THISPRESENTSOJOURN

I remember in the same way how to write as I do how to ride a bicycle. A few mornings ago I wrote a thing, and it was a fairly short ride, fairly wobbly, executed with some shaky remembrance of a “how,” but not much about the actual embodiment or practice. Abstractia unto concretia, (I really did hit the pavement) and here I go.

[First objective, make up words.  Second objective, mull through some sentences and bruise syntax and fight my way to the period, if not a semicolon first. Third objective, don't stop.  And press "Publish" {which makes it sound quite romantic} without a redaction.]

Lately I have written more letters to persons than I have journals here, and I mean that is currently what it looks like for me to document a certain sojourn, and, well, I think that is more of the point anyway.  A point I have been missing for a while.

It is not that I have not taken to the discipline of letter composition in the many years of stops along thispresentsojourn, but perhaps it is that I have begun to understand its importance at the expense of this site more than another time before.  I won’t think that is something for which I will never apologize – silence — especially I think if what is silence to some is to another laughter and tears and hours and hours laying on our backs in a pre-war bedroom on the cold wood floors of fall.

So as I prepare in the next few months to take quite a heavy step on the way which Call carves, I might begin to post some letters from throughout the past year, some anonymously, and some maybe as a fictional correspondence 0f fictional characters. Who the narrator is we might or might not be able to gather, but what is the point anyway is that people are built in such a way that they are incomplete without others, and letters speak to this more than what I’ve been so focused on here.  Not to say this is unimportant (or I wouldn’t be writing these words at all).

Here is to another shift, and to the acknowledgement that each day is a shift in a Shift, a becoming in a Becoming.  And on the days we are shitty and destroyed do shitty things and destroy others because of it, our hope that somehow and someway we through and by that and moreover our dedication to the interconnectivity with others we are and (I think) miraculously being made whole and right.

If reality is a fabric that is stitched together by participation and by mutuality and by love, then the snags and tears and rips caused by the inverse will be repaired, and the repair will somehow be better than the original garment. I can’t say I’ve believed that for years — at least as much as I wrote it down and wanted (forced myself) to think it True.

Anyways, as is my fascination with letter-writing and the desire to see that sort of correspondence on a deeper, stronger, more human level than the lofty, propositional, self-examinatory, open-audience sort of way (that was congruent with my stage of life that began in a certain City and carried on as a deeply search-full postlude) which in fact became the reason I purchased a domain name and hosting in the first place. A documentary of a becoming. Of course this is still that, but how that is fleshed in writing is as different as how it has been fleshed in experience.