It’s been an awful(ly), long semester. I can’t begin to write about all that has just happened in the past twenty-four hours even, but I feel as though I have certainly come to some kind of a point: where I can see several yards down each forking path; when I have become enormously self-aware as a being-in-time, a being-in-society; why, mostly because I have discovered a renewed commitment to the things that I believe in, which is to say that I am quote — growing up — end quote. Or something.

I am growing in many ways, in many directions at once. One of the great things I have discovered this semester is that I can. Now, since I can, I feel compelled to do. My doing is exciting.

The one thing I feel as though I am missing, though, is an intertwining of branches. I think that though our actions and our minds fork, they also weave. I think a little about the Irish legend of Deirdre and Naoise, tragic lovers on whose graves trees grew, and grew to twine together, uniting them in a life-after-death. I feel a little like I am waiting for this transfiguration, too: a kind of figurative or artistic death, maybe, and a kind of figurative or intellectual death, so that new sprouts of trees can grow out of the graves of old-artist-self and old-philosopher-self, and intertwine on top of it. A living memento mori.

As such a system, In the Wilderness is still growing. It is often subject to my whims. I am sorry to say that it has suffered through a very tumultuous end of a very tumultuous semester, and progress has, of course, stalled. Nevertheless I believe in this project and I doubt that I will let it fester for too long. I have recruited a team of interesting friends from around the internet who are, at the very least, invested in seeing what comes of the project.

In the Wilderness is dead. Long live In the Wilderness.

What might be the hardest part of life for me is that I can often see many future bifurcations and I am unsure of how to get from point A to point Z. There are too many bifurcation stations. I sometimes feel a little ill-equipped to deal with artistic life. Of course, this is what vast expanses of time are for, this is what colleagues to count your days with are for, and this is why there will be a writing group.

I have too many ideas and not enough time. I can see for great distances in all directions.

More on this later.