Some days the broad superficiality of everyday life gets to me.  Other days, it feels just right, fine, or even peachy keen.  Today, I’m undecided.  It’s such a chore to start days looking for meaning.  Unencumbered by religion, involvement in local whatever, cut off from institutions, unhindered by a catechism, afloat like Pi with a Bengal tiger, I just weather the storm and look for safe harbor on an island that is not carnivorous.

The thing is: I’m between projects, by design and intention, and with my mind and spirit free, it’s a long rope lassoing the air, no object in sight to fasten onto or stay put.

The things artists must do.

I completed my first piece on the Tuskegee Airmen.  It may run soon.  It should be worth exploring as a book.

The contract for my book on Non Resident Indians?  In the mail?  On its way?  Anyhow, that project will start soon and appear as a book, I’m told, in 2014 in India.

Staggered by the ferocity of the book on the race wars, I read Nicholas Lander on restaurants instead, and think of ways to pan sear hirame.  Thanks to Dave Pasternack, I understand fish better than ever.

So is the fish a way towards meaning or is meaning a path towards fish?  Is Paris in France or is France in Paris?