I have written the word Light with a capital "L" for more than ten years now. silly, sacred habit established in the murky winter extremities of the attic studio at Holmgardur 24 in Iceland. so far from here, now!

my entry for the exhibition womanifesto Procreation/Postcreation in Bangkok that Varsha asked me to join -- turns out that she uses the simple entry as a main element of the exhibition poster, invites, and publication (it's the spiral line)!
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procreation:

creativity is energy-in-motion

the essence of motion, movement, is energy

the quickening of the spirit

a look around to apprehend the Other

a dialogue begins

small flows of energy between two

fundamental creation, life

one plus one equals three

primal phenomenon

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canyon face in there. juniper there, grass, cedar, sage, rock, rock face. having a gravity. yesterday taking another side slot-canyon, up and up to gain the bench-top over-looking the campground. find two un-matched halves, elk antlers, 7-points each, so, 14-point animals. one almost as tall as Loki. after seeing the bighorn sheep kill earlier in the day, lower jaw crushed, nose chewed away. the mountain lions have things pretty good, except for the constant interference of humans into their wide-patterned space. Loki playing in the dirt. part of the time, this seems problematic, the play seems to be generated from a vacant boredom that I can't fill, nor would really choose to, other times, it seems to be holy. god-inspired, god-directed, god-sanctioned play that is of evolution-leaping intensity compared to the Game-Boy. what a stupid vapid name for an object devoid of any redeeming spiritual value. a generation of gamers swallowing simulations, and the entertained. faugh, what will come of that? everything is boring. speed is fun. simulation is way better than the real thing. not sure that this auto-adapter is running right. worked on the plane, but now, not able to concentrate anyway, on anything, too stressed about being a dull parent. maybe starting to count days until this phase is over. but next week back to school. teaching again. reading Lemke's draft of a concept of "traversals" -- recalling a flash of text that dropped into one of the Solstice videos that I made in Iceland. traverse no zenith. so it goes. battery runs low. no satellite uplink anyway, so bloggish reflections are useless. darkness falls. I will sleep on the ground tonight, and hope for the best. something nervous, but not for any good reason. with towering face of sandstone leaping to converge with rotating Milky Way.

and hardly anything to be said about this place. no textual naming enough. walking the riparian canyon with clear running water. not too much, but enough. not too cold, but enough. harvesting a few spring fronds of sage. not sure exactly why, but just to have, perhaps for future blessings. climbing to the smallish cave that overlooks the end of the access canyon at Echo Park. turns out it is not really a cave, but a hole into a face to a whole slice of open fracture plane. open to the sky. the whole small canyon follows a massive fracture plane cutting across the formation. these energy configurations. we are so used to, so comfortable with, pre-configured energy packages. that the raw flow on all scales, at all levels, under all conditions, is just too much to bear. while the wind blows across skin. and the skin is raked by the radiative solar flux. and this machine starts its own fan. the environment too harsh for it. couldn't take outside into the wind and dust, that's clear. soft device. needing the feed of electric energy to keep it functional. at all. or it becomes a paper-weight only. to fight the wind.

a long walk along the canyon wall to some kind of unconformity, at the west end of Steamship Rock, named by somebody who had been to a city on the water at some time in life. the slight dip of the strata at one of the end of the rock shifting to vertical dip at the other end. like the prow of a ship. rising above, the Solarium Deck, the Captain's Quarters, the row upon row of lower decks, a good half-mile long. the area of vertical layers marks my eye, a huge fault, or maybe a sharp monocline, something. have to look it up when home. on the dash of the car, the bones from one or several Prairie Dogs that Loki found when Ethan and he were exploring the dog village in northwest Boulder. after breakfast with Marty and her friends there in Boulder.

camping. under the wall, the night full of wakings for a variety of reasons. Loki with nightmares about flies, ants in his bed, and the pure vibrations of stars through the pick-up cap windows. Milky Way demarcated black sky.

back in this place again, camping up against the wall that looms over the campground. maybe sleeping out tonight. remembered yesterday that I had sent one of the tent poles to North Face to be replaced before we went to Florida. it had not returned yet, and they didn't have a record of its arrival. tent is useless without it. a short walk along the wall, seeing the marks of complexity, flows, reconfigurations, conformations, transformations. rock to sand to rock to sand to rock. illustrated, no, manifest. fundamental richness of source to press inwards on eyeballs until seen. I have no words for this place, or for life anymore. so, commentary, that gradual or catastrophic removal from presence, is in contradiction to lived experience. birds singing no more calls up the multifold apprehension of that momentary, transitory now-ness that can no more be duplicated in the flux of life.

yup

already leaving after a very short visit to Aunt Mary and Janet. a nice break. back to this temporary base in Boulder for the next 6 months. surely find that travel is more difficult with this long hiatus. a hiatus that is longer with fewer miles, kilometers than almost ever previously in life. and nothing to say here about the no-see-ums, the retirement community of Shell Point, the sun, the clouds, storms, rain, vegetation, birds, stores. no travel documentation or review. no engagement?

Loki at least gets into it, though I affect his enjoyment with my reserve.

clear that a full-bodied text that posits my world-view, a transcript of lectures made, fleshed out with further commentary, reflected, filtered, and packaging the energy that is danced around. it needs to be generated, but how to make that text when I don't want it to be linked directly to the generations of previous texts. it needs to spring from direct experience. how?

and what to make the armature? academic discourse, performative speaking, hypertextual juggling? conversation? dialogue? the dialogue technique doesn't seem to get at the volume happening. and volume is what I need now. speaking to many rather than one or two. though it is against the principle of the teaching. still don't have a good feel for mapping this space of praxis.

cable teevee. hotel living. the Manhattan Project. massive drawdown of resources and energies to compress into the small object to kill thousands -- the largest engineering infrastructure in the history of the world to that time. called a modern marvel by the propaganda machine, sucking into the mind with interest -- interest in what? in the hunt, moving prey, what?

out on Sanibel Island for the day, getting lobsterized under the intense mid-day sun. not proficient with getting sunscreen on. never did like the greasy feeling. first time in warm ocean water since ... surfing daze in SaMo, Santa Monica, 20 years ago, can it be? nah, I guess I was on the Eastern Shore of Maryland at the beaches there with Randy in the mid-80's, the time I punctured my ear-drum in a body-surfing accident, and Randy drove back to DeeCee in the Porsche at 100 mph, somehow avoiding the police. my ear leaked yellow pus for a couple days before healing. I went to some doctor on Dupont Circle to get checked out. unemployed and uninsured. as seems to be my wont.

anyway, great to be in warm water, would like large waves for some good surfing action, but the heat and wetness is fine. now, how to protect the skin, this aged skin that I have abused so many times before. the worst during the month-plus in the Alps in 1982 also with Randy, I don't think we had sunscreen, and being at altitude, with a convertible (a 2CV Citroen), and not seeing a cloud for the entire month. my nose got fried and never recovered. I think I lost the primary layer of skin, as now it gets blotchy red whenever it gets any sun. I do what I can to keep it protected. recalling the photos in the old medical handbook of the guy with the prosthetic nose, lost his to cancer. faugh. soft body. after a few hours exposed to the sun and water, feeling debilitated. gotta toughen up! air conditioning then does me in, after eating a half-pound of ground beef, fries, not enough water. wiped out.

back on the skinned wings of alloy, moving mach 0.6, east to the south. to floridada. long time since being in these containers (but what is it to stay embedded in a language that is full of Cartesian frames, and mechanistic, materialistic frames of reference?) it may be that I have missed the precise point. but there was that moment, day-before-yesterday, sitting by the creek, several miles into the canyon, watching a stick that arched uplifted midway between my eye and the glittering, rushing clamor of water. keeping eye focused on the stick, exercising the physical mind's eye not to travel or be disturbed by that energized background. and getting, as a direct infusion of this practice, the reminder that this is actually an embodied result of the theoretical point of view, the worldview that is emerging during the last months and years. that a way of looking does merge with a practice, the momentary be-ing, finally.

arriving. in the southern realms with a microburst welcoming us to the landing strip, rough thunderheadwind, and warm blustery flatness. Aunt Mary is there in the terminal waiting for us.

rolling through a skin-felt coolishness, a Scandinavian mid-summer day. the latitudes are shifting south. or the globe is shifting north, or I am higher than any mountain in those Northlands that I used to pace. so feel the breeze with tempered skin. radiation pouring from on high, Light come down from the heavens. (noticing that my habit of text generation is more than retro). more than quoting the past, less than enLightenment of future extremities. adsorbing all returning sensual consumptions.