Palm to stone two, slag
Hello you bright minds before glowing screens. This letter comes to you from a peninsula astride summer to the very end, where at sunset dragonfly wings shuffle overhead and monarchs lift from the rattling cottonwood leaves against a luminous backlit mineral sky. Sunlight arrives these days from an angle right at the wheeling edge of memory. Do you know what I mean?
We resume our work this month with the image of the cupped hand holding a little water, which last month inverted before our eyes to a dolomite boulder cool beneath the high-summer heat — and presently inverts yet again to a blazing crucible, awful and numinous as the cyclopean sun-disc itself sinking to the water. Could this be anything but a further invitation? On we go.
So yes, I’ll let that stand on its own for now. I will say that I intend this to be the first in a series of wonderings at the forgetting I mention there at the end. How, from here within the forgetting (remember, I speak as a settler myself), might we begin to dissolve its maladaptive shell? How might we, in the optimistic spirit of Ed Abbey, crack the dam? We’ll pick that up next month, but until then, do engage me with your own wonderings on the matter, wherever you may be.