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?