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In Morrison’s Beloved the reader does not ask what will happen, but what is. This is the better question for conversation. What is for you? Now?

:- Doug.

No. It’s not simply that the human experiment begins all over again with each baby. It begins again, learns to talk, walk, goes through all puberty’s awkwardness and unsureness, through courtship and householder times, straight through to old age, each moment of each flinch of each encounter. All day long. Whether or not any one of them is attending.

:- Doug.

From this writing-thinking, I rise feeling tingle-prickles.

:- Doug.

Footprints in the Wind^sm # 2229

It’s stories
like yours
bring light

Please pass it on.

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Some good writing this morning. Seeds, and completed pieces.

:- Doug.

Working on a chapter called Playing with Dying, and now comes the question: What is play? In children it is rehearsal. It is letting the body be body—stretching, laughing, enjoying, hurting nicely, engaging other bodies, sobbing, heaving, falling, failing, reaching, touching, being touched, grasping, gasping. It is consuming all of one’s mental moments for the duration that extends past the edges of time. Play is thinking in the thick and gooey of the jam. Play is exploration: body, body-mind, and body, all. Play is a curious thing. Play is curiosity. Play is to stumble into: unexpected, and much anticipated.

:- Doug.

Hear the Something More of conversation.

:- Doug.

What’s hidden in, no by, another can be a delight to be given by chance, and leave again hidden.

:- Doug.

How ought we live the dying of these we expect to continue among us?

:- Doug.

Conversation is sharing life—and lives. It is the way of life.

:- Doug.

Depth like ridges and clefts, character in a face—this kind of depth I understand.

:- Doug.

Think long thinking.

:- Doug.

I’m a writer. Lines that look a little like poetry. Sometimes rhythm. Not much rhyme. Lines that look a little like prose. Ethereal, I suppose.

:- Doug.

I sat there reading, thinking “Because that other book is delayed getting here, it gives me time to read this one by itself.” I know I’m going to like the one coming—I expect I will—and if I had both, I’d be taking turns with them. For now I can savor this one alone. Small example. Do the days work out or do we simply live them out filling them up? With good, bad, indifferent, meaning or no?

:- Doug.