Outside it is the twenty third of a month in Fall called October, it is warm enough for a t-shirt.
I type , angry that the rain will stop the sun rising earlier or rather mar the pinkish glow which I’ve come to greet as a brother. One is less lonely with a burning star in their view, and the knowledge that a ball of friction held in by gravity and the hand of an invisible mathematics: an orb which will warm me, this undeserving creature, is reassuring. As I’ve said before the constancy of the sun has always inspired worship, for good reason.
Of late i write very little. Ive discovered it is difficult to suck the marrow from life if one is always recording on papers and or this device. Reading is much better and taking notes for later writing, and this is all for me, pleasant : an abstraction, a legacy of sorts. I’ll leave my sons no fiat currency, only knowledge which is all i have, and cannot be taken from even my corpse. Ill die burned with it in my crematorium: this wealth.
Ive ordered many new books, mostly obscure but well written books, minus the derivative of modernity which seems to have infested us with an idea of a promised synthesis of thoughts. Ive discovered contrarily, that knowledge is best studied in subsections and history in microcosmic form, this works better, one has a chance to synthesize at least what they need before they expire. Examples of authors: Fermor, William James , Epictetus,Dillard, Henry Adams, Baker’s the Peregrine, D’Ormesson , Rufus, Zeno, Physiologus, more of Senecas lesser known essays and writings etc.
Lists aren’t for me (nor is this one even close to total), and I’m not bragging. No one knows or cares i’ll read this, no one is wowed by my girth of interest. We live in a sleeping state and men who care are so far between that i would kiss the feet of a person who could merely hold me entranced with a new thought for just an hour without the aid of alcohol as a lubricant to fuel my interest. THC makes me less interested in their company, in it i only have an urge to seek more in books, and perhaps I’m some wunderkind but it effects my memory not at all, i don’t even use book marks (or hardly do) , because i can find my pages simply by rereading a few key words. Forgive my talk of this, i have only one other talent or two: 1. I am a mediocre but husband who tries hard. 2. I love my sons more than myself and will work to help them grow beyond me. Hence my speaking of the books of the philosophy, and the endless tirade of speculation on what seems as if it could be exhausted. But books cannot be nor knowledge. Only wisdom has limits and its is the basis of wisdom mohave a demarcation .
Now as i do often ill begin anew as if i weren’t writing about anything, which i suppose i wasn’t. I was writing about everything. The sun behind me still lurks and it rains, bones swell and i care not. French minimalist electronic music fuels my ability to pervade through my morning like a ghost of silence, my headphones loudly urging me to press play yet again. I shouldn’t be writing such tripe, i should read one of the 20 books I’m reading, i only have so long to live. Will my reflections have been wroth the time spent upon them ? Have i gleaned anything ? Has anyone? If this is all, if i am only to be food for the earth or sky, what is it I am doing? I prefer to think it our duty to smear our existence and spread it with as much love and erudition as possible, until one can sound the depths of the human heart one cannot begin to do so, hence the need to reflect i suppose and to reflect on others reflections. Also we are all lonely , every night we are in another world akin to death, so all are lonely even if they say they are not, at least for the hours where their mind is not here. Truly elsewhere.
I say let the warmth come or go. But let Fear never have the option to remain. Live in accordance with reason and love, and die according to them as you have no choice.