log (2006/11/03 to 2006/11/09)

Here it is Sunday again. Chilly, with the sun and the leaves and the wind and the sky and all.

I haven't been very interested in the "Web" recently, which has a certain impact on having certain kinds of "weblog". I haven't been, for that matter, all that interested in computers. Or even (very atypically for me) in words.

Which has a certain impact on having a larger class of kinds of "weblog". *8)

What am I interested in, recently? I don't know. Sleep, peace, each particular instant. The relationship of time to eternity, the nature and structure of inner space. Fear and hope and the future, love and security and time.

But not, as I would have taken them in the past, sometimes, as abstract concepts that you might attach words to and think about the definitions of and the formal relationships between, about the truth criteria and the well-formedness of possible sentences involving them, and the meaningfulness of various questions that one could write down.

I'm too tired for that, or just not in the mood, or too intimately attached to the actual things to be able to look at them out of the corner of my eye, through the words I might attach to them.

Things are much realer than words. Or, really, words are just as real as everything else, but on their own, as words, not as pointers to other things. The word "cloud" is just as real as a cloud, but the word is not a cloud and the cloud is not a word.

Which is starting to stray into just the sort of word-game that I'm claiming not to be interested in. *8)

I like these covers, the sheet and the quilt and the blanket (a simple blue cotton blanket that I bought for my stay at Zen Mountain Monastery, and that took quite awhile to find among the fancy and/or synthetic blankets the Mall wanted to sell me), and the other quilt on top of that. I want to spend entirely too much time curled up under them, with the sounds of the house going on in other rooms, quietly, without needing anything from me.

(I say "these covers", but they aren't here, they're in the other room, and I'm just thinking of them. The covers in this room, on the big bed, are good covers also, but they're better arranged, less invitingly messy, and there aren't quite as many layers.)

Winter coming, maybe, and the urge to hibernate. The turning of the seasons and the flow of time carrying me (without bothering to ask consent) into places where words and their connections to things don't matter as much, not as much as the things themselves in all their indescribability.

But still. It's nice being here, at this particular moment, whatever happened before or happens after, talking to you.

Thanks for coming by.