There is a party and everyone is there.

Everyone will leave, but not exactly at the same time.

I wake up halfway through meditating on anger and origin trauma.

I think of poems I’ve written and about the story Daniel read us about the waiter, and about the better things I’ve just come out and said straight:

This begat that, in the form of great creatures of the sea, and every living thing with which the water teems, and that moves about in it, and every winged bird, and the creatures that move along the ground, and the wild animals, each according to their kind, eventually including some particularly savvy apes.

With some variation in the names of gods and the specific mechanics involved, this much can be taken as a consensus, without the need of proofs. We exist, and it happened somehow.

How exactly is another inquiry–this is not doting theology, or scrupulous anthropology. This is Genesis and Exodus, a leviticously deuteronomous and carefully labored numbering on digits.

In other words the three general forms, fiction and not on the prose side, and then the poetic too.

They are not all that is.

At some point there will be Long Uninterrupted Stretches of Time though, and I will be free to go exploring and practice art.

You don’t walk up the mountain thinking this walk will be true or false. You don’t say this walk will be poetic or prosodic. You walk. I just want to tell you something.

What I have in mind right now is more like manifesto, but without the exclamation mark of some action at the end. Just the act of continuing to spill and perhaps religiously. But freedom means things can change.

Paths fork.

Sometimes there is no path.