My daughter doesn’t like this website. Complains, “I don’t know what it means.” Her critique doesn’t come from a lack of smarts; she’s a savvier ten-year-old than I ever was.

It comes, I think, from not being able to place the website—from not being able to hear in it some ring of attitude and message. Yes, of course. That’s right.

Maybe I have sacrificed, preferring a kind of ambient bleed to the language of universality. But everything I put down here has a particular, if not constant, meaning to me. That is one essential criteria to my self-editing.

Of course, positions are important, and for that there are other, better fora. In this place, I’ve carved out a small hollow on the Interwebs as a kind of catch basin of the particular—the moving surface of an experience, transmitted in a language that is parcel to it.

There is discipline in smallness, consistently applied. Smallness, thus construed, is that which contains nothing more than the internal coherence of what is said or made or done now. It gathers what power it can from claiming to be nothing else.

//On Smallness/6//