Meaning

I know, I’m sorry, every time it seems I come here I’m in some sort of crisis or suffering form some sort of malady.  I don’t know if I’ll write the book, write a book.  I think I’d like to, but then again, obligations and other aspects of “keeping on” seem to push themselves more forcefully into my day-to-day.  So what do I do?  I don’t know…

I feel good I suppose – I feel there are options, but I worry at the same time whether I might find myself in a situation that is less than ideal – that I might stumble into some situation with little foresight or preparation and then wonder “why” and… how did I get here, or simply… what a miserable mess…

I don’t know.  But things are good I suppose.  I have options, and some direction.

Questions of a child and family seem distant, and I sometimes wonder if need that perhaps to keep me tethered to this world or at any rate grounded.

Sometimes I become incredibly despondent, thinking to myself: “how did I get here, to this position” where I have to feign interest in this or that.  Why is it so difficult to speak authentically, and honestly, and form the heart?  I look over the last few sentences and see them as in a sense childish, a little immature, naive, as if there is something fundamental that isn’t entirely grasped – like the idea that we have to organize ourselves to provide for our needs, or as a collective or community we have different needs, and we have to in a sense subvert our own immediate needs to enter into wider human or societal congress.

I know these posts are amateurish – I don’t edit them, and they are mostly a stream of consciousness.  Please take them as that, if I could make any requests on my audience.

But things are good.  I suppose they are.