Tag: time

Sunday’s Theme Music

Mood: Sundenergized

Good morning and welcome to a chilly Ashlandia day. It’s Sunday, August 25, 2024. Right now it’s 54 F outside at my house. The computer is showing Bing’s Accuweather info, and that shows that it’s 58 F outside in Ashlandia. Alexa — source unknown — informs me that it’s 66 F outside. She also says that it’ll be 80 F today. Bing says the day’s high will climax at 77 F. Whichever it is, we’re under clear skies, with good air quality, and plenty o’ sunshine.

I’m pleased to report my floofs did well in my absence. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) seems to have gained weight. He’s not obese by any means but has a big frame and needs to carry some weight IMO. And Papi the ginger blade stayed his young, fit self. Fur on both is gleaming and soft.

Ah, the news. Harris surges. Trump attacks. States sue Biden. Astronauts stuck in space. Israel launches missiles at Lebanon. Sigh. Maryland’s Supreme Court upheld their handgun permit law.

Fire updates show that the Park Fire in California, which started July 27 of this year when an idiot pushed a burning car into a ravine, is now 429,000 plus acres and 57% contained. The Durkee Fire in eastern Oregon has swallowed 295,000 plus acres and is 95% contained. The wet weather is helping but experts remind us that fire season is not over and to remain vigilant.

Time in the song title remain’s this week’s theme. In response to the idea, The Neurons loaded “Tulsa Time” from 1978 into the morning mental music stream (Trademark split). Although Don Williams had a hit with it and I’m familiar with it, I went with the Eric Clapton live version.

Stay positive, remain firm, lean forward, and vote blue in 2024. Coffee is percolating through my body so here’s the music video.

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The Writing Moment

Time slips into a higher gear when I’m writing. Superchargers and turbos power time to a faster pace during that time. The hours flash past like Saturn rockets push it.

I’ve written a bunch but there’s so much more. The session is just too short, and ends too soon.

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Tuesday’s Wandering Thoughts

Sometimes, I come across something on the net that makes me pause and address my screen. “I’m gonna read this later,” I say. What my brain is telling me when those words leave my mouth is that I need more time and coffee to address whatever it is I’m facing on that screen. “I’m gonna need more time and coffee.”

The words I live by.

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The Writing Moment

It’s hard to stop writing when it’s blistering along but the allocated time has skidded to an end. Difficult to push the pause button while editing and revising the other project when the timing bell rings to announce, move on to the next matter.

Doesn’t help that the muses are especially active, like they’ve been gorging on chocolate cake and chugging coffee. They just don’t want to stop and it pains me to tell them that I am.

I need a longer day or the means to carve time out of everything else going on. How much sleep is really needed anyway?

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The Writing Moment

I had a strong and productive writing session yesterday. But being so involved, my sense of time evaporated. I found myself leaving the coffee shop an hour later than usual.

I couldn’t go directly home, but had to go buy light bulbs. Finishing with that errand, I jumped into the car to head home. By now, I was an hour and a half later than usual.

My phone rang. It was my wife. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Where are you?” she answered. “You’re much later than your usual time. I’m calling to see if you’re dead or unconscious in a hospital.”

“You called to see if I was dead or unconscious?” I laughed.

She did not.

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Surprised

I overheard two strangers chat a little in the coffee shop. One asked the other about the book he was reading. The other replied, “It’s Dostoevsky. It’s written as a series of letters.”

Poor Folk, I guess, sneaking a glance over. I’d read it, I remembered, wondering if that was the book he was reading. I took a minute to hunt down when I’d read it, remembering it was the summer of 1989, when I was living in Germany. I took summer college courses which addressed different Russian, Jewish, French, and American authors. Dosteovsky was one of three Russian writers.

Over thirty years ago, I suddenly realized with a mental thud. The race of time surprised me once again. I’ll be 68 years old this year. That just amazes me. It shouldn’t, I know, yet it does. It feels like just yesterday that I was thinking, wow, Dad is 68 this year. Gonna be seventy in a few.

And now it’s me.

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