Where the Wind Is Blowing From
A chill February wind drives me indoors to the kitchen table, where the cat already has the best spot. Then lacing up: assess conditions, know which plays work in which climate, and dive in.
Handwritten field notes from the notebooks. Stream-of-consciousness sessions where the pen makes its own journey: raw, unfiltered, unedited. The point is to mine what is drifting below the surface, not to polish.
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A chill February wind drives me indoors to the kitchen table, where the cat already has the best spot. Then lacing up: assess conditions, know which plays work in which climate, and dive in.
Shot out of a cannon and straight into a rocketship, then the afterthoughts: produce, build, test, learn. A leaf blower breaks the peace, and the writer steps out of the way to catch the signal.
A winter afternoon, the low south sun, and the house quiet in a way it has not been for days. Almost too quiet, and interesting to write under different circumstances with a black pen.
Winter sun, a neighbor's barking dog, and a hug from the universe that urges me onward. Then an idea gets its name: situational governance, a meta governor for reading the climate of any arena.
Freewriting on AI and the maker's prejudice: creator, original, or regurgitation. Breath and the motion of ink, and a work that stays incomplete for most of its life before it comes out from hiding.
A Goonies line to start, then the line itself: ease of breath, batch reviews on staging, music and Bellatrix, penmanship under strain, and the scribe as steady witness to what comes.
Return to the practice: breath work, loose hands, posture. Staying out of the way but in focus, a scribe to the process, and training in the streets when the arena is empty.
So heavy right now it's best just to focus on the basics. On relinquishing control, coming back to breath and posture, steady rhythm, and being investigator to the human condition. A life examined, hopefully well-lived.
Blue ink at 1:38am while an AI agent works on the Astro site. Hormesis, a declaration on God and the Universe, and a game of how clean and uniform the handwriting can get.
Black ink, a Tuesday that feels like a Monday, two calls at once and no lunch. More throughput this year, the goals set, the targets hit: thwack, thwack, thwack, triple bullseye.
Letters looking sharper, Betelgeuse so dearly red, a ship built with redundant systems, and why we talk of life on land while riding a planet through space. Then a new pen and grade school ink.
Keeping the needle moving across the record: thought capture as ghostbusting, writing sessions as a search for precious metals, and birdsong on a cold Sunday of a three-day weekend.
Redundant systems and optionality, like enough space heaters for when the furnace goes out. Then back to letters in the winter sun, where warmth reaches some places and ice builds in the shadows.
Time to go into mining mode: good posture, deep breath, a purposeful pace, pages written in the hope of striking some unique thought. Then zoom, zoom, vroom while a conversation is summarized.
After a day at the computer, ink on the page as a more natural pathway: systems within systems, writing like a dance, and letters sliding across the page like skis cutting through powder.
A take-off into the new year, markets and regimes, then the pen wanders out: the planet as a living vessel with certain trajectory, and time measured by how much we have traveled.
The first day of 2026 with a tired mind: the sea, memory, people as stars, money and markets, and a plan to make the business a success with Hansuru and antifragile thinking behind it.
The last night of 2025, back with the Uniball: breath, relaxed shoulders, a steady line, and the stroke of an imagined kayak paddle. The page stops mid-sentence as the new year begins.
Four December days in one notebook: flow and the pen, the raw thoughts of a biological LLM, motion as the breath of the universe, and a search for the source of new thoughts, like new rock.
Fall in the hills, Fomalhaut and the third phase of a decan, then the numbers of our motion: the spinning earth, its orbit, the sun around the galaxy, and the pull toward the Great Attractor.