I write what is on my mind. And what is on my mind: most everything learned by the experience of living, by father, mother, family near and far, friends chosen, friends who have chosen me, lately and those through history with whom I converse, silently, consistently, incessantly, and though these conversations, in words composed for good, I write to you.
The high art of language, most pure, most beautiful, best remembered and best loved, quoted often and written upon the ethereal granite of the mind.
Our family portrait, the amusing stories of our foibles, the whispered rumors of misdeed, indiscretion, the grave mistakes which bring shame, and the virtues by which we are redeemed: honor, kindness, love.
The loving pursuit of wisdom, becoming better by learning of the best that has been thought, done, said, and of these, knowledge of the divine, the Word everywhere present.
When in the woods with winged and four-legged souls, those of fur and fin who speak emotion, experience hypo-human; when in the polis, the street crowded with words mechanic and organic, honking, talking, telling, speaking sense and nonsense; when artistically silent, attentive to souls who live in thoughts, open to songs epi-human.
There is space alike light which projects into a place before writing, and from this space we find each word voiced by our fellows: do you hear? There! The echo of Echo, Greek, "yes", Ovid, "yes", through the Grand Canyon, "yes"; each word I hear carries a genealogy, a pedigree, the taxonomy of all that is by God: listen, you too will hear and understand.
Of Theseus there is much to know: of how by a long thread he navigated Minos' deep, twisting labyrinth to find his way into the light, and from light, back to home. Theseus was small, not Herakles proportioned, yet he was hero-made to accomplish Theseus-sized deeds.
Alike Theseus, each writer follows the thread of stories, back to where the story began, forward into the light, that when in the light, our fellows might find their way home.