Haunted, as the Minutes Drag

The year is waning, as is my enthusiasm.
These last six months have involved a lot of geographic rushing around, coupled with the rebuilding of a social life. As that structure went up, it began to grow top heavy with the weight of new friends, acquaintances, and students. I faced a New Years bustling with activity. Instead I pulled a move straight out of Jenga and brought it all down. This week, I will stay indoors alone, with my books and films. As the snow builds up silently outside, I will sit by the glow of the kerosene stove, filling my soul with Coltrane and Bach.
The later is reminiscent of a scene a few years back. I went to visit Roland, an artist friend who lived high up a mountain road where he grew indigo in converted rice fields. One afternoon we sat in his workshop, all senses plugged in. Falling snow for the eyes. Composting indigo for the nose. Bach for the ears. Sake for the tongue. Warmth from a iron stove for the skin. The memory pierces.
And memory lasts far longer than an arbitrary number given to an random period of time in my life, the structure of which is governed by chaos.
The year is waning, as are my words. Not that I put full faith in twelve sheets of paper. Gregory, I thumb my nose at thee.

On the turntable: CocoRosie, "Noah's Ark"
On the nighttable: Julian Barnes, "Something to Declare"