Driving to work this morning was like go-carting on the moon -- everything familiar was foreign beneath a blanket of hard, hoary frost and a cottony film of steam floating from the meandering tributaries of Cox Creek. It's this magickal otherworldlyness, this mundanity-in-disguise that helps me get through the lightless grind of trudging to the office in the wintertime. Right this moment, I stand at my post and reject reality as it occurs to my senses.
I dream of long walks in a wool coat, sturdy boots tracing my footsteps in the brittle pine leaves....I dream of horses, castles, cathedrals and catacombs.....I dream of ongoing mystery and investigation, of dancing with danger two steps ahead of the beat....I dream through sleepwalking and slumbertalking, knowing not what or whom I speak of in my somnabulent state....I dream of religion as a state of being, not a state of mind.
