solar-systemic living

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We’re commonly a world of inestimable volumes of little messages born of episodic attentions (which is all a market needs) grown from ephemeral interests. We give more attention to what’s shocking than to what matters. A string of “newsfeeds” fills our need for narrative (which hardly needs integrative sense when one’s own life mirrors the limitless improvisation of being in time), as if a simulacrum of meaningfulness is a sophisticated realism.

The essayist is a nuisance, along with moralists.

Anyway, a writer has a pleasure of defining by exclusion what’s not worth attention, as well as a burden of scarce time to detail all that’s so worth appreciation, so much that truly matters.

So, a thematic pointillism pretends to trope a wealth of meaning we might uncommonly cherish, rather than a mass of ephemera we commonly sustain, as if each day might be filled with non sequiturs because there is just so much to possibly experience that any actual day might feel like a random wealth.

May creative life be a manifold order, a conceptuality worthy of the good life growing it.

Love literary mindedness, for it tropes the best in our humanity (even when barely exemplifying its love memorably).

Let there be life for good reason and reason for philosophical interests. Let our embodied lives—our sensibilities—want to live excellently, even if we’re unable to satisfy our hopes.

Let us grow happily old for a good death.

Let the public intellectuals be good entertainment, the health of nations a pervasive sacredness, planetarity our absolute relativity, and enhancement of our humanity playful adventuring.

Let us accept our place in the cosmos as mere Earthlings—love our humanity—not needing to become the silent gods.

Let us always be solicitous of chances to learn everything there is to learn, and love our days well.

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