THE NORTH WINDOW / DISPATCH 001
The weather of
unlived lives.
At 02:17, snow began falling inside a sealed drawer.
4 minute read · three possible readings
The drawer contained a railway ticket I had never bought, a key cut for a door that had never been built, and a letter in my handwriting addressed to someone whose name I did not recognize.
By morning, the ticket was under six centimetres of snow. The key was warm. The letter had developed a small but convincing coastline.
I put a bowl underneath. This was the wrong response, but it was the only piece of equipment I owned.
I
An error in the instruments
For eleven nights, I blamed the roof. Then I noticed that the snow fell only when I was about to do something else.
Reach for a book: flurries. Change my mind: clear skies. Start to write a name, stop at the third letter: a violent squall in the sock compartment.
I had installed my weather station over a junction. The lives I had not taken were still passing underneath the house.
They were not waiting for me. This was apparent from the weather. One had already reached autumn. One appeared to have spent several years at sea. A third was enjoying such an ordinary Tuesday that its entire atmospheric output was the smell of toast.
I built three receivers. Each required an object that had almost belonged to me.
THREE FREQUENCIES / ONE WINDOW
Open one receiver.
Each object admits a different weather system. You can change receivers.
Snow, with an arrival
The ticket was for a town so far north that the timetable listed sunrise as a connecting service.
Through the receiver, I heard a station porter shaking snow from his sleeves. He had been expecting someone. When I asked whether it was me, he said, “I don’t know. I haven’t met them yet.”
A train arrived. Nobody got off. The porter picked up his broom, and for a few seconds I could hear him sweeping the platform and me sweeping my room in exactly the same rhythm.
The next train was due in forty minutes. He put the kettle on anyway.
Recorded at the north window. Instruments calibrated to hesitation.
II
The problem with forecasting
I tried ranking the readings. Happiness, longevity, number of rooms with good light. The instruments produced no useful data. They could measure snowfall inside a drawer to a tenth of a millimetre, but could not tell me whether anyone regretted anything.
I shook the barometer. A small piece of toast fell out.
At 06:40, the weather stopped. My own window had frozen shut. There was a bill on the table, a cup I had forgotten to wash, and a patch of sunlight travelling across the floor with no interest in my findings.
I washed the cup. I opened this website.
If you are reading this, the light in this particular window is on.