Ice Skating

The cold snap has me thinking of ice and blades, of first waltz jumps on frozen Boston ponds, and of the Schuylkill River, years ago, when skating clubs rose up along the banks and men pushed their ladies about on bladed chairs. (Ah, gallantry, where has it gone?)

But what does it feel like to be skated upon? I wondered about that as I wrote Flow, the river's autobiography. I thought it might go something like this:

Imagine taking a needle to the point of blood upon your palm. Imagine drawing that needle around and around, leaning in on it, forcing an edge, tearing at the creases and the lifelines, the ridges and slightest hills that forecast your happiness. Imagine the skin giving way.


That's skating.

(with thanks to The Library Company of Philadelphia for use of this iconic Boathouse Row image)