A Tuesday afternoon at the far end of the Big Stall, during which I have had nothing to share with anyone on the page or otherwise.

(Perhaps it's like when you install a new OS and the hard drive is unavailable until after Restart.
            Perhaps it's the Big InStall ...)

Pluto has applied its steady erasure to my natal Sun for several years now, going direct, retrograde, direct, retrograde--steady illness, discord and loss, confrontation, and seed of renewal.

Today I have read one page of Michael Ondaatje's Running in the Family ("... I saw mosquito nets stranded in the air like the dresses of hanged brides, the skeletons of beds without their mattresses ..."); one poem in Wislawa Szymborska's Miracle Fair: Selected Poems ("I owe a lot / to those I do not love. / Relief in accepting / others care for them more. / Joy that I am not / wolf to their sheep. ..."); a paragraph of Everywhere Being is Dancing by Robert Bringhurst ("What poetry knows, or what it strives to know, is the dancing at the heart of being ..."); a sentence of that old charlatan Gregg Braden's Walking Between the Worlds ("Recent research by Dan Winter indicates the possibility of a direct relationship between emotion, the location of an antenna [along the double helix of DNA], and whether or not the antenna is turned ON or OFF ..."). Later I'll consume a greater quantity of Subtle Worlds: An Explorer's Field Notes by David Spangler, and perhaps carve out another chapter of Steve Jobs.