For what, in painful moments, have felt like excruciating, unending months, I have floated on the winds of change in popular/mainstream culture, following more than leading, letting the voices of others more attracted to monetary success and mass cultural influence speak for me, all because I acted upon the belief that adjusting to the loss of my father would change me, and it did.

I quit reading books.

I stopped meditating upon the peace of my joyful existence.

I dwelled in the mental images of the running storyline in my thoughts rather than shared them here with you, the reader and fellow follower.

I let my hit list dwindle down to nothing as my public voice changed to incorporate my image of mon pere into my written voice.

All while staying true to myself.

Relatively easy — no wars to fight, no lethal weapons to avoid, no slippery corporate ladders to climb, no shaky relationships to fix.

Because of this ease with which I walked through the death of my mother in-law and father, as well as a few people not mentioned online, I arrived here, continuing the sorting process of establishing which facts of one’s existence are worth recording in a blog via scanned images or Internet links and which are loaded into boxes and bags, then carried to the thrift store or sent to the local landfill.

By putting these items online, my personality is revealed through the points of contact I made in our global socioeconomic intercourse.

I asked myself along the way if it is easier for me to do something than something else I did before, will I?

I could grow and sell woodland plants in my tiny acre of land but is it easier and more enjoyable for someone else somewhere else?

I could poison and kill the raccoons that have eaten their way into my attic, or I could trap them and release them far away from this house, either way cleaning up the tornup eaves, shredded cardboard boxes and animal droppings.

Who am I?

The proverbial question has bounced around on days when I wondered which of my written personalities is really me.

Am I naturally attracted to people like Felicia Day because I have been and always will be a geek at heart?

I can talk and/or I can act.

Talking about myself and my inaction gets boring after a while when the voices are echoing the same thought back and forth, learning nothing new.

I have a bag of old spray paint cans and a few illustrator boards I used to make handbound hardback books of a limited collection of my poems and short stories — time to combine those with a bag of sewing notions from a 1956 Singer sewing machine cabinet to create artwork for display at Lowe Mill.

There may be office days ahead of me again, compromising my politically-incorrect-insensitive personality in the moment in order to work civilly with people who want to tap the profit of their business model to feed habits, hobbies and personality traits uniquely theirs.

How will historians see this moment, the past few months and years of the growing chasm between the socioeconomically ultra rich and relatively poorer people?

We spread into the cosmos — the answer to any and every question we ask, regardless of personality traits and set of beliefs.