End of week and no completed writing project to show for it, but that's an arbitrary- and not very plausible at that- assumption. It's been a good 5 days of intake. There's a been an almost daily cycle of clarity and confoundment as regards my ongoing writing practice. Still in strategic mode. Strategically speaking, it's a pile of goo. At one point I thought/wrote: "Still in strategic mode. Ideas of place. History. The History Channel. Ecohistory. Echo."

Then I wrote-
perspective as the plane's
shadow in profile
its childish form (other childish forms?)
the same size as a house without a person or tree
for reference, only a continuity of surface, a gesso
of low growth the texture and color of a sweater
worn by a woman under the roof,
the simple shape- one story or two-
the plane below.

Then "Eureka" and some notion about deconstructivist architecture and empathy.

All I know is that I am not a bat. That I can walk up a mountain 700 feet. That I ate a raw oyster for the first time at the invitation of Laird and it was less than gross. That the graffiti says "cause I love you." That I saw a family of raccoons cross the street and disappear near the curb where I walked- gingerly- moments later. It may have been the same day McClure called us "mammal patriots" that a student was actually bitten on campus by a very forward squirrel and Joan said, "Your mind: you can be the proud owner of this formidable machine."