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More apocalypse, less angst
It’s crazymaking – how much I want to cram everything in. Read every book, magazine, journal I come across – listen to music across genres and times – play music even, write. Make photographs and clothes. It feels like a sickness at times, and at others I am held aloft by the fact that there’s always something waiting at the periphery of my attention. The next discovery.
But the upshot is a collection of books for review that are collecting dust, a catalogue of music I haven’t found time to listen to, and some half-finished projects in the backyard that need doing before gardening season really gets going. The only way for me to reconcile these things is to consume or finish them and then write. It’s the writing the completes the act for me these days, the posting into the world my thoughts as if fixing them here makes something more done. Or more real.
So expect more reviews of things in the near future: books, music, garden projects, even sewing forays. I’ve got to clear the deck somehow – which just means plunging in and running everything through my internal system to export out again. Like a machine. Or a factory of endless opinions.
Red Cedar 
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