An unexpected present.

The present appeared in a tweet from Kentucky.

When I say "the present", I mean that as an antonym of "the absent".

I have a book on my Kindle.

"The attention merchants" by Tim Wu.

I have not taken the time to read it yet.



Amazon cares not.

Amazon counts my clicked clientele.

Twitter cares not.

Educauses care for what?

Those who are "resident" on social media.

Are they really "present"?

Are they really "present" for you?

Are they really only present for your clicked clientele, your likes, your retweets, your plus ones, your node, your gold in their death star?

If I ask these questions, it is because I am sure that we are unable to be really present for others unless we risk leaving a part of ourselves here.

Will we accept being bait for their hooks?

I use the word "they" for those who would deny others lives and cultures respect.

Les absents ont toujours tort.

https://portfolios.journalism.ku.edu/charles-perry/2016/05/11/21/

Charles Perry

Bloody Gold; the California Gold Rush and state sponsored genocide

100,000 California Indians killed during Gold Rush genocide

The absent (minded) are always wrong...

The present appeared in a tweet from Kentucky.

When I say "the present", I mean that as an antonym of "the absent".

What’s Going Down Here? Impedagogy https://t.co/0T8sSXjPaU Reading, slow reading, a perpetual motion text by Simon Ensor. #clmooc @sensor63

— Terry Elliott (@telliowkuwp) September 28, 2017

I am humbled by Terry's and others' presence of mind, of the care and the attention that he, that they  show.

I sit down and type out my existence...an act of defiance in this alienating wilderness.

The lines, the between the lines are traced and transformed by acts of generosity which make me feel appreciated for whatever I am.

And then I see other tweets

thank you, thank you both. Wonderful multimedia remix and amplification of a powerful message.

— Art Oglesby (@ARTiFactor) September 28, 2017

Way to celebrate the writing of others!

— KevinHodgson (@dogtrax) September 28, 2017

And I feel drawn to those human connections.

And I feel drawn by those human connections.

And I go and turn my thumbs, and look and think.

Thank you. You make me want to revisit the moment and to wind it’s weft even tighter. Thank you. pic.twitter.com/HTTUny68kg

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) September 28, 2017

And then those human connections become

transmogrify, dude, transmogrify

— Terry Elliott (@telliowkuwp) September 29, 2017

I’d like to try to portray multidirectional emotive tension.

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) September 28, 2017

 And that emotional weft which binds us becomes tighter.

Thank you my friends.

This is my present for you.

Sea monster.

Nick Cave.

I am unable to write.

I am unable to draw.

I am unable to speak.

I am unable to sing.

I can barely breathe.

I cough compulsively.

"I still am."

Mapping. Les maux des mots. point x

Act 3.

Absent hands.

“A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn't telling, or teaching, or ordering. Rather, he seeks to establish a relationship with meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all our lives trying to be less lonesome. And one of our ancient methods is to tell a story, begging the listener to say, and to feel, "Yes, that's the way it is, or at least that's the way I feel it. You're not as alone as you thought." To finish is sadness to a writer, a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.” 
― John Steinbeck


Hands on the wall.

We shall never meet those people.

They are so far away now.

We can see still their hands.

They are stretched out across time.

Those absent hands touch us still.


A hand in the book.

On opening the well-thumbed Delia Smith, the handwritten recipe is still there.

It conjures presence.

It confirms absence.

It has become a relic.

The absent hand touches me still.

I turn a page.

I close the book...


Hand-counted years.

It has been a memorable week.

On Monday I had another birthday.

I am becoming rather more aware of birthdays now.

When I was younger I took far less notice.

Then, I could count the years on only the fingers of my two hands.

Time stretched out indefinitely.

It seems more counted now... that others are absent.


A heart written note.

It didn't look much.

It was a DM.

It appeared on my tablet in the morning.

It was a birthday card or perhaps a present.

There were seven words, three twitter handles, and a link.

It was special for me.

We shall perhaps never meet.

Perhaps we are brought closer by the distance which separates us?

We stretch out.

We feel absence.

We feel presence.

We are as if felt together on this page.

We can never count alone.

We don't have enough fingers.

These absent hands touch me still.


For Terry, Kevin, Susan, Maha, and all those who count for me absent and present.