A Kind of Thank You Note

Rain which for some reason makes me think of boundaries, dissolution, what is new, is there any such thing, etc. You were born but birth is less a beginning than a continuation, a reassembling of what is familiar, or is that just a way of putting it where "way of putting it" is the world. Wendell Berry's concepts of order many years later seen as overly rigid, insufficiently inclusive. Months later one comes up with a helpful example but the dialogue - in the narrow sense - has ended though its helpfulness has not. Some of us ask why, others just put their heads down and build things. So I am given to texts, to textual approaches, so what? We pass on the party, the lamb on the spit, and for the first time in years I wonder if my habitual preference for solitude needs to be reexamined in light of my kids whose needs diverge from mine, revealing  yet again the collective and one's ever-shifting relationship with it. Rain means writing, or time for it, which has been absent lately, leading to shorter pieces mostly while brooding on abstract longer ones, what one thinks of as the moose approach to writing. There are consequences to prioritizing, and prioritizing is always happening, so it's good to be attentive, to just see what matters to the deep interior algorithm. The many Buddhas and the many Christs are like blow jobs - too few makes you obsess over getting more and too many make you bored and drifty and ungrateful. The idea that we can figure this out is problematic mostly because the "one" doing the figuring is not static but in motion in many ways at once. Even the moon is folding and unfolding, which is a way of saying there is no center. We laughed watching Morrison stalk the stage. Spilling a little yeast, studying a little sadness, and learning that the nature of entropy is forward, toward forward, is bent in a sense not on decay but transition of which translation is a useful part. Will one day I wake up beside you or has that already happened? Perhaps she is in the next room, perhaps there are no rooms, only all these ways of saying it. Oh what was my wordiness ever but a form of gratitude, idealistic love, a kind of thank you note extending across a life, this one.