Crumbs of minutiae. Is there a point in describing them?
What is the point in each scintillating speck? There is no point. The point is not the point.
I don’t know if there’s any reality beyond representation, sensory impressions, neuronal interpretations.
I made a peach clafoutis today, though. Real enough. Maybe that’s the next step beyond “good enough”: real enough.
I’m reading “Alone Together” by Sherry Turkle. It’s the kind of homework I give myself.
We visited friends, and had dinner with them, and that had a good solidity to it.
I’m pretty sure I’m off the radar already for a whole bunch of people. It gives me anxiety.
I need to confront my relational baggage. I don’t know if it makes any sense to write these things, here. But I’ve always found it’s most sensible to heed my heart.
I don’t want to maintain an image. I want a direct line, heart to heart, eye to eye, probably mouth to mouth in some cases.
I’m making room for I-don’t-know-what.