Not any direction you would hear in Mt. Lebanon, PA. Seeing deer in the woods always excites the old archer in me. Not far from this spot I watched a 6-point eat acorns within 30 yards until I had to move and he bolted. Deer culls around here are called hunting season.
I’m still finding things out about my father and grandfather, 15 and 24 years respectively, after their deaths that my perspectives of who they were are continually in flux. Forces me to consider who I am to those around me and how different that might be from who I am around me.
It has been said that fictional characters are underdetermined that is, we know only a few of their properties while real individuals are completely determined, and we should be able to predicate of them each of their known attributes. But although this is true from an ontological point of view, from an epistemological one it is exactly the opposite: nobody can assert all the properties of a given individual or of a given species, which are potentially infinite, while the properties of fictional characters are severely limited by the narrative text and only those attributes mentioned by the text count for the identification of the character.
In fact, I know Leopold Bloom better than I know my own father. Who can say how many episodes of my father’s life are unknown to me, how many thoughts my father never disclosed, how many times he concealed his sorrows, his quandaries, his…
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Just noted in my journal that I haven’t done anything today that I regret. I’ve been up less than three hours.