the cuts on my hand

Sometimes the fairy of motivation deigns to visit, and I have managed to get around to refurbishing and upgrading some of my guitars and those of a friend. It’s somewhat amazing how gross anything we touch for extended periods of time can get when not routinely cleaned (see keyboards). But two guitars from the depths of storage made pretty (the most important) and playable, with some fresh strings on some of my own, and then a long awaited bridge replacement on my Squier - an upgrade I would recommend to anyone who wants a floating bridge on a budget guitar.

the cuts on my hand trace the footpath trodden by afternoons well spent

i steal a moment waiting on repetition pen scratches paper

spring snapped back on a guitar fighting rebirth cuts close on my hand

how unbearable he said of lightness and weight the desk stays the same

Sometimes I think of AI development as alchemy, breaking down everything hoping to get something in return, not knowing what happens inside the flask.

a thousand words typed the great working without form like cranes in tribute

Haibun is supposed to be a travel journal, and as luck would have it my addiction to food and shelter is somewhat prohibitive in that regard. Then I think of mushrooms (I promise I’m going somewhere with this), and how travel is our feet taking us to new places while the roots of a plant branch out from the centre. One of the largest (the largest?) organisms on the planet is actually a fungi, it’s mycelium one giant connected network underneath the forest floor, out of our sight but creating an organism larger than we knew and impossible to understand.

the itch of my feet i can’t turn inward dust on my glasses

writing now i find i forgot to fill my pen still lying empty