Here, yes.

Sometimes I'm under-here in that I'm spaced out and thinking of things other than here.

Kind friends tend to think I'm thinking about something I'm writing in my head. That happens.

What happens a bit more is worrying about things that will never happen, or stewing about things that have happened and the fact that they've happened can't be changed.

Sometimes I'm over-here in that I draw attention to myself that may not need to be drawn.

Sometimes I'm drawing the attention by saying or doing something that is helpful. Other times my bias towards action, towards not sitting still, my bias towards speaking make me be noticed by people who should be doing something other than noticing me--being in themselves, watching the sun shine, things like that.

My hereness, my sense of what here is is over-determined by newspapers.

This week I had a great moment which made me ask,"Why do I read newspapers?"

This happens sometimes when some bit of art is just utterly on about what's real in a way I'm never going to get in newspapers. I think, put that newspaper time in art, get actual sense of reality validated and deepened. Get smarter in a way that helps me serve the people more, helps me help the people be the people and not the mob. Helps me be a 3-D person instead of someone shrinking from a perceived mob. Helps me not be a member of the enraged, righteous group of people like me who I am very loathe to think of as a mob but who can be just that stupid and just that destructive.

My current here is for sure a place where earthquakes can happen and I know that. That's real and good to know.

Somehow that made me appreciate more my good art moment this week when a woman in a novel who had lived in California felt, in Massachusettes, what she first thoughts was an earthquake with mysterious harp music. It wasn't that, but it was real.

* This women, calling herself Nell, was on the run from her handsome, rich, well-connected abusive husband. She was wearing her hair short because he used to drag her around by her hair, among many other pain things.

She had a new job cooking and serving coffee at a cafe on Three Sisters Island in Massachusettes. The noon whistle went off as she worked, and everything seemed to tilt, she heard music like many harps and she smelled fresh earth and candles.

She thought earthquake, but she noticed that no one was reacting to all this but Mia, the woman who hired her. The cafe customers were cafeing away as if nothing unusual had happened.