Reading "Faith, Hope, and Carnage" by Sean O'Hagan. He interviewed Nick Cave the musician who's band The Bad Seeds is featured in the Peeky Blinders TV series. Cave is also a writer, film, poet, and more. These interviews were deeply touching to me on so many levels. I'm not even that far into the book. His discussion of grief is so enlightening. Learning more will be a treat.

The past few days I've been hunting for my center so I could identify something to write about. The centering I was seeking was more like a bagel hole. All around that hole is warm chewy textured flavor. Just a hole within me. I know my centered self is there but I couldn't taste it, feel it, tear it apart to butter it, and devour. Maybe I've exhausted myself.

I am or better said I portray an extrovert. I've shared my always chatting up those who serve me in stores or restaurants or just passing folks (not the entitled those who work) with a nod or a smile. Toddlers too. It is my spread a bit of joy God knows there are days joy is a fleeting quality.

"As you replace what is present with what you're seeking are you the same person? Does it change your journey?"

The past held much for me. Now there's darkness, fear, failing at trying, and the aging of body, mind, and soul. Those are the tennis balls I juggle each day dropping one that end up under the bed. Out of reach laughing since getting up and down off the floor is now an olympic event.

This is now my journaling. A public journaling with great caution of course. In the harsh reality of a bright June sunrise no one reads this so I can go all ideation, KMS, and shrug. Maybe stay away from that kinda journal entry for the moment. On the upside this will my chance to reflect in real time. To capture the clanging pots and pans in my head beating out a Rush song that incessantly shatters my internal peace. Putting all of that internal dialogue here slows the emotional erosion. Gives me pause to see better what is going on.

Knowing what we're going though and being kind to ourselves is just as important. We should listen to our inner voice that speaks to us. Allow it to heard by others as a validation that we are alive and in motion.

The week of stuff

This weeks finds.

This weeks finds

Week 4 of mmmmm still not sure what to call this? Talking to myself cuz no one wants to hear me? Sharing but not sharing? Stream of consciousness not dissimilar to an old with a slightly enlarged prostate peeing and trying to write his name in the snow. Better

Another week of SM shares that did not get SM shared but are here. Untagged unloved unnoticed. I guess this is my public journal of me journaling. Well not really journaling since I’m not gnashing my teeth about me and the world and my life. More just here is what I find cool and groovy. Hope you do as well.

I thought this was a slow week for shares. Turns out this is a dogs breakfast of stuff I found, reacted to, and would have share on SM.

The collision of memories and the audible Donna were comforting. I was speaking to her in the moment. A sort of after death continuum of our narrative in spoken word. One word. It was a pastoral glade of memories that in its comfort would gnaw on me with doubts and fears.

My modest effort will be to eschew direct SM posts and collect the weeks worth of what I would have shared here. No SM shares of this or even tags. Just this week I read this, saw this, and was struck by that, All of which would have been IG or FB worthy. With the failed logic of my posse on these platforms would value this and click likes or comment

On the good days he awoke to an origami swan of memories neatly folded and tucked into the present. It was not sadness just acceptance that he was here and alone. But the swan was there and gave comfort to him alone. He held the swan in his hand and flew it around the morning sun marveling at its joy.