An English In Kentucky


















Saturday December 8th 2012    Tim Candler

    Solstice as Prophecy, offers that chance  to wander beyond a "wishing for the same old, but much better circles."  And here The Artist, in her inimitable way, entered my dilemma of The Winter Solstice of 2012.  She must have sensed the vacuum, so she wandered boldly into my imagination, or what passes for it, and declared she had an idea about how best to address the arrangement of things so that mind might have its opportunity to move beyond the chains of usefulness.  Certainly the Mayan Priests were people, great thinkers, flamboyant in their outfits and art forms, and a person would like to think of them as earnest.   Not for them a devotion to the after-party.  For them, I'd like to think,  it wasn't just a question of putting on the hat, walking around looking serious, then when back in private quarters, a return to the reckless debauch of flesh.  In other words I'd like to think they were serious about their work. And I would understand completely the occasional lapse, during moments of great depression that can be summed by a "To hell with this."  And as well, I can sort of see that lapse developing into a life's work, because lapsing can be "jolly good fun."  And I can see the pompousness of it all, as it shapes a contrast between what should have happened to something like the harvest, and what did actually happen to something like the harvest.

     Yet the minds that predicted a circles end as the Earth reverses tilt on this particular Winter Solstice of 2012, demand some form of recognition.   I can picture them, holding their breath, counting the days, and, on the off chance that not much happens, I can picture them wondering back through their calculations in search of excuses, and who to blame, and all that nonsense from egotistical nuttery.  And out there, where at the moment it is damp, we do have several trees that produce nuts. The Artist calls some of them "Hicker Nuts."  My own description of them is "Hickory Nuts," or I sometimes think of them as  the "Nut of the Shag Bark Hickory Tree," and I do so because I myself, am inclined to a pomposity Mayan Priests would envy. And here I do have to admit that I once thought these particular "Nuts" belonged to the Buckeye Tree, which are poisonous and I'd warn against them in terms that left no one in doubt as to my own sense of native-ness, but fortunately others where I live are often polite or less judgmental.  Either way, this December twenty first, a little after six in the morning, The Artist leans toward a "Hicker Nut" circle, as means to concentrate some part of mind upon the many dilemmas that this years celebration of Winter Solstice will attempt to encompass.   Potato Rock piles, and The Artist proposes the pouring of water.  All of which I think absolutely bloody brilliant, and for the first time in months I sense mass attaching itself to my thinking about this coming Winter Solstice. 

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