Until tomorrow

The dirt path beckons. I infer comrades in search and pursuit of the potentials of slippage.
Institutional wieldings of strategy threaten everyday tactics. “There’s no moral high ground” among those exercising tactics. “Who’s got the will?” to perform “on stage”?
I don’t want to compete against the tactics of my friends. As in all good fantasy, I throw myself into what it seems I am called to do, trusting others (who I may and may not know) are as fully engaged in their own diverse callings. I want to influence change in directions I cannot predict. I want to live in Phelan’s zone of doubt, where I know that my relationships with others matter &emdash; that I matter. Ouch. There’s the rub, eh? A psychological crux playing itself out in sociorelational terms: the embedded trajectory of what-has-been-inscribed dueling with the conscious striving-to-act-beyond the imposed boundaries of experience and discourse.

I want to live as spirit enfleshed.

(Maybe I really am psychotic.)

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