butter brain x: writING a[n] [UN]book for Brix[?]

Or for Ashlin.

Or for whatever your name ends up being (Lucy, Teop, Poet, Storie, Bodhi, Farmer, Maple, Ruck, Leif, River, Tripp, etc.)

As long as your mom and I are playfully feeling in love before sleeping at night, we’ll be thinking of possible names for you. And when you’re rolling around with us on the floor before bed – instead of just in our heads [and your mom’s belly] – squiggling and wriggling and feeling the love of what’s happening [we imagine], we’ll be thinking then of other things no less meaningless, and no less wonderful.

I guess this is a good example of how [basically] arbitrary the name-picking process can be. “What sounds good to you, honey?… Okay, perfect!”

Your name isn’t you. Never will be.

You in the sense of who you really are, is something you can ponder yourself, but from where I sit currently you will be as you are now, merely a change-non-stop, a whatever-you’re-doing + whatever’s-happening-to-you, equaling a handful of, we guess, just verbing away.

Really not definable, nor wordable. Flux and flow. “Faux?”

Back to this “un”book. Or anti-, a chronicling perhaps.

No book has the answer(s) for everyone. Some book may have something in it which contains a truth to someone. But no book is “the way” or “the secret”.

And anyone can write a book! Look at me [look at you]! As soon as you begin writing, guess what: you’re a writer. So here we are:

[?]-ing…

And maybe you’ll sing words instead of write them, or sling them or laugh at them!

Maybe you’ll start writing someday only to learn that writing is just creating – a doctoring and experimenting and getting-lost-before-you-know-it kind of process – a wild jumping or a clean dive into imagination, or into the place of your choice! : : :

Is here… where the [un?]answers “that you are looking for” happen to pop their heads around corners and giggle or wiggle or sneer? Is this the place of googilly-eyed truths doing headstands?? – – –

Perhaps in writing, or thinking – or merely fingers moving around as tathātā – or just in simple, pleasurable movement – there’ll never be a stoppage of coming up with questions to seek after… And in each instance, possibly, a giving to us the gift of different answers or new questions while tap-tap-tapping or feeling through feet the earthment, walking down the “block” under the trees, to the tune of life mysterious, abounding, and our [silly] way(s) of making a try at sense of what may or may not have much sense.