The delicate, ethereal notes of a handpan float through the air and simultaneously lull my restless spirit and invigorate my body. This is also very confusing because it's 2 am and this is a truck stop diner.

A handpan consists of two metal half-shells glued together and is played by hitting it with your hands. It's kind of like a steel drum, but it looks like a tiny flying saucer or a giant robot clam. 

It sounds like more laid-back version of a steel drum. Where steel drums tend to sound bubbly, buoyant, and festive, the handpan leans into exotic meditative tones. 

Knowing this, I still don't know why I'm hearing it now. I've finished my eggs and toast, the coffee is cold and black like the icy roads I've got to drive on for the next hundred miles, and I'm enjoying the warmth of the diner for a few more minutes before I have to brace myself for the winter chill as I go back to my truck. 

Is no one else hearing this?

Open and start typing. If you can begin, you can persist. I'm not sure that's exactly true, but I like the way it sounds. It feels right when you say it. We don't need to worry about how our minds are recursive, not yet. It's a green plastic watering can, with a few holes at the bottom, so when we walk to and from the flowers, we water the path a little, too. Surprising things might grow. 

It's either a great time to be reflective or a terrible time. I haven't decided yet. I think it's great, just more difficult. Our brains have a way of picking out and holding on to the information we like, that supports that we believe to be true, and then discarding the data that we don't like. 

I don't think I'm immune to this either. Knowing it's a thing isn't enough to stop it. I know I do tend to seem argumentative because when I hear something proclaimed as True, I want to test it, probe it, find the boundaries, extend the logic as far as it goes, like forging a silver thread, to see if it holds, or if it breaks. 

I'm real fun at parties. 

If you can begin, you can persist. 

If you're a watering can, you can exist. 

Well that doesn't sound right at all. 

There may be a moment, or many moments, a big old bunch of blobs of moments all stuck together like old boba tea, when it feels like...a mess. 

You can love the mess. It's allowed. 

Rowyn's Spire

Halfway up Mount Cullerman, (the locals call Rowyn's Spire) within just a few hour's hike from the summer cabin, are the ruins of an ancient stone fortress. They lie just at the edge of the treeline, which is strange because the treeline everywhere else in the area is about 2 thousand feet higher. Out of all the mountains in this stretch of the range, the trees just don't seem to want to grow any higher up on this one. 

Maybe that's why whoever built the fortress chose that spot. It wouldn't be hidden from their enemies, but nor could the enemies sneak right up to the walls. 

They'd have to cross about fifty yards of scree with no cover, and the clattering of the loose rock would alert the guards, even in darkness, and be met with a shower of arrows. 

I can see the tactical advantages, but what was the fortress guarding? Why spend the time and effort to put up stone walls and ramparts to defend a bare, resourceless mountaintop?

I made a campfire in the center of the ruins, and was sitting on the crumbling stones all mottled grey and green with lichen, with the sun having just set, when I heard the gritty, scraping, sounds of something, or many somethings, from somewhere above. 

It hadn't occurred to me that the guardians of this fortress may have been trying to keep something from getting down. 

Delicate rains are common this season. Every night until the early morning. The days are still warm, and the heat of the morning sun unleashes tendrils of mist and fog that quest across the city, snaking through alleyways and pooling in parking lots. 

The fog muffles sounds; the footsteps behind you could be closer than you think. 

I don't worry too much about it. The mist is more of an ally. 

purpose

Purpose, or what's left of it. I'm not even sure what that means. It's late and I'm tired, I guess. Some legal matters are finalized now, with new uncertainties to untangle tomorrow. 

Distractions abound. The din. Drowns out my own thoughts. Worse, other ideas slip in that I might think were my own. Chaff.

It's not so dire; admittedly, I frame it that way because that's how it feels sometimes. But not all the time. Right now, I'm cozy in my bed, listening to some ethereal music. The bizarre floating creatures writhing along in the sky have not noticed me yet, so I still have time to plan and prepare. I can get stronger and smarter and learn to be better. 

I've got a good feeling about tomorrow.