I’m on the J train as it carves a new tunnel out of gusts of heavy, lazy, wet snow. It is Sunday. There aren’t many people out. It is bright and clear. December is a fascinating, fantastic month: this hinge between autumn and winter. Our modern celebration — American Christmas — is built on the ruins of ancient solstice worship. Buried deep in our casual, commercial holiday, is animistic worship; sun-worship, nature-worship. Late December is Christmas and before that it was the Roman Saturnalia; it is many things. I always feel the few weeks before December 25th go too fast — not because I enjoy Christmas shopping or anything like that, but because I feel the collective energy of the human race quickens. Irrational, silly, even pathetic — the increase in overall hope and yes, cheer, is infectious. The past few Decembers have been warm, and for, miserable — so I appreciate cold, clear, even vaguely snowy days. Even if the cold is an illusion — it still connects me to the deep, ancient tradition of the solstice. No matter how advanced, how artificial, how digital human existence becomes — its foundation is still biological; rooted in our deep pre-history. The sun, the winter sun. It has its own poetry, its own power.