Work

I'm writing from under a pile of paper which is, so help me, taller than I am.

There is stuff to be discovered here, things of importance to some people (good guyz and bad, alike). There are items of importance, things that matter and hinge on one of these piles. The other is so inconsequential as to produce only yawns. Much of both is illegible, all is rather urgent, urgent enough to make it unlikely that I'll lie in a hammock in the back yard to knit and watch the glorious summer sky, night or day, for a while. Even if I do buy a hammock... ...which is on my todo list.

On the other hand, I may break some personal and world records, here, in terms of speed and accuracy, not to mention ability to decipher impossible handwriting. Translation as a telepathic discipline, somewhere between channeling and prophecy, scrawls becoming significance, fueled by coffee.

It is a summer of discovery, for me - what I do when the workflow is infinite, how exciting it still is for me to plunge my tin dipper into the stream.