I haven't posted anything for a while because i've been spending most of my time making bent-frame vinyl windows and reconsidering my basic ideas about things.
I think the alternate histories I've been writing say all sorts of pretty damning things about my views of other people. There is also the problem of history being an ongoing thing, as a writer you want things to reach equilibrium so you can stop writing, but the more you elaborate on that equilibrium the more contrived it begins to seem. I'm slowing starting to suspect that long-term-oriented relationships are a bad idea, which sort of makes me glad I'm not in one, but then in a lot of ways it seems like you are screwed in either case; I vaguely remember reading some Greek guy who said that you can't really judge whether your life is ok until you are dead, which seems applicable, if a bit useless.
Today the cooling water evaporating out of the glycerine vinyl bender filled the production floor with water vapor. It was also sunny outside, which meant there were absurdly distinct beams of light running through the place at about thirty degree angles. It was like nothing I had ever seen.
This is something I wrote on summer solstice last week, one year previously I had been in the Enchantments, doing the, until then, boldest climbing trip of my life.
In our dreams we are birds
Birds and not men
And as we flutter into the sky and soar against the blue
All our weariness falls away like scales from our eyes
As if a pall has been pulled back from the world
A cataract loosened
All the sepia tones washed clear and blue
The fire in the pit of the cave put out
But then we wake up
And we are men
Men and not birds
And the aroma of our toil is the more acrid for having been forgotten