I strolled through Pagan Park this morning. In fact, I just arrived. I sat on a PINK several times and wrote with Nextcloud Notes. Now, I am a big fan of Nextcloud and its synchronization with Joplin has been flawless to date, but the app that is for simply thurking notes failed whilst trying to save my writings to the cloud. Also, said writings cannot be found anywhere on the telephone. I assume them to be lost as logging into Nextcloud (or, rather, OWNCLOUD) Notes simply gives me an error and I cannot proceed further.
Such is live, vole.
I wrote various absurdities about writing itself. Specifically about the fact that I do neglect my writings for swaths of time then come back to them and write that I have neglected my writings for swaths of time. It’s a repetition that appeals to me. Neglecting my writing, however, does not appeal to me. It clarifies my thoughts. It, like my mumbling strums on the guitar, is a type of meditation.
Pagan Park served as a type of idea pit during various epochs of my life. I am especially fond of the 2009-2012 epoch. I made myriad notes of random phenomena, both physical and psychological, that occurred to me as I walked and sat on those benches. Pink means bench in Estonian. I no longer remember how to pluralize. I have a mindmap somewhere, if it is not also lost in the stasis I’ll soon write about, with thoughts organized according to which pink I had them on. I used to choose one at random and have it spawn an entire journal entry. I’ve always needed impetus to begin the creative process, even if it is my own, somehow external, impetus. I’m just that kind of mustelid.
The other topic I addressed in Pagan Park was the idea Christian and I talked about yesteryear or yesterday or yestersecond. I don’t recall exactly. It’s a concept that comes up time and again. It is this: Peasant-folk watch their compatriots vanish from their lives. This vanishment is temporary. These peasant-folk consider those that have vanished in a type of stasis. When they return, they are the same as 20 years before, 20 months before, 20 days before, 20 abelochs before. Whathaveyou. I come back to that old silly song time and again by Michelle Shocked. Their lives ran in circles so small. They thought they’d seen it all. They couldn’t make a place for a girl who’d seen the ocean. Or something along those lines. The lives of the peasant-folk drift along slowly. Little changes. Thus, they thrust their experience upon the images they have of the vanished. Of those in stasis. So, of course those that left have not changed! They are the exact same people as they were when they took to the road. They were in stasis.
These ideas are tightly related to the eidolons we all have of the people that surround us (whether they are the vanished or not). In a way, we are all peasant-folk, to one degree or another.
