Today was the official summer solstice for the northern hemisphere. The day lasted almost sixteen hours in New York and the sun never set in Murmansk, Russia. I woke well before the dawn and went to sleep far past sunset, as the Earth polar cap tipped toward the nearest star 93 million miles away from our home planet.
Five hundred year after the discovery of beer by the Celts the Druid priests gathered the tribes to erect this monolithic bluestone clock to record the rising and setting on the sun and the passage of the stars. To this day modern archaeologists will not attributed this great feat to the Celts, because the true tribe supposedly arrived in Britain in 600 before Caeser’s reign over Rome.
Fucking Brits haven’t even discovered its ancient name.
No one has come even close.
No one.
Not even us remaining Neanderthals.
The Avebury henges followed Stonehenge’s creation.
Back in 1994 I drank in a good pub at the northern entrance.
I also climbed to the top of the Sillbury Hill.
Scientist have calculated that its construction took five hundred men fifteen years.
And over two seas of beer.
The exact purpose of the hill remains unknown.
The view from the top is good, but nothing special.
Stonehenge has its rivals such as the Hopewell Project in Bangkok.
Or Manhattanhenge in New York.
And who can forget the eternal bliss of Foamhenge in Virginia.
It’s now 2:33PM
In Brooklyn.
I am ready for a nap.
Longest day of the year or not.
With my head to the west.
As it should be on the summer solstice.
