This space:
This is not a log, a journal, a record, the meeting place of pen and paper. Books do not belong in the background of this page because it is a stake in the virtual wild, not in fiber and ink. This is a volatile, ephemeral, transient space; it is not a space that will give way to fixed words or texts sacred for their permanence. I still turn printed pages, write in the margins, press the edges of sticky notes with my fingertips, open my notebooks much earlier and more often than I will open this page. But this is a space for sketches, for poetry of place. Paracaídas: parachutes. This place is a parachute.
