Susan drives her little black truck from my cottage to the still house. Getting out, she stands waving at the helicopter as I ride by shooting photographs. Tourists walk by her and she continues on with her work. She is Glenfiddich, as are the numerous Brian's and Ian's, Andy's and Peter's, all parts of a whole of a making of a world, an industry.
These are the moments in our personal histories that are a part of the greater whole of making one's way in the world by doing our work to bring supper to our tables and be a part of the human life. As everything repeats, everything becomes beautiful to each ones self by virtue of the making of ones own life on this planet. Microcosms repeat and repeat and repeat, we are all wholly one unit moving about in our independent moments that we fancifully believe to be personal. And they are! And private too, but we share them with time and each other. It is good to share. But these microcosms return to the circle that is Susan (the only Susan) waving at a helicopter as I fly by shooting photographs of everything (and the everything that is everyone) I see.