one's philological condition

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Days go by, and I digress, reminded of our universe, anticipating our evolving nature, accelerating Time, our capability for facilitating broad-based human development.

traces

rivulets are drawn
to their valley like a regioning
tree says fractalic
code of eonic time

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I'm here

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—just not yet ready to exactly begin a new register of conceptual adventuring—which will remain in continuity with the circumspective discussions I’ve done the past couple of years (but the past is preface).

Caring for theory of value, pursuing “truth” and “realism,” humanity and excellence, etc., wherever—so serious (rightly)—is also, for me, fun, thank goodness, because finding fun is intrinsic to living well.

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posting as self-diagnostic opportunity

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Sometimes, I upload a note because it seems to be certainly what I want to say, then the next day dread that I was so—fill-in-the-blank: so obviously lacking insight, or so oblique, or so clichéd, “whatever”
(the all-American category).

as she lay dying

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On my way to the commuter train before sunrise Thursday, I made my usual left turn into the parking lot, and my windshield exploded. It was a bicycler from nowhere out of the dark suddenly crashing head first over the hood of my car.

During the first minute of hysterically waiting for the ambulance, I thought she was dead. I was kin to a hand-wringing Iraqi on a street after a suicide bombing.

the past is preface

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I began blogging in September, 2004, and continued fairly prolifically—postings now moved to the beginning months of “conceptual prospecting.” I made only postings that were valuable to me
(thereby posting irregularly), no impulsiveness involved
(contrary to the blog ethos).