A Weekend of Poe and Snow

Dying to know how I spent my weekend? Well you are in luck, good sir (or lady)! 

Part one: POE

'each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor'

On Saturday I occupied myself by imagining that Edgar Allan Poe had come back from the dead, in a twist reminiscent of his stories, to celebrate his 164th birthday in the land of the living. Alas, this remained a fantasy - the people who spent the day hanging out at his grave might have been a bit surprised if he just climbed out and started drinking.

Poe is one of my absolute favourites: he reminds me that every day can be Halloween if I want it to be and that sometimes there's nothing better than wallowing in the absurd melodrama that the Gothic genre serves up on a plate. Though, admittedly, neither of these things are ever that difficult for me. 

I feel as though every day should be Poe day. Are you with me? All together now: 'Once upon a midnight dreary'!

(A word of advice from a seasoned Poe-fan: don't read Berenice before bed if you are prone to dreams where your teeth fall out. Or is that just me? Please let it not be just me...)

Part two: SNOW

'The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?'

J. B. Priestly

This weekend, we woke to snow in our fairytale castle.

I spent Sunday morning at my window. I cranked my Victorian radiator up to full and stood in my underwear as I listened to the Edward Scissorhands theme and watched the snow fall. The flakes started out so fine that it looked as though a culinary inclined giant was sifting icing sugar over us, but they grew larger and softer and feathery as the day progressed. 

I could watch snow falling forever. The flakes glide and spin into patterns more beautiful than anything man made. The sky is bleached to white and the glow of the snow already fallen means that, even in the middle of the night, it never really gets dark. 

On Sunday afternoon, I set out alone to meet my friends in the warmth of the pub. The road was carpeted with snow and everything was still. There was nobody around when out of the blue I heard perfectly clear pan pipe music start to play. I have no idea where it came from but it reminded me of the lullaby Mr Tumnus plays to Lucy, and in those few seconds I thought: fuck it, why don't people just believe in magic?

And now it's one in the morning and I am bidding on vintage slips and discussing screenplays with my boyfriend when I know perfectly well that I'm supposed to have read the whole of Northanger Abbey by one in the afternoon. But you know what? I think I'm too happy to care.