It seems as we all race toward our individual and assorted personal demises, that our species is fast forgetting the collective "why".

As the saying goes, each "earns his bread by the sweat his brow", and through that sweat the bulk of the carbohydrates from previous meals are spent on the perpetual processes of life, to make more bread while associating with those who enjoy the same work and bread. The bread could be literal or figurative, monetary or literary, but the sweat still produces the bread and the people crave each other. The bread is the connective tissue of the spirit, a sacrament of each day's flow.

There are many who still do so, whether by choice or by necessity, but the preponderance of those who would eat bread prefer bonny sweet pastries, prepared by others and paid for by other's sweat, as long as that sweat has no physical contact with the food itself.

The eaters would sit, on velvet cushions, babbling about fluff and fashion, carried there and back by the latest conveyances with all available conveniences.

No wonder we're so fat and bored. We're avoiding the real reasons to eat.

I took my leave Sundee Morn to strap on the old snowshoes and head up toward Grizzly Gulch via the Hell Hole. Great snow, superlative scenery and dandy temperatures, topped off by that fleeting spice named solitude and a dash of physical exertion.

Wouldn't have changed much if I could have.

As water about to boil is cloudy with intent and heat

I sometimes quake at the appearance of the world about me,

a numenous dread of power unshown.

perhaps a brief moment of spiritual vanity,

to pretend to a sense of things far larger than me

something beneath and beyond and

written of as fact in a thousand books and holy writ.



Ours is a body of time,

some live within the veins and organs of the body

ranging over the vast skin of a penumberal kingdom within

and without;

still, the thin line is woven through my thoughts

by ghosts and proper souls alike.

And time through arteries and organs in my body

spins and wobbles

weaves and feasts

on a hundred intentions unfollowed each day.



Having arrived at every decision through care

and a certain amount of divine indifference,

God's shoulder remains a place to lean upon-

process completed,

from sufficient to unnumbered to overrun;

we recognize ourself again

as if from the outside.

Hyrum the boy had a birthday had a fine birthday yesterday, onward and upward!

Posit: One of the greatest problems in our society is a reliance upon rigidity in enforcement of standards, rather than rigor.

Wishes to you for a happy and hopeful new year. I hope there is much to rejoice in and look forward to in the latest arbitrarily renewed Gregorian calender year!