A Slice of Light

Darkness to darkness, bridged by a slice of light. This could describe a day, or a life. A Chicago winter means the darkness will be expansive; the chill will be felt deep in the bones. I switch on my little space heater for an extra source of heat, my coffee pot beeps to tell me that the 'witches brew,' is ready; I jump like Pavlov's dog to the sound, and fix myself a good cup of joe.

Last night, more dreams of sound and fury, but this morning, I can't recall them, my head still buzzing with events I'm unable to retrieve, leaving me alive in the silence of a 'jingle, jangle morning.' It's too cold to run this morning, the windchill is subzero, so I sink a little deeper into the 'center of my head,' and assume the valence of the 'contemplative man' (see Crowley's version of The Hermit) walking in darkness, carrying his own source of light, followed by the three-headed dog (seeing past, present and future) named Cerebus.

Most of the action today will be in my head (what's the name of that song?): 'Makes me glad, that I'm not dead.' There's a sadness, and a pleasure in wrapping up in layers of heavy fabric to take on the elements. Mother Nature can be a hard mother, but we must be reminded that winter is not a judgement or punishment, no, it is just another turn of the wheel.