online diaries notwithstanding, i have actually been doing a great deal of writing. throughout my silence on here, i've filled a few large notebooks and sketchbooks... and, to a certain extent, being my own audience has felt like enough. strongly compelled as i've often been to share most of those thoughts and discoveries, it seems that the right time hasn't quite yet arrived to undergo all the necessary translation, elaboration, and editing work in order to present them in a coherent format to others. perhaps it feels too much like pinning something down which wants to continue to stay in flux, liquid in it's perpetually evolving and forming state. but oh how it flows... passionately, helplessly at times. i refer to them as "writing attacks" and they happen with some frequency these days - keeping me awake at night, scribbling hurriedly to keep up with this storming brain and it's torrents-of-consciousness. good times.

it's also somewhat rare that i write about me anymore. i muse rather on that which is far larger than "i" - universes of otherness, the glories and sufferings of humanity that i observe... individuals, cultures, history, past-present-future, science: biology/physics/chemistry/anatomy, philosophy and, of course, the arts. i'm far less interested in the personally subjective again, and express things about myself only as a reflection-point and perceiver of the external world i encounter. in fact, this awesome Henry Miller quote i just found describes perfectly where i'm at:

"Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music - the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself."

it's actually a very natural mode of being alive.

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