Have recently been in a mood for narrative arcs: binge reading of Dark Knight Returns, Watchmen, Promethea, Tom Strong, and watching first half of first season of Community. Shapes of stories. Spurred by reading Grant Morrison’s book and recent thoughts of Silent History v1 and v2.
coordinate.systems
Father’s an archer. He’d aim for a cloud in the sky from across a football field.
He’d destroy the center of the target, lodging arrows deep into the spine.
So he’d sharpie a new bullseye, where the arrows could land clean.
I remember once someone watching him shoot and chiding him for being far from the mark.
A proverb might say:
It's not for the spectator to know where the mark has been set. Nor for the archer to claim—after—they were aiming where it hit.
I am still here, churning.
Turns out love is a full-time gig, which fits and boxes the space of other work.
Packing up my ideas and scrapping what I know for day rates.
Moving all my ideas into the “On Hold” section of my to do list.
Trying to get ok with locking doors I never really opened.
Trying to make my dreams match what my credit can buy.
Joining the march in the really real of time.