I think it might be time to do the thing I think I ought to have done a while back. Move properly to the woods. Live small, live quiet, live correctly. I live in a painting of rightness now in the woods of Plainfield. But the reality is that we’ve got a mortgage over our heads like a sword, and it dictates our every move. A mortgage that gives us access to a think we can’t properly maintain or upgrade or make into the craft that might actually carry us through the tribulations to come. 

I hate to be a doom-sayer, but indeed the hour is later than you think, it’s later than I think, and I think a lot. The world, and I mean that strictly in the Orthodox sense as a catchall for the worldly passions and for society, for Rome, is hurtling towards precussive self-disassembly. 

The economy will not get better, the culture will not be healed, wars will not cease, we are in it and our best hope is draw down. And drawdown is going to suck. 

I want to sell our house and most of our posessions and move somewhere real tidy, somewhere real small. With no mortgage and a hosue that might be tiny, I can do things other than pay my mortgage. I should have been doing this from the fucking start.