If I haven't communicated with you in the last few months or haven't communicated with you very well, it has nothing to do with you or my affection for you. It has to do with my mental state and with needing to somehow clear a space for thought and feeling.

The year I spent working on Interpenetrations of Views,the exchange with Geof Huth which fills 680 manuscript pages, is only one of the things that derailed me. But it was a major one. Let me be clear, it was also one of the great experiences of my life, getting to know Geof better and becoming friends. But it threw me off my game.

We produced a manuscript which should probably be edited down to a quarter of its size to make a thing of value to others. But this is not about that.

In the past I've used blogs in an attempt to psych myself up to where I could overcome what is at times a debilitating self-consciousness. I'm unsure how much sense that last sentence will make to you, dear reader. Let's just say that I've never been at home in my own skin and that blog posts, poems, and etc are how I try to intervene in my reality.

Am I making any sense at all? I've always, almost always to be more accurate, felt that all experience is provisional but absolute at the same time. It's what one has and it can be fucked up so easily.

Public apology to JBR for a private exchange some time ago. Utmost respect for what you do. You're an artist. I like you. That's sincere. But I get creeped out, a little, when you sample my work without altering it. It feels a little like a violation.

Writing doesn't come easily to me. I fail more often than I succeed. I struggle with limits I am overly conscious of. I have no facility, as such.

It is for me, in the end, about what can be distilled from a mess. I don't want to gas on.