you own me dear winter, you own me.

Perhaps it is laziness; or winter. This endless, endless winter, a thing entirely unknown to me. Mike reports from Los Angeles that it is in the 70’s. People walking about in t-shirts and sandals. He rides his bike. My father, in northern California, waters the flowers and trees. I do not water the flowers or the trees, for they are still hidden beneath snow, or bare. Black skeletons on the white land. It is this winter, this oppressive lack of sun, this world of grey and black and white, this world bereft of blue, that keeps me from wishing to write here. I am amazed by the lack of drive that comes with the lack of sun for me. I suppose I would just sit on some couch drinking red wine if I lived in Portland, Oregon. Perhaps that is a good idea.

At first it is a gift, a blessing of the gods. This cold air, and the snow {or rain} and the nights by the fire. It fuels me and pushes me, and all I want to do is stay inside and create. But now, NOW, all I want is to step outside, and feel the warmth of the sun. I want to look at the sun. drink the sun. eat the sun and watch the sun and lie beneath the sun and drink wine in the sun and play guitar in the sun and……………..not to sound like I am complaining.

And so we return from New York. New York the beast and New York the beautiful gracious lover. New York the city that kills us and gives us life all in the same breath. I have so much to write, but my body, my brain, is so restless. Shaky-legs. I think, how can I lazily describe our time there, and my newfound understanding of that glorious city that I so love and so hate, in as few words as possible. I cannot.

The gates you ask? What struck me most, was the pilgrimage of humans. It was like the crusades without all of the murder and rape and social destruction. {How does that qualify for a dazzling description?} I refrain from posting photos, as I can only imagine you’ve all seen more than enough.

oh, alas, the laziness wins for the day. I surrender. I give in. you own me dear winter, you own me.

better yet, go read my wife's journal, as she wrote all about it. there.

Posted by jeff pitcher at March 7, 2005 02:24 PM

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