Shearing ice crystals, sound with each step in the predawn gray. The friction of each footfall on this “bitter” morning announces winter’s presence. Friction and heat. Heat in January. Heat as concept, a marker of life remains in my memory. Can you imagine the feel of warmth, to move about in a verdant landscape? …
…[the] awful energy of striving after Certainty, in a mythically thinking and highly emotional –fantastic age is quite remarkable. “Grant me but a certainty, ye gods!” is the prayer of Parmenides, “and be it, in an ocean of Uncertainty, only a board, broad enough to lie on! Everything becoming, everything luxuriant, varied, blossoming, deceiving,…
Late again to Starbucks today. Restless night, waking at 2AM and lying still, waiting for sleep to return. Another session, looking at this screen wondering what to write. Sometimes there is a theme that bears more words, thought and development. But is anything possibly a start over? According to Parmenides everything is apriori inscribed,…
I continue to read Nietzsche’s description of the philosophers who came before Socrates/Plato. Plato is the watershed of the intellectual heritage of the West. Plato, a composer of theatrical drama introduces us to Socrates by his collection of Socratic Dialogues. Socrates is an example, teacher/role model. He instructs by provoking reflection, the exercise of…
Another bitter day. The number at the bottom left of this screen informs that the outside air temperature is -12 degrees F. I am satisfied to have books, more to think about and to write about and a warm place to be safe. Everyone is not so fortunate. I continue reading Nietzsche on the…
Monday morning a few minutes before 9AM. The outside temperature is minus 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I am tempted to regard cold as if “that” were a fixed state of matter. Especially when opening the glass storm door before dark, it’s frosted over, opaque with translucent white. The vehicle warmed up for 20 minutes. I…
The Habit of Perfection by Gerard Manley Hopkins Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear. Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only make…
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter,…
Friday afternoon. Dawn brought a snowfall to the area. We have not seen this much snow in a number of winters. My daughter-in-law and I dedicated an early morning session to shoveling. More is to come. Reason led us to clear the vehicles, then prepare to do the same again a few hours later….
V. What the Thunder Said There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses …
