the white wind turbine

I cleaned the windows and now I have a clear view on the heavy, grey sky and the snowless neighborhood. N's homecoming made all pieces fall into place. I feel peace – as much as my nature of a neurotic allows. True – I'm susceptible to national hysterias of all kind, that's why Christmas works each and every year: it softens and calms me down. It's when I feel like an old tree for which every moment, so significant for a man, is nothing but one out of a million others it carries within itself; a moment significant indeed, but not as much as to distract the peace. Perhaps JW reminds me of the long tradition of Christmas effectively enough to make me see it as the pure folk wisdom. I feel intuitively the synthesis of the ancient cult of the sun god, the Jewish Hanukkah, our native Christianity – and what not. I love all gods and Gods equally because they love people. (The excess of the gingerbread tends to evoke sentimental bullshit as You, the as vague as non-existent You, can see.)

N. presented us yesterday with loads of blouses and shawls from India, there was also jewelry and old decorations to be hung on the wall. All living room had a smell of an Indian shop. I'm proud of her like of a younger sister, and at the same time at the back of my head I always assess myself according to her measures – measures of an older sister. It keeps the balance.
The dusk is falling, and above the M. village a white wind turbine keeps on spinning. Soon it will disappear in the darkness and it will be exactly how it should be at this time of year. And it will be exactly how it should be.
The cat is sleeping.