I sigh as I begin to write this as a task I was hoping to undertake on my computer doesn't seem to be working and I'm not sure how to fix the situation. I'm dismayed that smoke or dust or white particles seem to be drifting north from the vicinity of the unfinished Landmark Hotel.
I sigh because all is not what it could be. I'm 43 years of age and I'm somewhat accomplished but it appears to me that reality is made of wet tissue paper and at any moment any unwanted force could cause the entire container of me to crumble and tear.
That smoke or dust or cloud of white particles alarms me as the evening sun falls down towards the horizon, changing the quality of light to what filmmakers call the Golden Hour. I am long past the point where I feel the mythology of celluloid has any power over me.
I want to know why things are the way they are in the real world I can see and feel. I appreciate the power of story but I wonder how damaged our society has become through the gradual and perpetual wetting of the foundations upon which we grew.
I have falsely lived my life under the assumption that other people ask questions and want to know why things are the way they are. I am now sighing because the lack of curiosity among people who are also alive alarms me. But maybe that itself is a false assumption.
"It's smoke from the fryer from Citizen Burger Bar," says the owner of the place where I am sitting, and sure enough, that makes sense. With an answer in place I am satisfied. I asked a question and a loop was closed when I got the information that best fits my query.
This is the fourth attempt in a week or so to resume a tradition of writing in this space, continuing a set of descriptions that dates back over a decade of my life. I am not aware of any of how the gravity works in my life and I am not aware of how I affect others. I know I am capable of putting words together in a way that makes sense to me, but I am also aware of the many deficits and defects in my life. I sigh a lot because I don't know what else to do anymore. I am aware that I have made tremendous mistakes and that I have always lived my life with the sense that there was a fire, a fault, an empire of paper so susceptible to corruption of integrity.
But sometimes when you can work out where the smoke comes from, you can work out backwards how to stop the fire, stop the rot, learn to work within an ever-changing river that will drown you if you can't work out how to breathe.
I sigh because all is not what it could be. I'm 43 years of age and I'm somewhat accomplished but it appears to me that reality is made of wet tissue paper and at any moment any unwanted force could cause the entire container of me to crumble and tear.
That smoke or dust or cloud of white particles alarms me as the evening sun falls down towards the horizon, changing the quality of light to what filmmakers call the Golden Hour. I am long past the point where I feel the mythology of celluloid has any power over me.
I want to know why things are the way they are in the real world I can see and feel. I appreciate the power of story but I wonder how damaged our society has become through the gradual and perpetual wetting of the foundations upon which we grew.
I have falsely lived my life under the assumption that other people ask questions and want to know why things are the way they are. I am now sighing because the lack of curiosity among people who are also alive alarms me. But maybe that itself is a false assumption.
"It's smoke from the fryer from Citizen Burger Bar," says the owner of the place where I am sitting, and sure enough, that makes sense. With an answer in place I am satisfied. I asked a question and a loop was closed when I got the information that best fits my query.
This is the fourth attempt in a week or so to resume a tradition of writing in this space, continuing a set of descriptions that dates back over a decade of my life. I am not aware of any of how the gravity works in my life and I am not aware of how I affect others. I know I am capable of putting words together in a way that makes sense to me, but I am also aware of the many deficits and defects in my life. I sigh a lot because I don't know what else to do anymore. I am aware that I have made tremendous mistakes and that I have always lived my life with the sense that there was a fire, a fault, an empire of paper so susceptible to corruption of integrity.
But sometimes when you can work out where the smoke comes from, you can work out backwards how to stop the fire, stop the rot, learn to work within an ever-changing river that will drown you if you can't work out how to breathe.
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