Stonehenge

Reminds me of Arkansawyer Excursions. Not a company, nay, though the esteemed Mssr. Arkansawyer ought to become a tour guide for society’s introspective elite. If you need to reflect in the wet pools of life, and can’t make it to the methane-laden melted permafrost of Siberia, try southern PA’s backroads. Hmmm, and he’s a disciple of Charles Kuralt. Do I sense a kinship here, a virtual meeting of like minds that, in the spirit of yesterday’s post, spans across the force field of life and death? My friend Anne collects rocks – they ‘speak’ to her as well, so there’s a continuum of mystical modes out there.

[break in the action: how can people be such…jerks?... in the morning commute? Do they really think getting a few car lengths ahead whilst passing on the right, is that really worth anyone’s time? I now use DNA Determinism^© to erase their pathetic and failed genetic branch from existence…]

Back to the matter at hand. JW and I see things differently but surely could wow you at a covered bridge or railroad crossing. Especially when silent, and preferably on a dreary day, these testaments to our legacy-building stand out as Supreme Points for Introspection. Also mystical, as I hear the lament of Howling Wolf, the Roberts (Plant and Johnson), and the simple silence of a misty morning as it works on your mood, your raison d’être and your sense of place in this vast barely charted expanse of ‘mood-place.’ Hence my reference to Stonehenge; centuries apart yet they call to us. (Blogs are great – you write any sort of drivel and your stream of consciousness goes unedited into the ether!)