saturdaynote

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I forget postings as a matter of course, wanting to move on. I may happen to skim an old posting, but impatiently because I don’t want to get drawn back into a moment of life I’ve left. I’m like a painter who finishes something as if only to start a new canvas. 

Past weeks of work have been very rewarding. But I’m in thick woods, unready to report out, while my self-imposed Saturday update began to haunt on Wednesday, feeling intrusive Thursday, and now here. 

All the deadlining, though, is good for coming up with something.

“Tell us where you are now, or you’ll be abandoned.”

As if I haven’t abandoned myself countless times for the sake of cherished solitude.

So, he comments on another NYTimes article and does another confessional posting; then returns to his offline thicket of words.

saturdaynote

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I finished my cherished project, “Spring Points,” which implicitly alludes to the sections being bases (backgrounding) for later work. Yet, I also have “secret” interest in constellating which is phenomenally troped by pointillistic thinking in art.

“Night neighbors the stars.”

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prelude

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Wording words in days going by…
Is want of novelty the point of narrative play?
Some solitude of high flourishing, love of, in creative living
reads another for literary venturing of comprehensive
inspiration, authoriality reserved
in authorship, more Earthly dancing

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being well during a pandemic

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Early April’s holism about “weathering the war on virality” got merged into an extension of all that, which is now a focused excursion relative to excellent journalism regarded as a digital commons, mostly employing articles from the NYTimes.

That becomes a somewhat rigorous appreciation of how a small set of relevant articles become an annotated conversation about American humanity (between the article authors and myself).

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