Silence in selection, or the ramble

There's not much I imagine is interesting about the process.

That is to say. I have an obsession with the process. Any "the process". The routes to creation.

But that obsession, that interest, is a selfish one. It doesn't, I don't think, carry to the audience.

Posting strings of unfinished efluvia, posting the process, what is it but self indulgent? A burden on the reader?

And but.. also however...

Have I more to offer? Is ever I finished? (In Pogo parlance)

So I write, to keep the flow, to keep the pace, to keep a routine, and let go the know that what I share is halfs, is balderdash digestion in the tripe of my mind, is cud, is offal, is pains and placenta...

There's a moon up there. Past full now. Near full a day or two ago. A whole disc. And 7 billion human eyes beneath to see. And if 1 of 1000 examine it with more than a passing eye, then, in one day, 7,000,000,000... -000 = 7,000,000 examining and contemplating and reworking...

700 songs is not so much to guess. 700 moon songs a day. What harmony!

No jump I make will reach that moon.

Someone somewhere is dying with the moon in view.

The moon sees the one I love.

There's a rabbit in it, and a man, and a spider.

And it's cheese. And gold. And hard rock dusty cosmic floating.

A reminder - a thing we all can grasp at without touching.

An ancient constant, over Rome, over Mycenae, over Egypt, over the Hun, over Lucy... that first fish saw the moon.

And the children we'll never know.

To reach it then. To stand there.

That giant leap.

How heartbreaking. To have been the first, and known, below, the bones of those who lay unreachably grasping.

The long fall... We can fall from moon to earth. We've done it, if he is we.

And so? Lucifer falling. The angels hurling mountains.

The celestial choir.

And the cheese mold grows and wanes. The rind of the moon makes pungent the stock.

The necklace of the moon wows suitors.

The gown of the moon holds off fathers.

The howl at the moon is the wild call.

The moon-eyed lover can not but someday reach their love. For the moon is not so far.

We'll hold our love some day. In moon-grasp.

And be loved.

And whirling dust we'll be.

And all the whirling dust, of the red and yellow clouds,the nebulae, the starstuff and the planetary punctuation, is loved, has been loved, will be loved, as we know it.

In the beginning.

And in the disparation.

Love the process.

Love.