I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

And this is the slowdown. I learned from all those mornings of weekly commuting,

I learned from all those mornings of weekly commuting, living in Burlington, Vermont, and teaching in New York City, that my passions run in every direction.

To the critique and dismay of friends I would simply say

travel fulfills the country mouse city mouse in me. I need the clamor of New York

city, cuisines from around the world, islands of people at

busy intersections waiting to merge, strangers dancing salsa together at park concerts, the tenderness of visions and art museums and

galleries, not to mention my Trinidadian barber.

Equally so, I need the pastoral simplicity of Vermont, as forested

mountains and open fields, as white steeples, tumbling streams,

its picturesque red barns and snowy pastures.

I contain multitudes,

and sound my barbaric yop in sub-zero weather and in stultifying subway stations.

Why shouldn't I consume the breath of the world, consume all that satiates my curiosity and longings.

I am always at the ready to discover the secrets of the universe.

But then, deep winter arrives and my choices rescind. The idea of leaving the house, let

alone the state feels unfathomable.

In winter, my disposition devolves to a burrowed stillness.

We're walking across the tundra and breaking the top layers of ice crust satisfies some psychic

purpose.

I anchor deep into the pleated foes of dark days and nights that vacillate between a dreamy moonscape and an Arctic

polar station. My routines turn my home into a monastery. I devour books, sit beside wood fires, and give myself over to a spiritual

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