Very cold goating

The goat was cold.
Very old coat.
Very cold goat.

The fire set only made parts of us warmer. It made us realize we were not whole nor one together. We were separate cold people. To nail wood to a screen porch's windows, in the dark, made it look cozy inside and feel as if there were things to be done about it. But Nah, it was cold.

I noticed that in order to tell/hear good stories the suspension of disbelief needs to be firmly rooted in the forgetting of the body and presence. I can't forget or really listen when I am cold.

The cold on some level binds us to the past. Yet, it is hard to think of a time where everyone was really cold all winter long. I've heard stories of how eventually the cold comes to be experienced as heat. I've also heard that to die of exposure is not so bad because you are eventually lulled to sleep. Both of these things only seem true because the paradox smacks of a certain inanity.

I don't think I have ever been that cold.

Was it Jack London that wrote about trying to light a fire with very few matches, numb hands and wet wood in a tree well? That, I kind of get.

When I was a kid, nuns always tried to instill in us that we never really knew what it was like to be cold and hungry. On some level their words contained the subtle meaning that they did understand real cold and hunger: Not through experience but through a greater gift for empathy. Them nuns were cold and hungry.

I am gonna figure out how to heat the goat.