Being outside on a winter morning

It feels like a time to be real. That is, to look straight ahead with some sort of peripheral vision.

I've always liked this kind of time, the time when I think, what I think is important, my thinking, with all its resources, must be brought to bear on my experience and, if it is, something good might happen not only for me but for others.

The only real art is made by a person thinking, and feeling.

As horrible as post-WWII Russia must have been, stadiums were filled for poetry readings. And Joseph Brodsky, born Leningrad 1940, could write, "Love is essentially an attitude maintained by the infinite toward the finite."

What would we do without poets? We love them because they're rare, there being so few of them.

I've been reading Yeats too, a Yeats poem a day. The music still rises to the occasion.

I wonder: what better aspiration could a human being have other than to be or to become a fun person to go to a museum with?

 Still Life with Ears, photo by author, January 28, 2020.