For all this time I thought Bacchus was Roman or possibly Greek but it turns out he was Georgian and his cult originated not in wooden casks but in clay pots which raises the question were those proto Russians the beaker people of their day refugees of another Stonehenge of another time and when did grapes or dates and other fruits of the vine first find themselves fermenting and making that mixture which does the duty of Sidney's poesie to teach and delight surely the sommelier who showed me the best of the reds inevitably dark and dry had a point when he said the only real wines are red and there is no white Georgian I played at conversation offering him the logical point that Georgian wines are therefore real in the relevant sense giving him the point but he told me philosophy or chopping logic was of no use as he was talking about taste and the Georgian tasted best and there was after all no disputing tast...

What if Daedalus was not the daredevil we imagine?  Sure, he was puffed up with cocksure hubris and overweening pride.  Not to deny somewhere in his intention he was stunting or reckless or flying at speeds.  Naturally, for his fatal conceit, the heat of the sun melted the wax on his wings.  Perhaps some invisible solar storm even singed his eyelashes and fringe, like an infernal Chicago tenement gas oven, carbonizing what was left of his angel hair to the point of ash.  Likely, by understandable instinct, he smudged his forehead and cheek with the facts he burned.  Certainly, he pitied himself as he wiped the sweat from his brow and wrung the tears from his eyes by squeezing them tight.  After all, pride must suffer pain, so WASPish mothers tell us at Sunday School.  But was he really so bad, or was there a light hidden under bushels of flaxen feathers?  Was he just being a good father, or mother maybe, holding his beloved tight to his bosom...

The Scottish sceptical philosopher David Hume tells us that our sense that night follows day is slightly better than a suspicion, but falls fall short of certainty, being merely customary. Be that as it may, we are presented daily with a sunrise in the east, enough to make even dishwashing enjoyble. At the very least a cloudy sky brightens somewhat--if we are lucky the pea soup thins to a dappled grey. Sometimes we are treated to an admixture of pink--a sailor's warning--meaning you'd be setting sail into the wind, if you lived in a port city and were planning to embark by sea. Other times we might even risk greeting the morning--or even greeting every moment, in the way the sun is prodigal, returning, discovering, finding us, every one. Sometime, if you are extra brave, try baying at the moon and bidding good morning to a pack of wolves, who will be just as startled as you are. Or just turn on some music to start your day.