Nothing....
Nothing. Nothing at all. I have nothing to write. At least, there are things that I could conceivably write about, but I am not in the mental framework to wish to do so, or to really see the point.
Nothing in the pipeline. I imagine that I will be back with proper articles sometime or another. I'm living day by day, in the main.
. . .Blog#98: A Romance By Any Other Name
Part One
War had been declared.
He never thought it would happen here. Not here. He always considered this a safe little enclave in a military world. But no. And the occasional sound of fighter planes roaring low across the sky, their force rocking the building, bore witness to the new reality.
No-one seemed to . . .
Blog#97: Eternal Round....
Part One
Slowly he manoeuvres himself over to the edge of the bed, then lowers his feet and legs into the footwear waiting below; effortfully hauling himself up and into vertical position, he eventually shuffles across the bedroom floor, and looks out of the window into the early morning.
"What's happening in the Matrix . . .
Blog#96: Volterra
Part One
I've written about this before. About how the participants in the 'Italian Renaissance' had no awareness whatsoever of the history-shaping movement that they were helping to create. 'Italian Renaissance' would have been a concept entirely foreign to them.
The closest we get to any coherent expression of the idea . . .
Interview
There is another blog post in the pipeline, but it's all very slow. So in the meantime, here's a link to an excellent (in my opinion) interview with Howdie Mickoski from very recently. He covers a great deal of ground in an hour interview, and includes much of what he has to say about the matrix, escaping the prison, and so on. I feel that . . .
Blog#95: Journey to the Sun
Part One
One summer in the late 1980s, I'm not sure which, I had time on my hands. I had finally managed to wriggle out of most of my official responsibilities at the Buddhist Centre, and I had nothing lined up as replacement. It was a cool, damp summer in London, and I took the opportunity to type up the text I had written . . .
Blog#94: A Jumble of Words
Not literature. Not poetry. No claims to artistic merit. Not anything. Just a jumble of words that came out, possibly attempting to communicate something or another. That's all.
1.
Fifty five. We thought we would always be fifty five.
A camp by the loch. Silent, aside from the rustle of plastic in the breeze, . . .
