eskimo

Not much going on - clustered like an anchorite in my cluttered cell with its blue cubicle walls, listening to N.T. Wright and Jimi Hendrix. Air conditioning and flourescent lighting finally sent me searching for the sun during afternoon break. An empty meeting room with a westward window served as a chapel. I dragged up a chair and tried to catch up on a little Moltmann. Highligher and pencil slowly mark one's mental footsteps through a christology as challenging in its boldness as it is racy in its heterodoxy. 5...10...15 minutes. Time wanders aimlessly, slushing through the soupy moments of the workday. How many hours of Wheel of Fortune did Jody's Papaw take into the afterlife? Even for the church, this is ordinary time. There's that boredom that comes with yardwork - you've begun the pattern and now there is just the long, grassy sweat until its ending. Put a bubble around today I'd do two things with it. First, I'd get that bike fixed and ride it for awhile. Second, I'd work out a few songs on the Martin, not as much for the songs as the feel of my fingers working together, doing something in unison, effortlessly effecting that marvelous tone like poured coffee in a cup. I actually had someone ask me the other day what guitarists influenced me. Whoa! it has been many years since I even thought about music like that, or about my own guitar playing like that. I don't as much use the guitar to play music as I do to do music. I am as happy working out new progressions for some on-the-spot melody as I am actually playing anything. It was a strange question: like I had to figure out what the person was asking me. But here's the thing: the implied question has to do with a personal project. Who is informing your project? That's just it - I don't have a project. I have backed myself in a wall here? How much non-project am I taking into the afterlife? How much better is non-project than wheel of fortune, buying letters without actually writing anything.