Well this is weird. By "body of work", I mean writing. Not my work in healthcare. Not my sailing and flying. Not my life with family and friends. I am seventy-five years old and as driven as I have ever been. More than 49 years ago I wrote this:
...February 5, 1976, as I near the end of medical school; not wishing to be a doctor, but rather a writer. I suppose that I will pocket the clayball for another year or so. Hope it doesn’t dry out in that pocket. Hope my fingers don’t get numb. Let us pray: Father in heaven, keep that ole clayball wet will ya? Ok?
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That "year or so" grew to be fifty years. I'm not dead yet. The world's problems, each individual's problems are seemingly getting more difficult.
How to integrate creativity (art?) with such desperate situations. I am certain that engineering alone will fail, is failing. Two of my daughters are artists at heart and in fact. I feel most alive when in the presence of artists. At this age I have little to risk. Embarrassment has long ago become a colleague if not quite a friend.
So I will use the affordances of the Federated Wiki platform to accumulate and attempt to structure some of my experiences, insights, and terrors. I began and paused the attempt at aggregation in 2017. I gather material from then and add to it now.