I don’t know how any of us are getting anything done these days. Not that this is the ultimate goal, getting things done, but things feel sooooo slow and drifty right now, I wonder what necessary things might be falling through the cracks. I highly regret not being a bear who is hibernating right now. Or a dog who sleeps all day. Or a nice fat squirrel who stored up their food and is now chilling until spring. You get the idea.

Slow and drifty lends itself to stream-of-consciousness being, which isn’t exactly sedate, but it’s certainly not bent on productivity or even much tracking. That show about restoring old buildings in Ireland starts to blend with that novel about a ghost in the attic of a remodeled hotel. The sun just keeps shining even though it’s November and the prisms are nice but those smoke toxins my nervous system and liver have no more fucks to give about hang around. It’s all like one long kind-of-dream where I feel things going that are all done, and the future, where things are headed and taking me along with them, is whispering and weaving into place but don’t try to track it or write too many words about it or it will wisp right on out of reach. If you happen to get sick with something that isn’t covid, it’s just more more more of this. Do you know what I mean?

The drifty can be restful, like I’m saying, and also unnerving, which is my best descriptor for this whole year. A year of dissolution and strangeness, of wandering in the desert, summer in October, of watching rainbows and light codes broadcast onto my walls.

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Intuitive thoughts

drifty