January 19 & 20: Perennial Ice, Part One: Spring
The Woman: A woman. Any age. Any race. However she might define herself.
Perennial Ice, Part One: Spring
The woman stands on the edge of a huge promontory of ice. She wears heavy winter gear and boots. She holds an ice axe. She marks out a line and begins chipping away at the ice along that line.
The Woman: Even when you have a plan, can you ever really know what you’re getting into at the beginning of a thing? I mean, you’re just beginning, what the hell do you know about anything at that point? It’s all theories and speculation. A map, at best. And the map of the territory is not the territory.
So let’s imagine, for a moment, that a hunk of ice floating in a vast and inhospitable ocean is your entire world. It’s not much of a world really. It’s too hot in the summer and too cold the rest of the time and the facilities are primitive at best, but still, it’s home. If all it takes to make a place home is the terrifying realization that you’ll die if you try leaving.
So you try to spruce the place up, y’know? Build a margarita machine, encourage some people to start a community theatre, put in hot tub—That last one wasn’t my greatest idea ever, I’ll admit. But all you get from everybody else is “Stop using the side of my house for ice chips, Anya” and “No one actually likes Strindberg” and “Robbie fell through that hole the hot water made and drowned”.
But it’s fine. It’s just fine. They wanna live and die on an ice floe? That’s fine and dandy. Me, I’ve got ambitions. I’ve got better things to do.
She keeps chipping and chipping and chipping away.