Dear friend of my heart,
It has mostly been euphoric the past few months. It seems, however, that things are going to take a turn towards a heavier place. The excess of meaning that the world had come to assume is wearing off as I become more of what I keep doing. Dreams have come to assume a reality, such that they are reluctant to surprise and please as they used to. Perhaps it’s the old man winter glued flagrantly to his favorite chair who calls out to me in a barely audible grunt and tells me not to make merry as the sun shines. There’s no time to dance, he grouches. I laugh… but that is not the end of it… and I end up asking myself… Do I have provisions for the winter? Is my larder stacked? No. Perhaps I should be more concerned about the inevitable. Perhaps freedom is not right now… perhaps freedom is to forever follow from what is right now.
I feel the weight slowly sink me deeper into thought and I find myself in the sober company of the thinking kind again. I am plucking the strings with my thumbs a lot more now…
I know you must think that I will write a letter so full of relief tomorrow that the winter will feel like spring. That does not make the gravity feel any less weighty right now. It would be utterly wrong to say that I do not revel in the aches that this gives me, or that I am dissatisfied with how I feel. It is only under the existential burden that the most intense of my expression has ever come to take place. My heavier characters await the return of their spirit. Also Sprach Zarathustra wartet auf mich. Whoever happens to have my Graham Parkes’ translation, please return it for the winter.
So as almost always, I leave you with a few pictures from the morning. See with me…
Do you hear the grouchy old man winter sitting around too?
Here’s a very differnt feeling about the old man winter from some two years ago: https://storyofthefootloose.com/2016/10/21/a-strange-tale-of-seasons/
I hope to hear from you.