My beginning is a propulsion - of an image, of an intuitive potential, but also something like the particles sent on a collision course through some massive copper shielded subterranean donut. I can never predict the ending nor do I have any interest in doing so. What I do know is that the beginning already occurred and already evaporated into a memory which I can't trust, so what I'm apparently shuffling around are muddled middles expanding upon themselves. I'm interested in the center of things and the focal points of my looking so I choose to stay there and revel in them.

I'm writing in the afternoon, after lunch, which is not when I would normally choose to write. The mornings are a time of rising, picking up speed, initiating new sketches from a tabula rasa - of both the room and my mind - and I love the feeling of freshness that such times bring. After the midday meal my metabolism takes over and the body become more anchored to the world, more leaden and less agile. This is definitely reflected in the words that are produced in the golden saturation. Somehow I have never developed a taste for producing during these times, at least not this kind of production, choosing instead to sit with the food sitting within my gut and let it all just sit, brewing and percolating in the atmosphere as it pours over the centers I labored over earlier, marinating in my own thick stew. The evening is completely out of the question, decidedly not a time to write, save for the occasional interest in mulling over much darker spices, which I admit still tempts me on certain days. In general I'm motivated by levity, so part of the process of writing is an active search and alert awareness for when these moments might reveal themselves. I'm protective of those moments. They are my most valuable resource.

I remember to remember the importance of the comma: a breath.

What sounds good is what forces a new kind of attention with as little effort as possible, which usually means a kind of slippery slick language soaked in aromatic oils, undercooked. The truth doesn't seem to rest, in things or on tables, but dances between the images of the world and those imagined in mind, skipping with nimble toes, bobbing buoyant like calm sea buoys. I think of boxers and butterflies also. The truth is a figment of an imagination which I sometimes choose to engage with, but only through an understanding that I never have to, that there is no obligation to mull over the sour wines of previous peoples or peer through the peep holes of dusty archives. I also embrace the responsibility of making sense, even when I'm leveraged towards stirring up absurdity, but I only have so many limbs and can only pretend to be able to touch both sides of an iceberg at the same time. Who knows where the bottom is bobbing. There is a freedom to be found in charting the course of migrating fish, ancient frozen water released from their glaciers, and the larger islands we call dry land which also emerged from somewhere, at least to the extent that the earth has its own memory which tells us such a story. What voice is that, doing the telling of mineral folklore?

Everything is an image and they are all flickering. Everything has structure and they are all swaying in the breeze. Everything is real and there are many of them - many reals, many realities - so which one we live in seems more a matter of levity than desperation. There is also always "me." Not always like "always already" or "always forever" but always to the extent that without that sense of self - of self sensing the world and sensing itself - there would be no writing. The writing I can see, the writing is real, so must I be also, and that's enough truth for me to keep going. It doesn't lead me because there is no "it" separate from any me-ness. There is no inside and there is no out. There's also nothing to lose unless you really believe that there is something to gain, and if you can believe that shit then you can believe in anything, which is exactly what is required to write.

I look at a rock and wonder what it is, what it's called, where it comes from. I look at the rock and think about it being seen, if it can feel my sight, if I am feeling myself seeing it, and where all the feeling of the world can be located. I look at the rock and think these thoughts and wonder if they are in fact my own, or belong to the rock, or something other perhaps. I look at the rock and realize that it is me - me and not me - that it might as well be me or anything else for that matter, for it is matter and so am I, we are of the same stuff while also different. As I look at the rock I think about how poetic that is, that thought, and also how philosophical and artistic and literary, then think about how that's all just stuff too, like me and the rock. The difference seems to be a matter of degree, subtle nuances of qualities and quantities. The difference seems to be a matter of degrees, of temperatures and temperaments and tensile strength and talc, how much or how little and how many syllables in the name, whether its Latin or Danish or otherwise. I look at the rock and consider giving it a name, but decide instead to let it name me, then immediately choose to forget all names, decide they are a burden keeping me from continuing my walk through the hills. All I want to do is keep walking and wondering how many rocks are under foot.

Freedom is useful. Freedom is a responsibility.

Books are useful. Books are a responsibility.

Fear is useful. Fear is a responsibility.

Freedom and fear doesn't live in books. They don't live at all.

Writing feels like little black plastic keys doing their own telekinetic dance underneath my fingertips. It feels closer to baking and idle tapping than anything resembling work. It's located at points - in my mind and at my fingers - immerged in an ocean of forgotten considerations. I would like to formulate a writing process that comes from the gut and all the fluids churning in there, burning on all the things that I put into it, and always threatening foul smells and unthinkable murky textures, rather than keeping it at arms length.

I wouldn't normally say this, so it needs to be said. Questions are white hot dots and answers are a bucket of cold water. Throw them together and the steam will rise. Sometimes it is time for questions, time for opening new portals. Sometimes it is time for answers, to decide a firmament to stand on. At all times it could be a good time to act: to go through them or stand upon them. There's plenty of time for everything so there's no excuse to not try everything. What's the difference between thinking and cognizance? What does feeling feel like? I know the difference, at least right now, and I'm willing to forget when now has passed.

Reading might look like words and feel like things but it's not writing, it's something else...

You can only do one thing at a time. That's not my rule, it's the rule of the world that we live in. It's physics. Don't try to destroy the fabric of reality, roll around in it. Don't try to answer absurd questions with rational answers. Let them answer themselves in their own languages. The "universal" might seem like a bright glowing prospect, but it also harbors tyranny. Trying to recreate the past is a failure before it has even begun, it is a methodology of failure. Sometimes failure can be important too, if it's a question that needs asking, or an answer that requires affirmation.

You could fill a whole library with books about beauty. You could also find a whole library, not yours but written by other people. Does reading or writing about beauty get you any closer to understanding it, being filled with it, feeling it? Beauty is experienced, it is experience. Remember to remember that the world came first.