Only a month ago today, I shaved my hair off, real good’n'gone. I’d thought of my visible scalp as a rite of passage into this peculiar freelance cosmos, which, ironically, was actually a bit more Chaos than anything else – until last week. Nonetheless.

Only one month after I signed that remarkably vague self-employment covenant, my hair is back already to its July length! I can’t help but conclude that the growth rate of my headhairs is some external Sign corresponding to an inner Becoming whose fast pace I haven’t before experienced.

Of course, the Fruit does/Will not grow without the Work of a Gardener, cultivating the soil of its tree and watering its roots. Add to that all the cow manure [skubula in some circles] and the pruning of rotten branches, and Hope is what we have to do.

Speaking of signs, where has my voice gone? Its absence is driving me completely loony, and, on certain days, bonkers.

Ciao.