rain

Today, rainstorms swept through the valley, and when they had ceased, they left a low level of clouds that hung just below the mountain tops, but just above the roads that passed between fields. The mountains themselves had soft, tendrils of clouds that still clung to the tree tops, misty looking fingers reaching back down to the herds of animals below, as if they were seeking the supple touch of life, to tenderly caress. The pale white fog was pouring forth from the sky like smoke from the lips of a wise and stately wizard, puffing away on his pipe. It flowed together through the mountain cracks as if to imitate the subtle nuances of gentle waterfalls. It was a momentary vision of peace, a fleeting touch of enlightenment that had to be delicately gathered in small sips, for big tractor trailers demand attention as well.

I'm building my house wherever I damn well please.

Stumbling

There’s a momentary panic that sets in when a displaced past is brought forward for remembrance. As the rogue memory steps onto the stage of consciousness, lucidity becomes a rising curtain as confusion sets the stage and self delineation is disrupted with the incongruities of the past. A little uncertainty never hurt anyone, which is good, because uncertainty fills the surrounding seats, packing the house as each individual doubt slowly takes a seat. As the mistruths of memory replace forgotten spaces, the characters in this play get a little more complex. The world doesn’t fit well inside the of a skull, so even as the memories are wrapping up you’ve already covered them in a light gloss and dulled the edges for easier consumption. Tomorrow a coat of paint, and some time with a sander will render it blunt and then the patiently built life can continue on as before. Tomorrow we can forget old stepping stones and stumbling blocks and reaffirm our belief in the here and now. Tell ourselves who and what we are. The past is past and we move on so we may become what we may eventually be, whatever that may be. However just now, just for now, remember that not everything went as hoped, remember the pains and remember the trials, and remember that all smooth surfaces and solid stones hide a multitude of cracks underneath.

Education always has some value.

Corinthian

Some things never really serve an individual purpose, only existing to serve as part of a larger whole. Still, even small stones making up a path each have an individual fingerprint, fossil remnant, or some other individual signature that catches the occasional eye, something that sufficiently tugs on a strand of curiosity that gets drawn up and close to intense scrutiny. I guess what strikes a fancy is always individual, and what is interesting enough to pocket and take home is as well. After years have passed, and the little reminders serve their function, we can ponder the stone, whose path is still there, or we can ponder the path, that led us to where we are. Looking back some things always seem less important than others, as there are stones and memories that we did not take with us. Sometimes the memory we’ve chosen to remind us doesn’t always make much sense either. It just seems like a piece of a past whose significance blurred by the passage of time. I remember columns; Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian, but I can’t think of the reason that this might be important.

A mutant gene in human thought.

Uncanny

Isn't it funny, how some things can be too sacred to be touched, so they are hidden away to protect them from familiarity. What is value, when it escapes an economist's hands and is held in mint condition, hidden away, and left unread. How is an idea so important that it cannot be questioned and must be guarded from doubt's cold hands. What of words whose consequences prevent utterance, like love and hate? When do people become untouchable and could we have another Houdini, or are all true heroes really dead? Through legend and lore and listening to the old folk's words there are certain things that take on a holiness all their own. Touching is blasphemous, and understanding is condemned as if it was a wrong to make uncanny heroes merely men.

I would like to add that this post in no way condones Indiana Jones IV.

King Author's court was never so innocent

Crimes

In a firm collection circled round in indiscretion, the old crimes fit into place. As the stories are passed out and roles are assumed, a vague unease gives birth to a new feeling of disgust and displacement, innervated by powerless thoughts. I suppose it didn't matter at first, but sin upon sin has changed the beast's nature, and now what was negligible in the beginning is full-fledged and daunting, a herculean task at the least. I guess all past skeletons clutter together, as no ligaments hold tight to keep the entities separate. It is so easy to open that closet door and have everything cold shut case come spilling out.

Impertinence

Impertinence

As long as history has been recorded, there has always been at least one of our species who just can’t seem to follow the rules. At least one who always has to go where we shouldn’t, who disobeys the sacred laws and draws divine wrath upon us all through the lightning rod of impertinence. It never seems to matter what deity is offended, Zeus or Odin, Shiva or Yahweh, but there have always been certain boundaries that man should not cross, and when they are crossed, the family, the clan, the tribe, or even the nation suffer. The odd aspect is that in a generation or two, it doesn’t seem as bad, and no divine being seems to be especially bothered. Maybe gods just aren’t as concerned as people seem to think. Maybe we were never actually kicked out of a garden, maybe lies don’t make baby Jesus cry, maybe Oppenheimer’s usurping of Shiva’s role wasn’t that big of a deal, maybe Muhammad really doesn’t care if someone draws a picture of him. Maybe it’s just us that condemn and blame and connect random occurrence with some sinful expression of physical frustration, while our divine overseers wait for our daily lives to go to commercial so they can heat up some nachos. If decadence was so despised, why would it be tolerated for so long without consequence? Maybe we’re supposed to learn how to deal with it, and leave the angels to more important things.

I met a traveler from a distant land.

Sand

Between two fingers, a single grain may easily fit, but joined amongst brethren held in palm it loses its idiosyncrasy and becomes one of so many, far too many to count. Turning the wrist, the particles find perspective, and all is lost to the backdrop of infinity. What better place to contemplate the vast expanses of particulate numbers than a beach, or perhaps a desert. Sometimes, an infinite expanse moves in waves, in imitation of the sea, driven by winds that scour stone to component particles that may scour skin from the unwary. Perhaps the sea flatters the continuum, following an exemplar we have not seen. Whether ocean or vacuum or Numidian coast, it is in the wake of infinity that all things lose meaning, with evidence including the works of Ozymandias. So does it matter in matter, when all's washed away and the next day we look upon works in puzzlement instead of despair?

Tuppence a bag, eh?

Mold

Creeping along on stealthy fingers, so thin as to be almost invisible to the eye, there is an unlikely progression that is lively and stretching and thus it is time to feed the birds. The unmistakable sign of life that is mold is vexing when found, though it is a wonderful sign that necessary and incredible processes still proceed. Nonetheless, life robs me, cheats me of my rights, for I bought that very bread this hour last night. So life gives in yeast and I guess takes takes in mold, completing a cycle that has me at the store once again.

Nonetheless, my sink is full right now.

Scour

I’m a slow dishwasher; I always clean everything in a careful, pre-selected order depending on size, dirtiness, material, and personal preference. As long as I can remember, I’ve never deviated from this order. I think it was something set early in my mind by mother just before I took to doing chores. Something deeply seated and inconsequential such that I’ve never thought it was worth it to change. In a way, this order grants has its own freedom. As my body sets in to methods mechanical, my mind wanders with a freedom that seems accidental. Every wipe of a plate, every rinse of utensil, I scour away the dregs of the day and reset my own house in order. Feelings are churned and refined from jagged glass to smooth beads and events are accepted, if not understood. My lips often move in fragments of sentences from pieces of conversation, giving my voice to many. I find forgiveness, I find hope, I find reason, and when all is done I feel prepared for what is next. A small tension has relaxed; a small stress has been eased, for if nothing else is right, at least the dishes are clean.

Because at the end of the day, one doesn't really drink alone.

Ghosts

The strange thing about getting older that we never understood when we were young and rebellious and thought we could do anything, is that the weight of memories ties you down and makes you something new. Far from the Livingston Seagull, the memories solidify our being, like granite statues secured to the ground under an unforgiving gravity. Nights with friends, seeking mischief and stars, have turned to quiet and necessary moments by candle light. It’s been years since I was young, and each passing day has taken some part of me away, and the ever present smiles of ever present friends have all met their point of departure, somewhere along the way. Though eyes are long gone, their ghosts have stayed on, and this dense new companionship of wispy thoughts is a beloved burden I lay down at the end of the day.

Sometimes I prefer Pilates.

Stretch

The road is mine; at least that’s how I see it. There is nothing as singularly remarkable about America as its highways. This is what made Eisenhower great. This is what made America great. Vast tracts of transport linking together people of madly disparate locations and mentalities. There’s nothing more satisfying than the sense of freedom that comes from a long stretch of highway with nothing between yourself and the future. All you are is contained within steel and plastic as you hurtle through time and space. You could be anyone, anywhere at the end of this road, perhaps even dead, but most likely not. All the world falls away as my mind and eyes sharpen, watching the road for dangers and opportunities; my ears are fine tuned to match the radio and the hum of the wind flowing past; and I can feel the vibrations of tread, asphalt, and pumping pistons echoing deep within my soul, all the connections and obligations I adhere to are taken away. I cannot write that report right now, I cannot discuss promises and commitment, because right now, I am driving.

Pugilists pontificate perchance to perceive progress

Canoe

Some things we just can’t fight. Well, we can fight them, so perhaps it is best to say that with some things we just can’t win. I guess it is even harder when you don’t realize what you are fighting. It has taken me years of win-less fighting only to find out that most of that time, I was fighting myself. From Vermont to Philadelphia, then to DC and on to New Mexico, I always thought I was changing my life, changing the circumstances, and setting myself up for a brand new world. Then I’d fall into the same old habits, different people, the same personalities, and worst of all, the same me. I guess if you’re not growing, you’re dieing, and when you spend all of your time paddling your canoe up a flood, you don’t realize that you’ve been slowly killing yourself as you float downstream. You haven’t gotten to the place you wanted, because you spent all the time fighting a torrent of water. Life’s like that. When isolated from the world, out on a little boat, watching the stars or the clouds, the river can almost seem completely separate. A world independent from where we sit. I guess the river sees it differently, and here it is master. It isn't always worth it to fight the flow. Sometimes the best way to go upriver, is to get to shore and walk a different path.

Some things in this world, we just need.

Tremble

It wasn’t until the third day that we found him. His eyes were round and wide, staring into space as if he couldn’t tear his gaze from an invisible train wreck. Nobody knew what was wrong with him at first, not until he jumped up from the hospital bed to finally take the cure. He hadn’t shown up for work in a week and it was only the next Tuesday that his office reported him missing. As we turned onto his street to look for him, there was an audible hush throughout. No children or mothers were in sight, only empty staircases leading up to doorways. Papers fluttered in the winds and were blown every direction, but no noise heralded the passage of air. It was a cold street for a warm summer day, and empty and alone. Each step up to the landing made our hearts quiver, and the echoes of our feet on the stairwell resonated deep in our ears. I never thought we would reach that door, even at the end of the hallway. It seemed an eternity away, and even my partner’s usual banter could only be heard as if through a long tin-can phone line. The door itself seemed much larger than any of us, as if it loomed as a Kubrick obelisk and cast us all in its shadow. When finally the courage was mustered to open the door, the apartment seemed plain and quaint, but it was the kitchen where we found him. Cabinets were strewn open, their contents scattered about. A kettle lay on its side, knocked off the stove and to the floor. There he sat, trembling in his frightened state. We were hesitant to even touch him. What disease was this? What horrible thing had he seen? What had happened, and more importantly, what could we do? It wasn’t until in the hospital that the nature of his affliction became apparent. The cure was obvious once it was known. He lunged at a passing nurse, and was finally able to lay his hands on a cup of coffee.

I love slow motion cameras

Gossamer

Every little breath, every movement is reflected in vibrations that travel across the surface of a droplet of water. So miniscule when normally viewed, but it is seemingly infinite when so close. Momentarily, it dances to an invisible shudder, though the originating twitch is too small to see. Despite rippling movements, the drop remains in place, at least for the moment. In an eye blink the droplet is tossed, taking flight, as it spins and changes shape in the air. Molecules jockey for position as the droplet’s mass feels out a new place to center itself within the amorphous air-borne blob into which it has converted. It never takes long, as in the end gravity takes over and the downward pull is asserted. The droplet is pulled together, still spinning as it rapidly passes leaf and stem, pushing through light currents of air to a final destination below. It strikes stone, and divides itself in collision to seek lower ground. Separated now, it slides down stony surfaces seeking soil in to which it may be absorbed. A dragonfly heads in a different direction, its gossamer wings reflecting in the light.

This is not an argument for creationism.

Creation

Honestly. What are the odds? I’m not asking in the typical manner of out of millions of possibilities what is the likelihood that everything works out just so. Again, what are the odds? How many separate little factors could possibly be involved? Even almost infinitely complex ecosystems boil down to only so many phenomena that determine its existence. A collection of dust collects itself in the middle of space, a waving of an academic’s hand, and a star is formed. Yes, there are many different types of stars, I can appreciate that, but what fine haired difference could possibly be of importance in a roiling mass of fusing hydrogen an eternity away from anything else in the universe that it finds no need to produce planets that are not trapped in a frozen atmosphere or covered in boiling seas of lava? Even the stars that look like our own have shown no tolerance for a temperate world. What possible event, or series thereof, could cause such drastic changes in an object that dwarfs everything of which we can conceive? Only the emptiness within which it is set is greater than a star (or one collapsed). What butterfly’s wings flapped forth the cosmic ray storm that could cause such differences in creation?


Perhaps an explanation. I read today about a planet around a sun like star, but the planet is hypothesized to be covered in Lava. I started thinking of the exasperation of an astronomer searching for Earth like planets, and decided to run from there.

Wes Craven gets his ideas from somewhere.

Furnace

There was once a time when homes were heated using fireplaces or perhaps stoves that burned wood in the middle of the kitchen. But that is ancient history to many and now homes are heated by devices that are sealed away for various reasons (many quite practical) in the obscured regions. You find them in unfinished basements and sealed closet rooms, the secret parts of our lives that a neighbor over for tea is never shown. Likewise, skeletons and shame are hidden in the obscured regions of the mind, which, not surprisingly, serves as a home all its own, though built of stranger stuff than wooden cross beams and polyvinyl insulation. The darker parts of our lives are hidden away, so our neighbors can’t see, hidden in the house of mind, tucked away in the basement or the closet. No surprises come then, when physical objects become threatening, so close to the spirits of hidden memories. Even the dullest object suddenly becomes sinister, hidden in half light, where bare light bulbs connected to dangling strings are enough for maintenance, but little else. Emotionally linked as both are ignored and somewhat repressed, mental shadows merge to become one with the physical, and the kids are told not to play there, as the parental shunning is passed on to the next generation, easy fodder for a prop in a horror movie. Thus a common and useful contraption can become a furnace of nightmares when we forget to shine light throughout every corner of our house.

Some like to write.

Scribe

These are the things that matter. They can be given permanence, they can be given meaning, and they can be given power. Of course, they would be lost without him, but he would be in that same boat without them. This is a life, tucked off to the side as if of little import, but always kept close at hand. A little gray man of no consequence tucked in clothes that bring him no special attention, though he may be surrounded by royal finery or legal garb, his world has no need of such gaudy detail. Wire-rims glasses serve as his jewelry and his sign of station is only in the quality of his tool. His is the world of words and quotes, the historical details that track our movements, passions, and resolutions, and then possess the ability to confine or to free us. As if specially plucked from the twilight zone, these men misfit well in the theatrical environment we construct, and help tie down the determinations of thought. The very words they use give them purpose, and thus a scribe is given reason to be.

See, you don't even need Fox News.

Graphic

I don’t intend to bring people down today, but sometimes when you start playing with words you don’t always get a positive spin on the subject matter.
We don’t always need much, sometimes we get a full blown image, but often just a hint is enough. Painful as it may be to look at images where all is laid bear, sometimes more disturbing are the images where more is implied than given away. Thus we stop and for a brief moment our imagination can take the offensive. Shadows and darkness and the absence of certainty pull at the frayed edges of fear and beckon forth demons long since put away. A desire for completion and knowledge pries open the bedroom door of our childhood, and for that brief instant we are submerged in the sea of our own secret and unloved thoughts. While physical details pour haphazardly like poorly stacked toys onto our bedroom floor, the curtains and the furniture take on the vestiges of discontent and maleficence that we paint on the face of the frighteningly foreign. No inhuman atrocity is far, no monster or madman can be kept away, and every abomination of nature has its eyes upon us. It is all a little too close for comfort, when these graphic pictures unfold themselves in one’s own mind.

Because today is different too.

Iteration

Regular as clockwork, the machinations of the universe tick away, from slow moving pendulum galaxies to the imperceptibly rapid electron vibrations. We keep moving, at least for the time being, until at last we wind down to the tune of entropy. All clocks are really programs, written in a vastly different language than those typed by keyboard. Whirling gears and twisting springs are all just if thens and for loops, marching down to specific outputs that can be written in water pumps or clock faces. It is just taking away a level of abstraction that we often forget is even there. The funny thing is, as the planetary gears turn iterative functions click over. The sun rises and sets smoothly with its daily iteration, the earth annually revolves around the sun, centuries, periods, and eras tick over. Each iteration brings its own change, some more dramatic and profound than others.

Well, it isn't Community Chest.

Chance

Every action has a reaction and thus an outcome. Well, outcome isn’t exactly correct, more like outcomes. There always seems to be more outcomes than what we expect, as if each action moved out in rippling patterns instigating reactions of their own. A bit like little rain drop waves, interfering with one another. The outcomes are many and varied, but on the initial side of the cause-effect divide they are hidden, a select few of the many trees making up the forest. Whether for better or for worse, action occurs, and our bodies lunge forward, our fingers grope to cross the divide and grasp the branches of our desire. But crossing the gap is no small feat, and there is no guarantee of where we land or which waves we produce. Still, with possibility, there is hope, and even if we don’t reach our initial choice, maybe we can come close enough. It is undeniably optimistic, but then all hope is. I suppose that sometimes all we need to take the step across the divide is possibility; we’re just looking until we see that we might have a chance.

What is spin anyway?

Pulse

With each beat, a light pulses. Bright, almost white, at its center, fading through hues of Cerenkov blue to the darkness of space at its edges, the light briefly brightens and then dims slightly, rhythmically speaking to itself. Each beat quickly spreads out from the center, echoing into the void as if on the other side some celestial being absentmindedly was casting drops of water into the center of a pool whose surface was invisible to those of us within its body. With every vibration of the light, a low hum spreads like the brightness of the light itself, and then fades to just below our level of hearing as the light dims. Is this what the heart of the universe looks like, a big bang remnant softly spinning, pulsating, and humming to itself with little regard to any observation? Perhaps this is the quark gluon mix, so small as to make color meaningless, infinitely repeated across the empty reaches of space and within our bodies, beating in and out of phase less in conversation than in a universal song of being. Starting at the edges where the blue cannot be distinguished from the black, purple creeps in, spreading throughout the light, sizes and sentiments change and this ultraviolet mood swing gives way to a dull and moody red. Still, the beats continue and the light has taken on a more familiar shape, and the rhythm matches our own. The vibrations are within now; the sound is the blood rushing through our veins and arteries, the pulse our own inner life. But it is more than blood and more than atoms, an echoing pulse of the dance of existence as we swing about, hand in hand on the dance floor of creation.

For the record

Record


With the development of memory we kicked off a struggle of preservation, though different than what was done before. We’ve been preserving time. From painting hunts on walls to videos of a fat kid who thinks he has a light saber, we’ve been keeping these moments preserved. Amongst our many efforts to preserve a moment in time, we developed wide, flat(ish) discs of vinyl kept in paper and cardboard sleeves.
These moments are worlds into themselves, placed down on rotating tables, platforms propping up geocentric universes and setting in motion their own days and nights. As the world turns, the needle scratches and rhythm and reason tread their way, penetrating the air. Voices erupt, and the comforting warmth of background white noise scratches to those who listen. This world talks and breathes, and through its warm scratching and occasional slip we know the world is there, reminding us where we actually stand, not fooling ourselves that there is no difference between the voice and our own. A small divot tells us a story, a blur in the sound gives us a new memory, the preserved moment’s past, alters the sound and now a new history rises. The vinyl landscape is given valleys and mountains, marks to call its own. The world has its own tale, on top of the one it tells, whirling on until a sudden jerk and the sound is scarred, and the world is put back into its sleeve, and a new one comes out to play.

Thinking of LA, of course.

Today’s word:

Drought

Well, I wouldn’t be too surprised if this word wasn’t a common one on the lips of people from the Western US or certain other parts of the world this year, but it is an unfortunate one to hear.
When mentioning drought, there is always a certain undertone of sorrow, fear, or loss. Is there anything more important than water? Even the long forgotten Pueblo people know the importance of water. Mayans poisoned the water of their enemies, tossing defeated and disgraced nobles into town wells. All societies have developed methods to obtain water, and when they didn’t, they died. So deep inside we all know what it means when there is no water, when there is drought.
The drought is one of the most comprehensive weapons of death. Civilizations can be laid low, crops turn to dust, and lives are swept away amidst drought. In the center, it all looks like hell. No sign of friends, no sign of animals, just rocks and sand as far as the eye can see. Here the blue sky offers no solace, for it only allows the burning sun to cast its gaze on the land below. Shadows are thin and temporary here, and off in the distance, weeks if not months away (provided one could live so long), snow capped mountains mock with their haughty promise of ice’s cool kiss. This land is pain. Every animal that somehow survives this tortuous land looks like some monstrous demon, covered in horns and plates. The trees look like tall warriors of hell whose curse and demand is that they not be touched. The rocks themselves hold the marks of water from long ago, but now they seem almost regretful, as their moist past is long gone. Welcome to the desert, where drought is description and not a temporary state. Those that survive are those that conserve, and their very structure reflects this. The heat is damnable, but at night a new terror rises. The darkness itself can literally turn water to ice, were there water to do so, and it drains the heat from all the land, until the sun rises to scorch it in the morning. The atmosphere is dry, and day and night your bodily fluids imperceptibly are stolen away by the air itself. This is a land that takes, and only the hardiest survive; it is a land defined by drought, a land without water, and a land entirely different from what many of us seek as our own.

I'm not sure where this came from

Today's word is

Circumspect

In Pa Kua, one walks around in circles as part of a meditation that supposedly descended from Taoist monks.
A cautious circle wrapping around something, abstract or concrete, some source of hesitant curiosity is what feeds the circumspection. This is no feeling of a wall blocking the unknown with oneself at its base, staring up into its reaches. It feels like a mystery box, something I can step around, walk about, tower over, but still within it holds the unknown. Wariness and curiosity intermix walking around this box, and tugging at my mind’s edges is the hope that somehow it will reveal its secrets. Residing inside is the vast ocean of infinite possibilities, the unknown that nettles until it is swept away by the hand of certitude. It’d be easy to open it, but what of danger within? A firm distance must be kept, for inside there may be vipers crouched and spitting cobras preparing a salivary assault. It could also be something better. Each step is soft, each breath hushed, as I slowly make my way around, inspecting every angle, listening attentively for the slightest hint of what lies within. Given enough time, my steps would erode away the soil and encircle the enigma in a dry moat, but that would never satisfy the questioning fingers that have now gripped my mind. Oh damned spirits of inquiry, you force my hand so often and yet again. And so a tentative step is taken inward, questing hands reach out to reveal…

About last night....

In honor of this auspicious occasion, today's word is:

Genesis

I think it is very natural for someone to connect the word Genesis with the bible, being the first book therein, but I’m not too religious of a fellow, and I don’t connect to the bible so well.
To me, Genesis brings up visions of a stormy, lightning prone primordial Earth and a rocky cradle cupping an amino acid soup that first develops the infant origin of life. I think I saw that on a Star Trek episode. Supposedly only one true beginning occurred, so all other beginnings have developed from pre-existing conditions. Everything comes from something, life from the primordial soup. It always seems that the stage is set, and then something… unexpected occurs.
This beginning cycle is repeated over and over all throughout time, whether it is the birth of a star or the growth of a sapling struggling to break through the soil. Unfortunately, everything that comes into being must fade away, mountains are eroded, glaciers melt, and Roman walls eventually crumble. Though inevitable, decay can often be postponed, even warded off for a time. A star may extend its life through accretion, Everest gains height from the very forces from which it was born, and an oak may continue on through the seeds that become its progeny. All of things must touch their source to continue. Even amphibians remember the water as their origin; when they forget, they dry out and die. All of life’s great experiments end when they lose the connection to the beginning, and this occurs too often too soon. In my eyes we’ve wandered, many of us at cross purposes, but today we get back to touch the beginning, knowing our source and restoring ourselves. Reaching back to the murky primordial soup of the Delaware River, I believe today we remember our genesis, and thus the stage is set.

Start tumbling

I’ve pondered on the different meanings and tones that words can take over the years, and after reading a short section of a book describing the flexibility of definitions, I thought I’d do an experiment. I will post different words each weekday (as I can) and include a short paragraph describing how the emotional state the word puts me in. The idea isn’t to deliver the hard and fast definition of a word; it is to do a bit of free association with the word’s environment from one’s perspective. Now, the experiment is for you to do the same. In the comments, just include the word and contribute a paragraph or two about how the word makes you feel.

So in that vein, today's word is

Sojourn

When I hear this word, I can't help but think of the Soyuz spacecraft. Other than what may or may not be coincidental pronunciation similarities, these two words do not intrinsically have too much to do with one another. In my heart, these two words do share a common thread. A sojourn is a temporary stay, as are all of our ventures into space, and like these ventures my sojourn carries an innate uncertainty.
My sojourn is not part of a well laid plan, and is not just a marker on the map of my trip, at least not yet. I have no clue where I'm going next, and I am only staying because I don't know where next I should go. I feel like I'm outside a hut at the edge of a cliff, looking out into a great valley, but the valley is obscured by a rolling fog bank that only occasionally offers tantalizing hints of what is beyond. What next? What next? I wonder if this is a leap of faith, or if that is just a foolish thought. I can't find the path, I can't see where to step next or from where it is best to leap. I don't know what's ahead of me, and it is a bit frightening, a bit distressing. What if I miss my chance? What if I choose wrong? So steeped in uncomfortable uncertainty, I watch and wait, looking for a sign of direction or for some internal gear to click and tell me to take action now. I'm looking for the answers, but there is no clear path ahead of me. So I wait.