11/21/11: I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing. - Anais Nin... time is commodified into "this" experience. more or less, it defines us; we define it. we negotiate our bodies within it spatially, while we navigate our moments based on time's rules. we spend it, it's saved, wasted, wanted, made use of, bought, sold, traded, measured, and cut short.our time lust can (and will) determine our preoccupation with every. single. fucking. thing.measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, seasons, years, decades... just take a look at the writing on the wall: there with our bodies and buffalo was also a way to measure how this experience has served us so far. (see also a preoccupation with the need to record it... c'est la vie.) it's about legacy, isn't it?we're scared to die.our humanness allows us the terrible quality to be compelled to describe what that means. it's disconnecting, distracting, and (frankly) counterproductive to actually preserving and spending wisely how brief this experience truly is. while we're separate, we're connected; while there's community, we have walls; in silence we hear out own wails; in din and chaos, we find peace. so, we measure. we have art. figureheads. words. things that unite, things that distract. tools and skills to survive. even lack of the former, absence of the latter.almost one year. 3 1/2 seasons. 11 months. 51 weeks. 359 days. whispering in your father's ear that it's okay to leave doesn't mean i've made any peace with goodbye. having the strength to invite never means the same in the outcome. we were left. his absence reminds us of that. so too, we are forced to remind all else of his legacy.so, that's time. time is never what it was meant to be, and not at all what we expected from it. be careful with yours. take risks. make confessions. love harder than you can dream. we have no idea when the last grain of sand will fall, but make sure it measures a hell of a lot more than you ever expected.4/23/12:If all the ways I have been along were marked on a map and joined up with a line, it might represent a minotaur. - Pablo Picasso...I’m reminded of this post when I try to think about my relationship with the intangible and how equipped I am to negotiate the rub of this human experience. It’s a safe assumption that anyone, basically, is more than “qualified” to navigate from A to B without too much of a hiccup – we learn in err and still keep truckin’ – so, that’s comforting. I suppose it depends on where A begins and where B ends; however, it isn’t too much of a trek with any preconceived goal in mind. Or is it? It is. That’s the trouble. We forget that things take precious time. We forget that blisters still have to heal if you wore rotten shoes. And we forget that when we unpack our knapsacks chock full o’ our past, others are also doing the same. Tight corners and crisp folds to hold dear our insecurities, failures, fears, shame, and doubt all tumble out and scurry when you un-do that knot.Is it more about what we carry with (within) us, or more about ditching that sack in the next pond we find? And is that we forget, or is it that we’re truly creatures of habit and recreate the same spin on the wheel again and again? Are we learning, or are we being reminded?My internal compass will always have the same cardinal directions: passion, heart, family, and empathy. I’ve been following the path due passion for a minute now – I’m bound to see that “X” marked somewhere. And even if I don’t dig, this treasure map has still got my words scribbled all over it: this way to home. If A is always the beginning, I’ll always be looking for C. I hate endings. I might have an explanation somewhere on my back, but I’m not about to go digging through it. I’ll just let it settle in its appropriate layers for anthropology’s sake. I’ll leave it with the dinosaurs. 17 months. 68 weeks. Almost 500 days. Even if I’m still chasing the same piece of cheese, I’m going to make damn sure I roll that wheel somewhere beautiful.