some backyard burning
I've had a couple of 'moments' recently. Those times when out of unpleasantness, a new direction comes. It may not be good or bad, but it's forward (I think).
One thing I've done is to step away for a little while from lists and ease the sheer amount of material arriving in my inbox. One of the triggers was a small unpleasantness which got my back up and I bought into with my own nerve up (again, born of other matters). But that great teacher, hindsight, allowed me to see it as maybe for the best.
I have been using the blog more, getting into a different mix, so to speak, as one way of dealing with 'the moment' (more on that soon).
Of course, I still like to get mail and responses. And I note that comments keep coming. Everything is out there. What to do with it all.
On my wall, straight in front of me, I have blutacked five postcards showing Paris streets. Each is accompanied by the picture of a writer who lived in one of these streets. I often particularly look along rue Descartes (Paul Verlaine lived at no 39). You walk along rue Descartes into the rue Mouff' (one of my favourite Paris streets, though it has changed a bit for the worse in recent years). Everything is in front of you, but how the ephemeral and the virtual can connect with real time and flesh. Something bodily, like having walked there, something personal such as I say and you say, an exchange?
One thing I've done is to step away for a little while from lists and ease the sheer amount of material arriving in my inbox. One of the triggers was a small unpleasantness which got my back up and I bought into with my own nerve up (again, born of other matters). But that great teacher, hindsight, allowed me to see it as maybe for the best.
I have been using the blog more, getting into a different mix, so to speak, as one way of dealing with 'the moment' (more on that soon).
Of course, I still like to get mail and responses. And I note that comments keep coming. Everything is out there. What to do with it all.
On my wall, straight in front of me, I have blutacked five postcards showing Paris streets. Each is accompanied by the picture of a writer who lived in one of these streets. I often particularly look along rue Descartes (Paul Verlaine lived at no 39). You walk along rue Descartes into the rue Mouff' (one of my favourite Paris streets, though it has changed a bit for the worse in recent years). Everything is in front of you, but how the ephemeral and the virtual can connect with real time and flesh. Something bodily, like having walked there, something personal such as I say and you say, an exchange?
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