The discrepancy between solipsism and internet self-exposure is jarring. Where am I, why am I, what is this?
To generate content, that is the point. Of what? Unimportant. Before form comes chaos. Clay before structure, formlessness before reason.
Pretension and empty musings before direction asserts itself.
The basis exists.
Literary study, scientific curiosity, vicious philosophy. Naturalism devoid of spirituality, imbued with rationality, explored scientifically, and understood linguistically. I am a writer and a scientist, formal in one and philosophical in the other. I live in a world in which I don’t fully believe, but I greatly enjoy writing about its idiosyncrasies. I like the greener parts of it.
I live in a city too small for much interest and too urban for much green, but both can be found. The finding takes effort. There are manifold social websites, people with a greater interest in discovering each other than I will ever have.
This is not that.
Verdancy, trees and shrubs, foraged edibles, these things I can pursue. Growing hydroponically indoors over winter, turning my city home from a low-tread to a non-print, decentralized, power station, snarking about restaurants, reviewing books, discussing potting techniques, these I can do.
And on these I tend to elaborate in the days, weeks, or months to come.