How quickly daily became weekly became silence while time was absorbed by those who’d purchased it wholesale. I assure you, dear reader, I still live, still breathe, still think and feel and jot and jitter, just not here, not so publicly, not so regularly. The tick has not given to tock in this space.
Half a year marked and spent. Half a year to go.
The work is good, fulfilling, if oddly tangential in form. It has evolved from the rote cranking of various knobs to the patient tooling of new parts. From maintenance to engineering. Satisfying, if with more ripples, deeper valleys to descend and climb back out of. It saps, but develops in the stretched places new tissues, new joints, and thicker fibers.
Outside those hours, things continue. A table built, some maternal material requests acknowledged and answered. Items acquired, cataloged, and stored, for further use, or further ponderous potential.
Hopes for various projects to regain their steam stare at the back half of a year, parcelling out potential. Casting their wisps into the unwritten mornings and evenings and ends of weeks, playing for holds upon un-yet-tethered time. We shall see.
Time marches, on and apace. On and apace. Ticking and, here, now, at least, tocking once more. Ever forward.
Politely shouting into the void.