Summer rushes through fall, long after it should retire. It's bones and sinews older, ragged, kept awake at night by rheumatism and indigestion, powering through the day on a steady drip of adrenaline. Hits winter's wall: Slow down! Winter cracks its whip, ice where once was blood. Movement becomes impossible, the body wants hibernation. To go underground until spring, exploring caves in darkness where the temperature stays the same. Wiping chalk and blood on the wall, leaving a lasting human legacy like garbage, like plastic, forever. The sun spit back out again, and the sleepers wake, leave the cave.
At 11 below 0 farenheit, the first breath I take in the morning hurts. Nose hairs and snot freeze immediately. The ache that takes 20 minutes in 20 degree weather sets in within 20 seconds. 3 minutes later frost begins to form on my mustache. Having lived in the south for most of my life, I have yet to adapt to this experience. Cold infiltrates. Drills to the marrow, can feel it all day. Even after I've sequestered myself back in the warmth of my cave for a few hours.
The fascicular spiral, wound tightly round bone in summer has less torque, less potential with frozen tissue. Warming up seems to take more time, I have yet to master tummo, but still grasp at stoking cellar heat. I won't give up. In winter I feel my age, or older. Aches and pains don't disappear and remain for days before abating. The heat of practice stills them somewhat, but distracting my neurons seems more effective in most cases.
In the absence of movement I can watch for transmissions issuing forth from the hole in my brain. Make something out of nothing. The active brain searches, watches. The tired brain interprets. Winter questions survival, brings out the death trance, very peaceful, very visionary. I write everything down now. I draw it all into a story. Winter provides the opportunity to get work done without the distraction of the out of doors. I can stay in my warm, modern, cave: drawing and dreaming until the harsh season's secret explodes into spring.
12 more pages by September. I think I can I think I can I think I can I think I can.