I cannot bear much TV or radio talky-talk anymore – it all seems like a constant volcanic eruption of shite – one is pummeled by the sycophants of the left, or the lunatics of the right, by the ‘objective’ media showmen and women who so obviously savor their closeness to power, by sports’ talk inanities, and then on channel after channel, acute inflammations of celebrities, food, reality shows, and the real stories of aliens among us.
I do like Pandora where I can effortlessly dip into Sam Cooke or switch in a few words from Mozart to Johnny Cash and only an occasional advertisement interrupts the flow of music. And I like the woods, especially now in the mornings where the slant of light is so sharp and acute and bright that it looks as if it originates on the things it layers instead of coming from the Sun. The birds are gone. 
The dogs pad along and do not bark. The morning wind, rising, strikes the tops of trees and stirs about what’s left of leaves. The friction noise of truck tires on Route 23 intrudes, but that’s all, and I find that I rarely need purity in anything anymore so it’s fine. I like the cold now that it has finally come and the almost silence of the woods and the unreasonable sense that occasionally time slows down and that we have more of it if we can just cut out the frills and mess that we too often tolerate.
I attended a wedding on Friday night, a low-key affair, comfortable and welcoming, and when I watched the happy bride dance with her daughter, I felt as if I were seeing an archetype that captured one of the core meanings of joy, as if a real-life enchantment, stripped of its extravagances and fantasies, emerged as this dance, in this sharp moment.
Later, as I was leaving, the cold in the parking lot felt even better, and I drove away smiling, thinking of that dance and of other things that rescue us.
The Wedding Dance by Pieter Bruegel
