The larger world seems more and more remote.
Though moved by the week long, daily broadcast of Mandela celebrations leading to the State funeral, worried over the disastrous extinction of peoples, plants and creatures, myself, constantly on the brink of such; it all feels a foggy dream, an amorphous cloud of constantly shifting grains of sand, molecules of air, modes of being.
The promised snow turned sleety rain before it landed on City streets, and is ended with a drop to 21 degrees for nightfall. Why do I long for snow?
Nostalgia for Currier and Ives, for all those imagined City scenes of another century, for the romantic notion of costumed elegance, of course.
Then, the commercially guttered reality drifts back into my consciousness, and all the wars. The world, the world is infinite shades between the black and white.
I'm 'Phillipe Petit' traversing huge expanses of space with only a balance pole, vision adjustments, and a leaf or two for grounding to keep me here.
Fruit helps,
it's instant sunlight!
Only eleven more days to Winter Solstice eve
