A walk down to visit with Highland Cows at dusk, a pocket of last light discovers a patch of grass. What I see is a beginning, the camera finds something more; I exert will and then surrender to a click. We see, later, the moment expressed, and a thousand ways to hold it.
Primal is the love of fire. Primal as well to fight ones way into the world. Americans ritually recreate the fight to be born, as rugged individuals and as a nation, by bottling up fire and then blowing it out into the sky. To fight and be close to death is to be alive. Our old wars are only stories, our current wars are abstracted and hidden, far away in plain sight; in the immediate we make sacrifice on grill, pour out libation, give thanks for the exact opposite of what we should be giving thanks for, broadly speaking. In the immediate, thank you friends.