ephemera stew

Sunday, December 13th, 12 degrees F. Old squeaky snow lays in puffy glaciers.

A certain stability has arrived somehow, after much striving, straining, sore muscles and tear soaked cheeks. I get up, work at something, sleep, worry about something. Movies calm me down. Books seem naked and strange, like dead baby birds in the snow. I try to read them anyway. The sun is a joyful friend when seen. The shadows are omens of deaths to come. The winter season is in full on death knell, everything seems dead, dead wind and light, blood pumps reluctantly through veins of forgotten origin.

The leaf stoma closed, enclosed in ice and nibbled on by a dying squirrel. Smells are everywhere, my sense of smell seems to grow each day. Ghosts can smell but not taste, touch, eat, hug. They are a sense cut off from the others. The smell without the taste is so lonely, the touch without the whisper is unfinished. We are clusters of neurons, nerves, muscles, which all desire some form of satisfaction, some connection. We are metanetworks of sensory information being comprehended in life and dream.

Life whispers so softly underground in the soil, the earth our home, our primal birthplace. The soil smells of sugars and acids and ice. Water flows like stone in the winter, slow and unhurried. We are at rest, yet continuing onward, our flow in different tempos; freezing, melting, burning, fossilizing, being born, dying, slowing, speeding.

Heaven exist above the flame, and so we lick the toes of the clouds.