Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
The Delivery Rule states that the probability that a delivery person will arrive at the beginning of the delivery window is directly proportionate to your readiness to receive them. It’s compounded by the delivery’s size and complexity. The less ready you are, the more on time, or early, they will be. If you’re in the shower or not dressed at the beginning of the window, they will be at your door.
They don’t want to be, but that’s the rule.
Make a decision. Choose a direction, get off your ass, and put some energy into it.
This John Lennon song, “Whatever Get You Through the Night,” is energetic and peppy, and struck me as much different from his other offerings. I like the extensive, enthusiastic sax in it, which, with the piano, makes the song feel like it’s from a different era, and the twist on the lyrics that becomes “Whatever gets your through your life.” That’s how a lot of us live, somewhere between dreaming and striving, grabbing and holding on to what comes our way.
One ending often signifies a new beginning, but some never turn the page.
I can’t believe how quickly and ruthlessly modern clothing and accessories shrink. Even my leather belts are shrinking.
Really, what’s the world coming to?
Interesting process and decision. I sometimes encounter the same question, “Why am I doing this?” Hell, few read what I write; fewer would notice if I stop. I think about what else I could do with this time and energy, and how much freer I can be. I imagine this is a question or thought that many artists, especially those of us struggling to move it forward, encounter.
But more frequently and recently, I’ve accepted writing as a pleasure for itself. It’s a therapy that helps me cope with existence, and a means to explore ideas, and helps me understand what I’m thinking.
Honestly, I also think I’m addicted to the process. Could I stop? I don’t think I want to. We all have vices; my vice is writing.
Well, it’s my primary vice. Let’s just leave it at that.
Lately, whenever I sit down to paint or write, feeling all motivated and pumped, the feeling is quickly dampened by one huge negative thought: why am I doing this?
And more than the question itself being negative, the answers are. I am not good enough at painting. I don’t make good enough art. I don’t write well enough. I feel totally and utterly useless and worthless.
I know we all have these phases. I have them quite often and I’ve put those “episodes” of creative block up here on my blog. But this time, it feels worse.
Every time I sit down to paint, I look up for some inspiration, I think that I shouldn’t make art anymore because I will never get there. I will never inspire people through my art and I think, where will I end up? Even if I keep practising to get better, what is…
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The things I expected to do and see,
were not the things I saw and did,
so what’ll become of the things I expect to see and do now?
Following the news cycles and stories, I saw that a volcano erupted in the Philippines. This eruption followed a recent eruption in Papua New Guinea, one threatening in Indonesia, and some quakes around Mount St. Helens, I thought that there seems to be a lot of volcanic activity going on. A search revealed a site that tracks these matters.
So, in case you were were wondering, as I was, about volcanic activity and how normal this is, here’s a place where you can track the activity.
Just a little more to think about.
Floofvatory (catfinition) – sandbox.
In use: “Needing to do her business, the cat hurried to the floofvatory at the playground.”
h/t to Karla Clements
I dreamed of prizes last night. There were at least dreams, or prizes, involved.
Awakening to Papi the ginger cat’s request to enter, I remembered the dreams. But after tending to him (and the other cats who were roused by the activity) and taking a whizz (of course, since I was up, is what my bladder seemed to say), the dreams were sharply recalled. I thought about them as I returned to bed and sleep. But, awakening this memory, I found that I’d suffered dream amnesia. I remembered I’d dreamed about prizes, and there’d been three dreams, but I only remember one prize.
The prize was part of a game. Doing activities in the game earn you points. Most activities earn you one to four points. But the prize I won was a collector bill. Considered extremely rare, it was worth one hundred fifty points.
Bummer that this is all I remember, other than grinning like mad when I won it. Perhaps more will return to me later.
