I once theorized that the commonality of an experience makes it seem less real, as if the more people we’re aware of sharing it with the less intense it becomes.
Since weather is a universally experienced phenomenon, maybe we’re always talking about it to make sure it’s really real?
December 1st in Philadelphia was balmy – is balmy still. It’s a beautiful 71 degrees outside, with a warm breeze whipping up the streets as though we’re in for a tropical storm. The prognosticators at the Weather Channel claim we’ll dip nearly 40 degrees overnight.
The air seemed to insist that i walk home rather than take the bus so I could soak in the strange summery atmosphere. Because, we take delight in unreal weather – the hottest hots, and the coldest colds, the most rain or snow – so that we can brag about feeling it later.
“It was as warm as the Fourth of July on the first of December!” we exclaim, continuing, “of course, you would have no idea what that feels like.”
I want to drag my sleeping bag out into our tiny, cement back yard and sleep under stars, taking time-lapse photography and making extensive notes as Philadelphia makes its slow descent into winter, watching as my city fades from peculiar unique reality to a perfunctory seasonal fiction.