An Ode to the Snow Queen

Once, years and lifetimes ago, I knew this girl who said her moods were linked to the weather. She claimed one could tell her state of mind by how it was out. This little bit of trivia was related to me during a particularly long and cold winter. She said she was the reason why. To this day, whenever the weather is particularly somber, I wonder if she's going through a dark time.

The story goes that Yuki-Onna, the Japanese goddess of winter, the Snow Queen, is an incredibly striking and beautiful woman. Like all succubi, this is a facade. She is cold and unforgiving. More than willing to leave one in a blizzard to die if it so suits her whim.

It is said if a man catches her fancy, she can become obsessed. Boiled bunny rabbits in a kitchen does not even begin to cover it. Gods and bodhisattvas, or whatever voodoo mask you put upon the Divine, have mercy on the poor slob if she even thinks she's been spurned.

Another storm, Arctic in bearing, has swept across this part of the world. As I stepped out into the cold mourning with the hounds, I mused the Snow Queen must have been spurned. The man was probably a right asshole, because he was indeed a man, and the social construct of reality dictates it's always the man's fault, even when it isn't. The man is always the bastard, that's the deal.

He probably didn't appreciate her. Couldn't see the beauty of Yuki-Onna's icy features. Understand the warmth that could be had in her coldness.

Dig this; I have met Yuki-Onna. We had occasion to share a tea ceremony whilst listening to to bad haikus, like there are ever any good ones. Her very presence was painful. My joints creaked and groaned like the floorboards of an old house. My muscles twisted up in ways that made a good drawing and quartering seem preferable. She might have been one of the most beautiful females I have ever laid eyes on, but I made it plain she was not my type. Thankfully, I have no charm, and she forgot my name the moment I walked away.

I have met Yuki-Onna and I know she gives as good as she gets. If she is indeed spurned, certainly, the man was the bastard, because that's the deal. Still, it begs the question; how far and how hard did she push him? What did she do to make him too cold for even the Snow Queen?

One might ask me where I get off asking such questions. It's no secret I'm a bit heretical and think the social construct of reality is for suckers. Besides, when one blessed and cursed with a curious and questing nature, and whispers about it into the dark oh so late at night, when the demons come for tea, it is only natural that these sort of inquiries are raised.