Yes, I know if I don’t write anything people will stop reading. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. As a means of staying in touch this format is far from optimal. I wouldn’t write the same letter to all my friends; writing like this means I have to ignore the uniqueness of each of my relationships. I suppose I could justify myself if my goal were to be universal. To make something good that anyone can enjoy. But I know what that demands: a lot of labor in the dark, and a clear enough vision of the goal to be able to resist letting anyone see it half-finished.

I’m not thinking just of what people call art. Science is like that too. You have your dim suspicions, you marshal your arguments, working without recognition until your findings are unassailable. Think of the bell in Andrej Rublev. So it seems to me that I ought to labor on something that I have a chance of bringing to completion. It’s good to have a job where I can do that.

What news? Today the lab moved into its new space, or rather, its old space newly remodelled. I have a desk with a window, and due to the roomier quarters allotted to postdocs, Arnie’s cage as well. He’s finished most of his molt now and has pretty blue-green iridescent feathers over most of his body, except his head, where it’s still gray, so he appears to be wearing a clown suit.

I’m taking a welding class, and hoping to head into the studio tonight to put together the top of the table I’m building. It’s absurdly satisfying to use an oxyacetylene torch, especially when you’ve cut your pieces well and they just fuse together. Biking into work whenever I can. Still pretty achey after a thirty mile day, which is kind of pathetic compared to the rides I did in California. Although, I never tried to do so much mileage day after day. Good discipline, if I can keep it up.

Lately I contemplate the differences between happiness and contentment, between hurt and harm, between faith and fantasy. Life’s good, although I long for the ocean. Hope you’re well, too.

(cdm | NewOffice)