Finally, an early morning. The streetlights on the hill are still lit and the sky is deciding whether or not to drop its dark protection. I have been playing catch up with sleep for some reason and have been uncharacteristically rising in well-established mornings. I missed this feeling, of holding the hand of the day as we emerge into light together. It’s in this liminal space that writing lives with me.
Leading up to and now well beyond my magical Big Sur birthday, I have been becoming reacquainted with the writer Henry Miller. At the Henry Miller Library I picked up three of his books and have been savoring one called Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. It has been my bedtime reading, which means a slow savoring of his writing. Continue reading “Henry Miller and the Hungry Eye”