I’ve dealt with chronic depression for years. And right now - for the last several months, truthfully- it’s in a massive flare-up. I know I’ll come out of it ok, but, for now, it’s all I can do to outrun myself. But still, I keep running. Because that’s all I can do.
In what should probably be considered a sign, I was at my most relaxed in months sitting in a dentist’s chair, waiting for the post-cleaning debrief.
Pretty sure that Kirby grew while I was away on the day’s run.
New: featuring new music from Elizabeth Joan Kelly and new words+ from me, RE/EMERGENCE0003 has – along with apologies to Nick Sousanis for not following his instructions to the letter – arrived.
One decision has been made: THE GROUND LOOP will go on a summer hiatus. Too many plates: I’m dizzy from all the spinning – and, whether I realized it or not (I didn’t), all of the homepage work that I’ve been wasting time on wasn’t a total waste but rather a way to see that I was trying to do too much. This is what I will tell myself.
The Unwound Weedeater: A Tragicomedy In (many pieces and) Parts.
Quickly becoming one of those work-weeks where “What’s the point?” is on a loop.
Your morning Kirby.
AirTags for my cup of coffee please.
The youngest dog-child is in full-tilt Kirby Derby mode.
Monday mail.
Still very much a work in progress, but the Parenthetical Recluse homepage overhaul is getting closer to where I want it to be. (I do recognize that this is probably an example of rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, but oh well - I’m enjoying myself.)
Cue summer rethink of how I use this space, etc etc.
In which Kirby learns that he can no longer fit under the couch.
EarBliss, 23may2021: BLACK TO THE FUTURE, by Sons of Kemet.
Newsletter is done and sent; the month ends, the month begins.
Inbound in +/-90: Dog years, learning to nap, Proof of Existence, a SOCIALIZED RECLUSE guest announcement, upcoming projects, and early access to RE/EMERGENCE0003: the month’s MacroParentheticals dispatch is on its way to subscribers. Sign up here, if so inclined.
Long day.
Sometimes a story is just waiting for the right form. (It only took seven years, but…)