The Water Oaks and the newsletter about newsletters: Winter approaches, even in the brilliant sunlight.

A rather coarse entry, I wot, a thing of appendages directed, time misappropriated and so forth.  Would I get those hours back?

And rude deposit into the blogroll, the thoughts of one that spent the day kind of floating between different fogbanks of thoughts, and ever shunning the popularity contests of the life online.

It was newsletters about publishing newsletters, targeted marketing messages about marketing services, and I thought maybe the algorithim had knelt down in abject pleas for mercy as I browsed about, and drowsily touch the screen with my finger.

The newsletters are free, of course, having no real intrinsic value to most of the prospective readers, even you and I, and the monetization occurring by slyly juxtaposing a paid advertisement into the newsletter copy, and that, advertising also speaking events and so forth, "conferences", the emptiness of the modern day Chitlin' Circuit--why the Christians tend to have multi-hundred dollar per ticket conferences, and the use tape of that to make television shows, freely shown, with other advertisements tack on the end, "buy my book" and all this nonesuch halfwitted grunted overtures.

There was a slight something, making my hike-up my pants a bit, covering my belly--my savings account, and take to the air listening to encouragements on the Grand Old Spotify, and I had a kind of ejection on my hands, a kind of abdominal bleeding of the spirit about the whole thing, in which being short of blood was a nice succinct way of explaining my lack of enthusiasm on the matter.

Winter some few weeks ahead, and the air taking an icy kiss--I remember accidentally cutting a doctor's hand with my thumbnail, it was a rude hit, I know, a bump as it were, and he drew his hand back as if touching a hot stove, and I knew my guitar playing bass finger's nail had broke the skin on his articulate little lotioned hand.

There were Water Oak leaves all over the place, and that chicken energetically fussing about, surveying the grounds, and the cats, lumped in place pretending to be in the act of generating warmth, but really, it was the warmth of seeming to submit to the weather, curled into a little know, each of them, awaiting the season.

Success coaches and wot not, making a business out of coaching success, making a success, in fact, of talking about success--making a dollar out of talking about making a dollar, like the newsletter about newsletters, with the advertising in the middle of it and the upcoming conference solicitation and all.

I once blogged about blogging.  Then later, I was a Mike Morris talking about other Mike Morris's around.  I had been a movie fan talking about not liking movies.  And the Englishman, but a homonym or something of redundancies and things, contradictions along the way, process taking no discernible form in its advancement, but progress just the same, and always, forever maybe, having moved along, while also being strangely denied any sense of satisfaction in the job being done.