Or am i on D now.?
It's all very funny.
Plan A was obvious: one day very straightforward human matters about rural existence - that many do not in reality, that many cannot enjoy the day sweating and smelling and the jump in the river later on to refresh and clean. Always some 'problem'. Rural mentality - well practiced over many years is not that.
Five years meeting randomly people on a hill nearby. Interesting conversations had - real ones, about things such as the above.
Several rare and interesting community leaders met some years ago. One wished to simply provide them with some reality. Share the real version of life. Unlikely one will ever meet them again as in 'foreign' countries. But allies - i think of no border. Real allies... allies of the heart, the true version. Genuine affinity in approach to life and society, which became from 2016 so falsely world-political. A few rare down to earth maybe even friends. Share thought, i know mine is ok and real.
But along comes the great big rather dumb world wide nervous tic from 2020. And the bizarre thing is not for me. I have never had so many chances to develop new real interpersonal skills - live... meaning on the job. Not 'work' work, just pathways to follow as one benefited inside and if there was some mutual benefit too that is good. Now i deserve a holiday. Not that anyone 'deserves' anything. The bugger is that I had several themes many years in mind that needed weaving together. One hundred percent sure of the way forward. And what do you know so much happens - too much, i want nothing, now. Absolute harmonious very little. But i lost my themes too. Which explains gobbledygook. And i cannot write or even sketch out plans in sunny months because i have an illness i have to take my laptop outside. Cannot do indoors unless rainy periods. And thus cannot even deal with the typos. As these damn machines one cannot peer at outdoors. Or even inside the motor and see things particularly clearly due bouncing glare. So be it...
Work
There is no point in work
—unless it absorbs you
—like an absorbing game.
If it doesn't absorb you
if it's never any fun,
don't do it.
When a man goes out to work
he is alive like a tree in spring,
he is living, not merely working.
When the hindus weave thin wool into long, long lengths of stuff
with their thin dark hands and their wide dark eyes and their still souls absorbed
they are like slender trees putting forth leaves, a long white web of living leaf,
the tissue they weave,
and they clothe themselves in white as a tree clothes itself in its own foliage,
As with cloth, so with houses, ships, shoes, wagons or cups or loaves.
Men might put them forth as a snail its shell, as a bird that leans
its breast against its nest, to make it round,
as the turnip models his round root, as the bush makes flowers and gooseberries,
putting them forth, not manufacturing them,
and cities might be as once they were, bowers grown out from the busy bodies of people.
And so it will be again, men will smash the machines.
At last, for the sake of clothing himself in his own leaf-like cloth
tissued from his life,
and dwelling in his own bowery house, like a beaver's nibbled mansion
And drinking from cups that came off his fingers like flowers off their five-fold stem,
he will cancel the machines we have got.
