Bells of Misono

Above is a video of my neighborhood at dusk.
Every autumn and winter evening at 5pm sharp (6pm during the summer), just as the last bits of sunlight are reaching and stretching over the mountains and revealing all of colors that hide in the air during the daytime, the Misono bells play echo their song off the hills and over the fields. It's a sign that soon darkness will come, and invitation for children playing baseball at the elementary school's sandlot, and for the grandfathers, hunched over after more than forty years of kneading and turning the soil, to come on in and wash up for dinner. As idyllic and nostalgic this sounds, it still rings true to the state of things in this neighborhood of Misono.

Of course we are advance beings now, deserving of luxuries our ancestors could yet dream, because when they were children and lying and roughhousing in the fields of their naïveté, the things that are now possible were still six or seven imaginary generations away. Now in a generation we've replaced the beacons of homecoming, the last bit of light trying to outrun the Earth, speeding us away from the sun, our source of life, with the 7/11, our flourescent supplement burning 24/7. That math doesn't add up.

I prefer being the idyllic square on a board of circular and triangular holes than follow the neon bug zapper to the grave.