learning to be neither poet nor writer, nor taker of weird pics

It is funny how turns in your life open up many doors but must simultaneously close so many others.

There are unseemly freedoms that libertines can enjoy: those who follow their artistic noses into every dark cranny and nook and kindling.

But unseemliness is not the serious pursuit of serious occupation: and serious occupation is where life demands I must now go.

And life is right: I have debts, both financial and emotional, to pay back.

At 54 I settle down to gravity and weight and the burdens that righteousness carry with them.

And space to fly only exists in the imagination that still strives to exist, despite the Newtonian assurances.  But in the day-to-day relationship of person to person, it’s the suits – whether literal or figurative – which impose their ways of seeing and doing.  

Reputation and continuity above the starting from scratch every time a new scenario is excitedly perceived.

Predictability and an absence of agency above free spiritedness.

Doing above being.

Data above wisdom.

Process above people.

That is my sacrifice.

And – ultimately – it is for my wife and children I commit it.

I hope I take the right road here.

It is the rest of my life.

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