winter 2022

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My fun “memo to the unresponsive gods” honors the futility of hoping for extraterrestrial Contact soon.

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Saturday, Jan. 13

“Confessing a lovely integrity” is a humble vanity about protean aloneness which is creatively happy.

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café transcript on the identity of Art

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A problem with autobiography is that detailing the past after many decades is too time consuming: The smallest event can become stories within stories within. And I’ve still got a life to live.

So, given that there’s no perfect beginning—certainly not beginning with childhood—“In The Beginning... Once upon a time...”—I’ll just recall something that suits my mood, whatever the day.

How it all hangs together will have to emerge (if at all) somewhere ahead.

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avoiding autobiography

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I have no idea how many letters and emails I’ve done that contain passages which could be usefully extracted for use elsewhere.

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autumn leaves

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Welcome, lovely solitude for longer, easier work times, since the college kids (undergrads) are gone from neighborhood ambiance for a whole month.

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Dec. 16

Days go by… “saga of crafting life” (below) resulted from dwelling with a singer’s particular song which was evidently in the wake of a broken love. My non sequiturs respond to specific points in her song.

My occasioned posting on Heidegger, “engaged being,“ coincidently complements my above pretense of sagacity.

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