The Solstice. The shortest time of dayLight. Here in Arizona, there is not so much meaning or impact as there was in Iceland, and all those Northern places. Here is another day in the wind-up to the Christmas consumer free-for-all. So it goes. But for me, the day does resonate deeply, in a tone that goes unheard here, in this Place. A tone too deep and of a harmonic that sympathetically moves not the body, but the Soul. It is in me. From that other Place. That I once was.
Lawren, my niece, arrives by car from eLAy last night, late. Traversing the Mojave.
mind wonders if my sixth grade teacher, Mr Fichter, is still alive? He’s the one who turned me onto Modigliani, Cezanne, and the other impressionist painters. way back. deeply. I have not stories to tell. It means so little to write here. In this form, mediated. I am no free-thinker. Rather. I see myself as a human who is unable (passive, rather than determined, active) to exist in a mediated space. so it goes.