Out

Out writing in the tent in the cold vigorous air. It is difficult to become suddenly unplugged from regular Internet connectivity, which becomes like an appendage with a regular current of feedback and feeling: one gets tied in through the various correspondences and expectations which beckon as communication once gain wanes, and through the regular absorption and radiation of information and creative expression. 

But then there is the rain crackling on the canvas, the icy cold coming in from the thin walls, which is then pushed back by the warmth of the radiator and blankets. And having a beer, sitting in soft and warm light in a circular space, listening to the owls up above in the towering fir, spruce, and alder trees, which stretch up to the starry sky. The wind passes down from higher up the mountain, and roars through the trees. And everything is alright.