On my rambles

I added to literary resources, on the author site, where I make available tips for running s reading series, or open mic, or tools for writing, a card game for thinking poetics. I added to templates for flutter books and chapbooks from 8 pages— now there’s 36-page and 24-page templates for Apple pages and and MS Word. It has page numbering and what goes where. Unfortunately both pieces of software have removed the function of text boxes flowing from one to the next, and have to add text to each page separately. A pain but there are slower work arounds of more cut and paste.

I added a post at substack. I do that each month or so. They tend to be longer and involved.

I use Patreon for smaller tidbits, such as upcoming events, reports on going to readings, or poems in progress. Except I haven’t had any upcoming events, or gone to readings, or written much. I added a poem post there for Patreons who are kind enough to support financially. I hadn’t posted for months. I meant to get to the last oh, 6 or 7 readings I put in my calendar but either knackered or lost track of time, or too headachy or dizzy, or in the last case, miscalculated how long it takes to clear the driveway to actually be able to leave. And another dump of snow today and more coming. Undeniably winter.

Summer seems a minute ago when it didn’t looks like midnight at 5pm. I meander, so I meander. It doesn’t always have to be tight. It doesn’t always have to be packaged for instant consumption. It doesn’t always have to follow the adage of Chekhov’s gun, of if the revolver is in the scene in act 1, it must be used in act 2. I like the splooge, the extraneous, the outside the margins. Being singularly efficient makes everything kind of transactional, formal, correct. The incorrect has some tasty excess.

I recall the days of yore when I had a dozen daily blogs, each catered to someone’s complaint or wish. That is someone said at general blog, like the food stuff, focus on that. Or I despise foodies. Or, never mention the scourge of pets. And I’d trot off and make a spin off blog to accommodate those 10-second commenters. One for selfies, one for vegan cooking, one for general photographs, one for life minutia, one for poetry, one for flash fiction, one for dreams, one for my sock puppet musings, one for cat, one for reflecting on people who influenced me, one for hm, was it twelve? It was a lot of verbiage at any rate and bending over backwards for diminishing returns.

Now I’m still spread far but don’t spend much time on the computer or on the internet. I’m at a few places, sorta, sorting out what they’re about. I’m hoping Pinterest might serve the function of Instagram so I can leave the Meta-empire. I’d rather someone bought Instagram from them. I’m monthly or so at substack but I’m not finding things to read. Some post too often too much. I skim at best. Which is something but I’m in the mood for deep dives, immersions in worlds.

I like books is the thing. I have hundreds of books I haven’t yet read the first time.

Books must be balanced with action and interaction. Carrying firewood, for instance. The insurmountable task of winter laundry. Although in summer, with sweat, we probably make as much volume. And cooking. Made the tortiere, and the fruitcakes but no other adjunct desserts of the holidays. I’m not feeling Christmas as intensely for some reason.

Despite rigorous applications of holiday movies and despite putting up a tree, and even getting a xmas sweater and a xmas t-shirt and doing the xmas letter, which I can’t really send far since apparently I know street addresses but not email for a lot of people…

Mostly I’m looking forward to staying at a hotel with a jacuzzi while in town to visit in-laws. But as with every social, I expect it, or the roads to travel there, to be the accident, or covid death of me. It does acidify the chrome shine off.

Not that this is new. I was born in the 1800s as a farm hand on a flat earth reading the 1880s novels and 1920s school readers. I expected the Second Coming every hour from grade 4 to university. Death was always imminent. Not until I was late 30s did I receive a life-wish instead of living inside death-aspiration. Maybe the cultural was hung on the convenient coat hook of my birth-chem/psychology. If not Christianity it would have been some other Fatalist scheme. Thank goodness for grants to catapult me to university where I talked with Sikhs, Jews, Muslims, atheists. Where I took a history of Christianity from a prof who thought the myths were cute but silly. Where I took Islam from a prof who was Sunni and the student behind me was Shi’a and run a running counter corrective on stories. Or the reverse. Where I took the history of science. Where I took biology and economics and history of art, and linguistics. University where I met a person who was kinder and more respectful to me than anyone I had ever encountered and also not Christian. So many pivot points. And so long on this path where I value things not pat, where if things don’t perfectly dovetail and feel less perfect, are at least less likely to be false.

I suppose it’s a symptom of winter closing in, roads being clogged with storm, awards season swinging, the 2025 book catalogues coming out, the Auld Lang Syne season of reflection, taking stock of who is still known, who had passed and what next for hope and ambition and leaving behind. Considering who and what I will become based on choices and chutes and routes from where I’ve been.

Anyhew, time time to make lunch, make a fire, get myself sorted.