Felled, by hands competent (read: neither mine nor weather): the longstanding evil chestnut tree at the back of the yard. Far better to bring it down in a controlled manner than the alternative – which, I feared, was becoming more and more likely to happen. Only big change / adjustment being that the little green shed was thrust out of the shade for the first time in 600 years, give or take, and, so I – that we might enter and retrieve various yard implements sans oxygen – had to cut a vent into the thing (read: a lopsided rectangular hole stuffed with chicken wire).

But hey, I got to play with my reciprocating saw.

Continued: a(nother) recalibration of my reasons for continuing my writing practice to being less from the external (career, being heard, etc) to the internal (because I want to – though I probably should have deeper reasons that). Tried social again and I didn't like the thought patterns it dredged up: too much reliance on the external, creation for it, unnecessary pressure. Wasted how many years of my life subjecting myself to that? No, much better to type things up here, post them, and be done.

Note: that you are presently unable to discern deeper internal reasons for continued practice may be the source of the problem. Solution: plumb the depths – or say fuck it and do whatever you want, IDK.