The gravel “porch” southwest of the cabin is where the Heeler and I customarily plant ourselves at sunset. It doesn’t offer an unobstructed view of the sky — far from it, since it’s tucked among the trees between the driveway and the shed. What light it does admit is filtered by leaves and needles and branches.
Arguably the best part of our sundown spectacle, then, often can be seen by looking not west but east. Here’s what I mean:
In that image, a shaft of low-angle light has pierced the forest canopy and illuminates a chunk of dolostone. It paints part of the rock a soft, warm, deep red.
You’d have to see it in person to grasp just how other-worldly it is. Positively magical.
Maybe that’s why I prefer these shorter days — less time between the morning and evening “golden hours.”
You may not believe this, but it’s true — I wake up in a good mood every day. It’s a gratitude thing, and I’ve never been more grateful than I am now.
Wednesday morning, though, I was full of pent-up something-or-other. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t frustrated. But even if I couldn’t explain the pressure, I felt the need to uncork and relieve it.
Fortunately, the life I live offers endless ways to do that.
I fetched my splitting ax from the shed and got to work on the pile of bucked hardwood I’d hauled down from the high ground a while back. It’s the sort of work I love, and this time I was doing it not only to heat my home but for its curative powers.
The task went quickly. The ax swung smoothly. Each blow landed with a satisfying crack, and the wood split more easily than I expected.
I’m not in shape for this kind of work, not yet, and my arms turned to rubber after a while. When I noticed that the ax head wasn’t hitting where I aimed it, I stopped.
It was the right thing to do. Still, by the time I walked away from the jumbled high-ground pile, I’d processed about 90% of what could and should be split. That translates into enough firewood to keep my stove stoked for three or four days, maybe longer.
That pleased me. So did returning to the cabin minus the indeterminate stress I’d felt earlier.
So-called “reaction videos” are a thing. The premise is to capture the (allegedly) blind reaction of the host to something they’ve never seen or heard before.
A hip-hoppin’ hood rat hears Charlie Daniels for the first time. A rugby fanatic from the UK sees The Ohio State University Marching Band execute precision formations. A voice coach is gobsmacked by Karen Carpenter. You get the idea.
If you’ve seen one, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve pretty much seen ’em all.
I make exceptions, of course. There’s a kid by the name of Isaac who claims to be a music producer, and yet he’s totally unfamiliar with music popular before 1990-ish. He solicits suggestions from his YouTube subscribers to help him decide what to listen to and react to.
He seems to be genuine and fairly knowledgeable. I’ll watch him from time to time.
Recently, Isaac listened to the original recording of Tommy, the groundbreaking “rock opera” by The Who. (I’m gonna assume that most of my readers, at least my contemporaries, are familiar with Tommy. If you’re not, look it up.) Through the first part of the album, he clearly was struggling to grasp the whole concept of the work. Eventually, he “got it” and settled into his usual reacting and critiquing.
And then came “Cousin Kevin”:
We’re on our own, cousin
All alone, cousin
Let’s think of a game to play
Now the grownups have all gone away
You won’t be much fun
Being blind, deaf and dumb
But I’ve no one to play with today
Do you know how to play hide-and-seek?
To find me, it would take you a week
But tied to that chair
You won’t go anywhere
There’s a lot I can do with a freak
That rattled young Isaac. The look on his face said it all.
Next up, “Uncle Ernie”:
Your mother left me here to mind you
Now I’m doing what I want to
Fiddling about
Fiddling about
Fiddle about
Down with the bedclothes
Up with your nightshirt
Fiddle about
Well — first a cruel bully, then a pedophile. Poor Isaac was reduced to mumbling, aghast at what he was hearing.
At least I had no doubt that it truly was a “blind” listen.
The ’60s and ’70s were different, culturally. If you were alive and conscious then, you know that it was a raw and risky time. To say it was tumultuous would be an understatement.
The art of the day reflected that.
I, for one, am glad that I was around to see, hear and experience it as it shaped (and was shaped by) the wider world. Music, cinema, theater and visual arts were better between 1965 and 1975 than at any other time in my life.
You can’t change my mind.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable