Way-finding (verb) cultural and personal practice; 1. To plot a course between two points of departure and destination…

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I’m in the middle of leaving a house of nine years and perhaps a country that has been a home for twenty – and so I shouldn’t be surprised to find myself stressed-out, disjointed, twitchy-limbed and generally disassociative. Manically ordering things into Keep, Kill, and Give Away boxes, before a memory in a bare kitchen forces you to resort said boxes. Moving is, I have realized, doing the Shell Game thing with your entire life.

One of the boxes I probably should be killing, but probably will be keeping is an ancient vinyl record box, packed not with records (more’s the pity…) but with the different heartbeat recordings of stylus on paper: almost a lifetime of journals and scrapbooks and diaries (with many amnesic gaps it has to be said; strange 3, 5, 7 year voids that will remain forever lost; like the me’s that occupied them packed themselves up as I am doing now, and emigrated from the continuum of my story, never to return).

So, I guess that I shouldn’t be surprised to find myself thinking about direction, about Where The Crap Am I Going, about all sorts of places I have been – and what is that connective thread between one departure and one destination. This is not a situation that I share alone of course, when viewed in the context not just of Western precarity/austerity, but also these global times of ever-rising C02.

I wonder if adaption isn’t on everyone’s minds in some form or another.

Even though Warren Ellis is talking about the writing lark in this post – it felt pretty well-suited:

 

The figuring out of the shit is a big part of this writer’s work. Always be ready to turn everything off and let your mind wander into the future.

It does, of course, look to everyone else like you’re not doing a damn thing. And, often, you don’t have anything to physically present for the hours you’ve burned staring at the wall or whatever.

It’s stressy, having to turn all the pieces of your career and vocation around in time and space and plot out as many of the paths forward in as many versions as your mind can carry. I am essentially just stress.

But. I’ve tried a lot of iterations on “being a writer” over the years, and, really, just being a writer and creator of things is the only thing that gives me pleasure. It’s all I like, it’s all I trust, and it never lies to me. So it’s all I’m going to do.

 

Remembering Trees: A Self-Care Ritual for World-Lovers