Not for sure I’m quite here yet, spending time, wasting time, time seduced by fireworks and frills, lost, nowhere; distraction not being a place, a detour, yes, a movement smooth and effortless, away from place and a time notched in meaning. Too bad, oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled in imagined past, and future projection, fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs; unanchored and drifting, in the current of lost, the waves of losing: celebrations, illuminations, tactile evidence grounding presence in the world. Waving the tattered flag of surrender, a half-hearted life of neglect: of discernment of porous beliefs, of connections barren and uncultivated, sometimes careless, often clueless to the ever-changing interdependence, registering spikes of false confidence, convinced that when things go south it isn’t you.