Life and death are mostly incomprehensible, though we often try to convince ourselves otherwise.
It’s approaching three months since I last wrote anything in my gardening journal. Since I last wrote anything at all. The urge or inclination to write is cyclic, like the whorling seasons. And as frustratingly sporadic and reliably unpredictable as bursts of unseasonable weather. The process of writing demands a greater input of concentrated energy […]
Today is a day for thinking about doing. Not actually doing.
Still. Pensive. Synaptic- Line’s eye’s furnace of white flickering colts