I have no idea what’s going on.  What is trust but a pad of wet reeds? Underneath the warp and woof of vegetable matter, it’s turtles all the way down. Meaning? Meaningless? MEaninglessness? What if there’s no there there? What if there is? Bubbles in the tub, circling the drain. Fractal remembrance, stuttering and badly buffered.

So much in life is irrelevant, and yet love is real, and people feel, and… everything matters to somebody. Web after web collects until you’ve woven your own shroud. We’re back to weaving and fabric and patterns, and meaning… weaving meaning out of the the tendrils of experience, and feedback.

My god. We’re trying to catch the echoes of a sound that never was.

No wonder suffering exists.

Philip K Dick’s image of the Black Iron Prison looms large tonight.

“We don’t have any ideology. We don’t have any theology. We dance.”  – A Shinto priest to an American Theologian