A lull in postings corresponds, it would seem, to lazy summer. Perhaps a kind of « retreat » from the usual patterns of my days?
And then suddenly it is obvious: Whatever I write or don’t write always « corresponds » to the particularities of the singular moment at hand.
It’s like Bataille says of art, that all true art is modern art: By nature, it is always of this very moment.

The city is feeling empty, « vacated, » dutifully fulfilling its « vacation » vocation. Newspapers are slim, as if shedding the heft of darker, thicker seasons if only for a matter of weeks until the inevitable return of business-as-usual. This is their « lull » moment.
Sun and rain, too, drift. Both come and go with the clouds passing.

Sitting earlier, with the pinkish bricks of the footpath, dirt under the bush, a multitude of leaf and leaf and leaf, stringy tatters of the prayer flag fluttering one by one all together. At that moment, everything is. At that moment, nothing veils everything.
It’s all here, all sudden, all suspended in nowhere, all modern in a summer lull.