sort-of haiku,
lightly sketched intuitions,
notes and lessons,
records of my feelings,
foibles, strivings,
and any other tidbits that might help me fathom this movement called life.
I cannot escape the need to record
in some public archival format
my impressions.
An urge to look back and to see myself
and how I was in that way,
to make meaning from the bits, the impressions.
Ok?
What’s with the moons?
I think being curious about time keeping,
among other things,
asks our whole, animal body
with regularity what’s happening
really
in the places that we’re from.
The moon shows itself so plainly, like new blossoms and falling leaves.
Terra est ecclesia mea, if I got the Latin right.
The moon changes, the seasons change,
the world is chaos, and it isn’t.
Cycles, circling.
I don’t know anything.
A little language play
It’s a small fancy, here.
A way to pay attention differently.
I name my moons, as many others departed have done.
I work to watch time in a new-but-old fashion.
Inside of that structure, I watch myself.
With language, we can create a different kind of power for ourselves.
When we name things, we get at things differently:
we see, taste, recall, feel, predict, and change
those things we name.
On it goes
Like all things, this is an in-progress thing.
Earnest as fuck: no apologies.
Back, forth or side: all steps.
Pleasure and pain: one source.