books appear to run around on the shelf, alphabetizing themselves by the author's last name.
My restless genes do not stop there. It has to be genetic; surely I can't blame this kind of mania on my character! They force me outside to bask in the sun's mid-winter warmth, to run wild in the mounds of deadened brown grass and rotting leaves, stirring them into mock tornadoes in the breeze behind me.
I leap into my car, roll down the windows, and crank up a song on the radio, enjoying my last few moments of bliss while cruising to work. Anchored there in the workplace, I peep out the door all evening to watch the day slip through my hands into night.
As Soon as It Flees,
She Longs for Its Return.
The sun goes down; the sky drifts from rainbow to dark. The wind dies; the temperature plummets to more seasonable lows. I return home and crash, lifeless again, feeling fortunate that all my loved ones, not to mention myself, survived my sudden attack of activity. All the same, I longed for the itchy madness to return.
Certain familiar shadows shall appear, others shall elude in the weeks to come, foretelling the coming of true spring. I am calm in the silence before the storm, knowing that this January day is a premonition of the spring fever I will contract beneath the equinox.
Something in spring does a number on us humans. We go batty in the cool freshness of the vernal climate, doing strange things. I realize now that the fresh newness makes me dangerous, antsy to accomplish a list of to-dos, and eager to experience a new array of possibilities.
Spring, I remember now, makes me come dangerously close to singing and dancing in public. It is a well-known fact by closest friend to merest acquaintance that this girl won't dance, but spring air excites something in me that inspires the tossing of caution to the winds. The beauty around me I laud and honor in song and waltz, with naught but the butterflies as partners (the monarch is not worried about getting his feet stepped on) and the birds as seconds who dare cut in.
Yes, these are wild times for me, but the dance and song are by far tamer than something else that sneaks and creeps over me in spring.
Ripe for Love's Attraction.
Be honest, now: You know from experience just how compelling the force of love's attraction can be in the spring, as if something in the air pulls you toward another. What is it about the budding, living, renewed world around us that makes us ripe for such attachments?
The winter makes us weary in his relentless cold. The fall sobers us with his reminders of the coming year's end. Summer drags us, hot and stagnant, through one long dog day to the next. Spring, however, in its parade of newness and beauty, presents the compelling prospect of finding a special person with whom we can share love.
On spring days and the magic nights, I long for love: lingering hugs, soft caresses on the cheek, tender kisses, fingers entwined with another's. O, woe to any boy passing at the moment I am possessed with the urge to fall upon him with a sudden, impulsive hug! How I dream away my lazy days with visions of Prince Charming on his gallant steed, and how I pine for the romance of the days of chivalry and courtly love! Even my daydreams are every bit as enjoyable as love itself.
Soon, spring loses its charm. Secrets hidden inside young buds are revealed in whispers to any who might listen. Summer comes, and the magic is gone. Then even love is no longer fresh and new; it is old and lingering and bored, unmotivated to try to be special.
Can She Remember Her Sanity
In the Grip of Sweet Mania?
Cleaning, dancing, and loving are such sweet manias, blown by the spring winds across the brow of every human, arriving on the tides of the year. As I struggle to remember my sanity on this bright January day, a part of me fears the few months of delirium that shall soon arrive to overtake me.
Will I do something crazy, follow some mad inspiration that I will regret? Will I act impulsively to create quite the mess for myself?
So be it. Being alive, I take my chances. The gentle breezes can make us all a little feverish. Maybe when spring fades into summer, the different winds will blow all memory of our antics to a far away place. Perhaps I can enjoy it without remembrance of the slip.
I soak up the false spring atmosphere on this January day of the private volcano. I traipse along my merry way and await the mysterious, fanciful possibilities of the season ahead, the equinox around the corner.
Jennifer
McGee
A
Personal
Note
Written
at
CornDancer's
Request.
It feels kind of strange to be nineteen, knowing that in less than a year I will have officially left my teens behind. But it's a part of growing up, and I take the changes greedily and readily as they come to me.
I am a freshman at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville where I am majoring in nothing particular at the moment. Hey, I still have lots of time to decide! This is the first time I have lived away from my home of Conway, Arkansas, where I was born in October of 1981, and though it has lots of challenges, it is a beneficial and exciting experience.
I miss my family, though: my parents Bill and Darlene; my darling and spoiled weenie dog Ellie; my sister Regina and my brother Larry (who are respectively 15 and 11 years older than me; yes, I am very much the baby of the family!); and my precious nephews Alex, Stewart, and Seth (and a brand-spanking new one due to arrive in April).
I consider my life a blessing from God that He gives me daily to live as productively, honorably, and worthily as I can. In all I do, I try give back to Him all he gives me, though I can never fully repay the debt. He is the ultimate reason for all I do.
