For there is none in reality.

When do we start into the future? I mean, when do we start projecting ourselves beyond where we are right now? After being told and told, perhaps, about our own future and how we ought to be considering it. Sitting straight, brushing teeth, choosing careers. A pinpoint, though, has no consequence. Now, right now, we look deeply into the things existing which do not yet exist, and this is what makes and is made into the present. We look towards where our feet will be. Where does that infinite reach beyond ourselves begin? When can it stop?

In the widening gyre.

And we are all so fluid. We create a course, pushed by the movements of others, and pushing the movements of others, but with such a mindful kinesis. And discipline, as if wary of where our waves might be taken by the others' tide. But our fluidity continues a change that we have no control over, making the care we take something superfluous. In every movement we cannot help but make rapids of the air around us, casting others into new pools of being. Touches, looks, words, even if for a moment, even if unbeknownst, are infinite.

Ripe for fatal harvest.

Here we are. Spending Tuesday afternoons talking about structuralism, how everything means nothing, and how we only ever become ourselves because we agree to. Spending Tuesday evenings waiting for Wednesday evenings, for talk about phenomenology, that everything becomes on its own, and how everything contains an essence regardless of whether we perceive it or not. Spending Thursdays through Mondays wondering where my mind is going, and beginning to feel a little unsure about what I'm sure about.

Sure. Sure you're sure?

Le Café de nuit.

We who are the tenants of what has become known as the customer service industry are offered a unique perspective of a person's inner workings when viewed from across that countertop. Often it is a seemingly endless repetition of impersonal greetings and instructions, a mechanical algorithm. And there are these rare occasions where a person will instead show a deep honesty. One recent night, a finely dressed middle-aged woman comes in to receive some lattes from our store. She would drift a little to the side as she approached from the door, and when she had, her voice's volume rose and lowered unnaturally. She had the kind of eyes that a bottle of wine will gift a person. And she was exasperated as her husband waited outside, parked in a needlessly large SUV or something of the sort. Perhaps she could have used anything other than what she ordered, so I offered her a small pastry on the side. And, with what I hoped would sound a caressing jest, I said now don't share that with anyone. That treat is all your own. She swayed with her drink tray. Share, she said, as if I had taunted her for a retort--share with him? Twenty-five years with him. Can you even believe it. Her speech slowed so that the last was not even a question. My surprise made our eyes meet again before she turned to leave, and the sincerity in hers gave to me only a steady, defeated look of unfathomable despair.

Somehow dreadfully cracked about the head.

One of those captcha boxes today said 'halmersi' to me. And I know this sounds a logical stretch but, well, you know. So I started thinking about what those letters say when you sound them out, and how the phrase 'have mercy', all anxiously shouted upwards, seems to have so much more meaning when radically slurred. A refined language loses the deepest levels of meaning. Fanon, Bhabha, Melville, Rimbaud, and on. Have mercy.

Only a wisp of smoke from the chimney.

Now, to wonder what a home is and what makes it so. I hear it said to be a word, a name, a strong one. And that it is no house, no beam or shingle, that it is life's undress rehearsal. That home is where one starts from. I wonder at the unity of souls which make a home, which warm the walls that house them. It seems a home is built upon humility and humanism, its foundation laid by a future's presence. Not a house. And, see, that one may have a blazing hearth in one's soul.

Old odd ends stolen out of holy writ.

Writing and now reading these stories about figures who move behind the plots graduates in/with intoxication. Long ago with In the Skin of a Lion, right now in The Winter of Our Discontent, and Mr. Ethan Hawkley seems to be guiding his circumstances while they at the same timeevolve of their own accord, the other characters thinking as they do. As the circumstances unfold I keep finding myself with some certain expectation, only to be softened with a grey surprise as the pages flip, then flop. Some character who lets the others create events and atmosphere, spinning their motion by sitting back to watch and wait. There is such a difference to be seen in the same young man sitting in a cafe window, whether simply watching the faceless walkers drifting along the sidewalk outside, or waiting for some one who is not arriving. The same stillness, or perhaps swivelling movements, the same one there.