finitude, the gardener

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I’m looking at a humongous library of unread tomes (and the publishing world endlessly flowers new titles, of course—wonderful world), so I’m frustrated by the impossibility of absorbing all of it at once (or keeping up with all that draws me).

“The Inner Child and magical thinking echo in ambition,’ he confessed, as if one might absorb it all before writing further?

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).

a little song to myself

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Maybe I’ll post during the next week, maybe not—during the next couple of weeks; or maybe not. Anyway, I won’t be away for long. I won’t abandon you (though we may wish to move to a new place—
I’ll be clear).

You’ve probably not caught up with me anyway.

I'm meritocratic, not undemocratic.

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I have to tell you, I see the blogosphere as largely the new genre of idle chatter. I have no interest in the narcissism of “IMO” spiels, and I really don’t care to be widely read. (That bell curve in high school is humanity writ small, and I’ve always been in the tiny right percentile, which is not lonely [nor elitist!], but which, thank goodness, gives me more cherished solitude, of which I never have enough). I also don’t wish to spend my scarce free time writing things unrelated to my philosophical life
(which tends toward a monographic conception). Elitist? No.
But I’ll vote for meritocracy over populist sovereignty any day.

Prelude ended June 21

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I've derived the comprehensive comprehension I earlier said I sought—but I'm not going to represent it here. (What I earlier said was about the interest in such representation.) Yet, there is a definite topical structure of the evolving Web project that this blog will complement (or may track).

there you are

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Blogging is a free space for a philosophical writer to hide in plain view, “lost” in the massive crowd, suggestive of our metropolitan condition.

lovely planet

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We Earthlings have, make a lovely planet—which I mean lightly, polemically, and cosmically (poetically)—nesting the former
in the latter’s scale, our evolving.

pacific notes

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I’m lucky. I work each day with bright, ultraliberal folks in an environ-ment that’s possibly as progressive as anywhere in the world, in surely the most multicultural place on Earth (or as multicultural as anywhere): the San Francisco Bay Area (I’ve lived in Berkeley over a quarter century [Jan. 13, 2018: now, over 40 years]).

everything's a preface

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Every day is a new beginning, they say—which, by the way, isn’t trivial to survivors or thriving elderly—or anyone in love with living.

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