This morning's chill is sharp, in contrast to my dull tiredness, as the garage door rolls up and back. Its springs creak plaintifully above the mechanical chugging and the clanking of metal hinges and plastic wheels. I commiserate with them this morning. For reasons outside of my control and somewhere just beyond my ability to conciously understand I woke in the middle of last night and then tossed and turned for a couple of hours before finally finding sleep again, shortly before the morning alarm. Thankfully not a common problem for me, though today it leaves me feeling as winter-tired as a leafless tree.
See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train—
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought
And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms!
- James Thompson, from The Seasons: Winter
I've been listening to a shuffle of Sigur Rós tunes the last few days, leaving it as-is for this morning's drive. The rich and complex tapestry of their music rolls around my little car's cabin, creating a warm acoustic barrier against the dark pre-dawn morning. The Fiat isn't much more than a little bubble anyway, but this morning it feels totally spherical. Snug as a field mouse's winter nest, and me a claustrophobe who likes small spaces.
Ethereal globe of thinnest glass,
Sphere of air, yet visible,
What hand of nymph or fairy
Could mold thy fragile form,
Airy, bouyant, weighing naught?
And of what clay, if such it be,
Did thy creator model thee?
- Frank M. Schoonmaker (10 yrs old), from Crystals
Today's playlist (all Sigur Rós):
- Inní mér syngur vitleysingur (Live)
- Sæglópur (Live)
- Festival (Live)
- E-Bow (Live
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