Grammarly is triggering me to write something, anything, as long as I put some words down here on my blog, by reminding me that I have 126 consecutive weeks of writing under my belt. But I’m working on a bigger fish that obviously is not a fish, nor is it a thing I’m ready to bring into reality. Mentioning what it is could make it real, but uncertainty about commitment has me waffling if I’m prepared for that. Of course, this is really nothing more than a “bait and fail” to deliver because I’m not ready to share, and I’m only writing this to find words flowing onto the page so my digital overlord known as Grammarly succeeds in conditioning me to earn my rewards. Because who doesn’t want that email next week telling them that they’ve earned the praise from an automated processed form e-mail goading the user into desiring 127 consecutive weeks of writing productivity?

Aside from that nonsense, I really should throw something into the stream of blogging before it becomes too easy to ignore this thing. Obviously, it’s easier to perform this exercise while traveling as visual impressions lend easy content to my expression while my investigations of research trying to organize an imagination becomes dedicated to the side project I’m not wanting to discuss at this time. Oops, back to the start.

Okay, I’ll try to break out of this look and bring this entry elsewhere.

It’s been a shade better than a week since I wrote the above because then I got sidetracked by the arrival of a highly-anticipated book titled The Third Unconscious by Franco “Bifo” Berardi. A page-turning, riveting work of observational philosophical/psychological shift going on in regard to our post-pandemic environment. I finished it yesterday, and I’m now able to return to my empty-headed malaise (see photo above), so I might contemplate my next moves.

One place I won’t be heading to is Oregon for our nearly annual Oregon Coast Thanksgiving Retreat due to scheduling conflicts, so I’m looking at quite possibly sitting here in Phoenix for the last eight weeks of the year. With this sense of imposing reality, I might also have to consider that events here in Blogland could remain on relative hiatus as I try to find focus on the task I was alluding to at the top of this entry. To be honest with myself, I suppose the determination is already in the bag to take the matter of writing into the corner of seriousness that implies something larger emerging from that effort, but if somehow I refrain from using the word “book” or “novel” it won’t enter the realm of commitment. Who in their right mind would embark on such a task, especially when they know the extraordinary effort required just to write a short 500-word blog post about something inconsequential? And if we are talking fiction to this would-be author who struggles to find enjoyment in the genre, that person must certainly be flailing at the margins of nonsense.

From one coffee shop to the next, I’m floating between locations with stops for lunch or chores and occasionally dipping into the news that descends from those clouds. The news is a mixed bag that can only reach my senses by reading it as the intonation of those reporting it is so laden with pathos as to destroy any ethos that might have been there in the past. Yet, I’m drawn to current events as I sense I’m witnessing the wheels coming off the body politic and the capitalist head driving the human organism to insanity. Selfishly, I feel my role is to remain frugal until escape velocity is reached and not share the secret of our salvation that won’t be found in faith, so don’t go there.

There, I’ve written something and nothing, as these words fail to satisfy my joy of sharing words. Maybe I’m trying to keep all the words to myself as if they are allowed to back up; they might splash forward in a cascade that could amount to the deluge I hope to expose in something called a book.