Philosophy and the notebooks

At heart my dreams are that of a philosopher, and thus often work their way onto the page and wriggle their way sneakily out of my consciousness, when I'm simply trying to breathe and make nice scribbles and here comes some thought to ruin the experience and stop my breath entirely.

From the notebook, Breathe. Then Prompt.

What it means to be alive in a moment when machines are learning to think alongside us. Antifragility, cosmic perspective, consciousness, the long now. Less abstract than it sounds.

The notebooks keep coming back to the same few places. The pen itself, and the odd feeling of being a scribe for whatever wants to come through. The body, sore from sitting, cold feet, a breath I forgot to take. The sky, and the fact that this rock is hurtling through space while I sit here writing about a deploy. And the work, the building and the mining, and whether any of it holds when the light changes. Nothing here is settled, and I keep picking the pen back up.