I was prompted to write about lids. So here goes:
Lids are overrated. Really a lid is just an indecisive wall, with a better view, sitting on top to cover up the mold growing on the leftovers.
Every wall in a container is simply a lid that's made up its mind. No moving. No change.
I've little time for lids ... save for eyelids.
Eyelids really are a remarkable thing. Gateway guardians, entrusted with the task of protecting those sweet doorways to the soul.
And that's just on the outside, keeping out offensive bits floating in the air.
On the inside, even more is going on.
How often does one stare at the projector screens for our dreams?
I close my eyes and see such sights. Every night, in fact. Whole civilizations rise and fall in the blink of an eye, all be it a long blink.
Sidebar: why did the adorable uncle/grandfather archetypes of my youth's popular culture measure sleep in winks? Surely they should have meant blinks. I don't wink in my sleep, not even in spy dreams when I'm required to be crafty ...
Lids also come as words.
Words which serve as a cork to a geyser, holding back torrential forces that need see some kind of release.
"I'm fine," is one such lid.
"I don't mind," is another.
"Sure, you can go." "I understand." "It's alright." "I'll be fine on my own."
Let the truth out. Not later when your own personal Pompeii leaves a landscape of ash and ruin, now.
It doesn't need to come out in the form of vitriol. You don't have to scald the skin of bystanders.
Just lift the lid a little bit. Steam up the glass while you look in the mirror, then make shapes in the fog.
Do this and catastrophe may be averted.
But what do I know.
I'm just a guy that hates lids.
Wednesday 31 January 2018
Day 90
On watching blood leave my body.
In another world; major events in your life are accompanied by messengers.
The bringers.
They bring with them heartache, pain, loss, but also love, bliss and contentment.
Each bringer comes in a different shape.
Some are seen as animals, padding along to meet you at your big moment.
Some come in grand shapes, cloaked in light or shade.
Some arrive as seemingly ordinary folks; you wouldn't even be able to differentiate them from the people on the street.
Depending on your life, you will meet some bringers more often than others.
You cannot force a bringer to come anymore than you can deny a bringer from approaching. For you cannot fake joy any more than you can reject your grief; you may ignore them for a time, but their very presence signals the futility of your denial.
You cannot trick them.
These creatures aren't guided by agenda. They are simply there. They are the bringers, and they bring these big moments in your life.
One day, you will be greeted by a vaguely familiar face. You won't know where you recognize it from, but you will know that you do.
Some work it out. Most do not.
Understandable, as it is the first face we ever see.
The bringer that is responsible for every other one that follows you.
The first. The last.
Most can't work out that these figures are one and the same.
Why wouldn't they be? In the end, we must begin again.
Day 87
I had a music box in my youth. Whenever opened, it would play a beautiful song.
A singular sort of song. It could tickle the corners of my mouth into a smile and squeeze my sides till a sigh would rush out.
No specific memory comes to mind. Just a general wash of comforts. Even thinking of it now conjures images of sunlight refracted through colored glass, while an unending spring flourishes in the background. Smells of baking.
On a particular day I was feeling particularly inquisitive, and so I wished to explore the mysteries of the music making box.
I opened up the casing, with as much tenderness and care as my tiny hands could offer, and inside I found gears and bands and other moving parts I couldn't know the names for.
Disappointed by my findings, I set to work restoring the thing.
I put it back as best i could, but the song never played quite the same.
I'm sure I replaced some part or part incorrectly; this was likely why the melody was soured.
I put it away. And it was forgotten.
Many might say I should never have opened up the box. It would be best to be caught in awe.
I can't argue with this viewpoint.
I, however, lament not becoming a better tinkerer or a musician, or composer.
I don't lament looking past a facade. I do regret not going further.
...
Did I do it?
Did I metaphor?
A singular sort of song. It could tickle the corners of my mouth into a smile and squeeze my sides till a sigh would rush out.
No specific memory comes to mind. Just a general wash of comforts. Even thinking of it now conjures images of sunlight refracted through colored glass, while an unending spring flourishes in the background. Smells of baking.
On a particular day I was feeling particularly inquisitive, and so I wished to explore the mysteries of the music making box.
I opened up the casing, with as much tenderness and care as my tiny hands could offer, and inside I found gears and bands and other moving parts I couldn't know the names for.
Disappointed by my findings, I set to work restoring the thing.
I put it back as best i could, but the song never played quite the same.
I'm sure I replaced some part or part incorrectly; this was likely why the melody was soured.
I put it away. And it was forgotten.
Many might say I should never have opened up the box. It would be best to be caught in awe.
I can't argue with this viewpoint.
I, however, lament not becoming a better tinkerer or a musician, or composer.
I don't lament looking past a facade. I do regret not going further.
...
Did I do it?
Did I metaphor?
Tuesday 30 January 2018
Day 89
What shall we dream on this night?
I'm in an ocean of juice - never have I been more conflicted about my feelings on drowning.
You are on shore, building us a boat to be crewed by chimps.
I'm in no hurry to be saved. You're in no hurry to save me. But we both know that it must be done.
You rescue me just in time, as I was starting to cramp up. It is true that you shouldn't swim so near to drinking.
However, all is not well on the good ship: ship good (I know. I know! The boat was named by committee.).
A mutiny occurs, and we are both at the mercy of the dread captain: captain dread (stupid monkeys).
He demands we walk the plank and fall to our high fructose doom.
I'm ready to accept my fate, but you complain that the plank ain't been tested, and so refuse to walk an untested plank. Clever girl. The captain tests it for you and in the style of Wile E Coyote, falls to his sweet sugary end.
And thus, the mutiny is overturned.
You sail us to the beach, that special beach where all beaches meet - you know the one.
And you ask me what I want. In an impossible world where I can have anything, what would I ask for.
I don't know. I reply as such.
You tell me I'm about to wake up and warn me not to squander this moment.
My last act in a world where anything is possible; is to take your hand in mine. We watch the purple sun set into a mountain of cheese, while fireworks launch and un-launch and just to launch again.
You lay your head on my chest and ask me to remember something very important.
I look down at your smiling face, and wake up.
Day 86
And so he carved a child out of a block of wood.
It was not his first, and it would not be his last. But each time he did so, the craftsman felt a little relief.
For into each one he poured a secret. Just a little one. No more impressive in isolation that a single piece of a puzzle might be.
However, puzzles are most impressive when all fragments are assembled.
So. What image would they make, these sons and daughters of a lifetimes of work?
When allotted side by side, in a designated order, what might one witness?
Hundreds of these statues, created in great detail. Yet it is only, truly four faces.
Four faces in every age of their life. Imprinted on his memory, now etched onto immobile faces.
And by carving them, he could finally forget them.
And the secrets whispered? Each one began with the phrase: Forgive me...
His sins aren't of great interest. It is his struggle that is unique.
For he had unknowingly joint that woeful sect of artisan, one which pours out their grief upon the canvas in hopes that absolution will somehow pour back into them.
That what they offer up to some unseen deity, will be transformed.
Shame into triumph. Jealousy into love. Sorrow into beauty.
... poor man. People forgive people. He'd have been better off whispering to a real face. One not frozen in a moment from his memory. One that can be affected by his words, and in turn affect him.
Even a mirror would be better.
This is not to say the alchemic change will not occur. Pain and horror are many times the fuel for serenity and peace. However, this can only be granted for the witness. Not the actor. The audience is the true device by which this miraculous filtration may occur.
They are the magicians.
Not the artist.
This, sadly, is often never learned, and if learned: learned too late.
Still he carves. Still he suffers. Still his secrets are sowed into the unchanging smiles.
It was not his first, and it would not be his last. But each time he did so, the craftsman felt a little relief.
For into each one he poured a secret. Just a little one. No more impressive in isolation that a single piece of a puzzle might be.
However, puzzles are most impressive when all fragments are assembled.
So. What image would they make, these sons and daughters of a lifetimes of work?
When allotted side by side, in a designated order, what might one witness?
Hundreds of these statues, created in great detail. Yet it is only, truly four faces.
Four faces in every age of their life. Imprinted on his memory, now etched onto immobile faces.
And by carving them, he could finally forget them.
And the secrets whispered? Each one began with the phrase: Forgive me...
His sins aren't of great interest. It is his struggle that is unique.
For he had unknowingly joint that woeful sect of artisan, one which pours out their grief upon the canvas in hopes that absolution will somehow pour back into them.
That what they offer up to some unseen deity, will be transformed.
Shame into triumph. Jealousy into love. Sorrow into beauty.
... poor man. People forgive people. He'd have been better off whispering to a real face. One not frozen in a moment from his memory. One that can be affected by his words, and in turn affect him.
Even a mirror would be better.
This is not to say the alchemic change will not occur. Pain and horror are many times the fuel for serenity and peace. However, this can only be granted for the witness. Not the actor. The audience is the true device by which this miraculous filtration may occur.
They are the magicians.
Not the artist.
This, sadly, is often never learned, and if learned: learned too late.
Still he carves. Still he suffers. Still his secrets are sowed into the unchanging smiles.
Thursday 25 January 2018
Day 85
I'm searching for a word that I'm not entirely sure exists.
A word to describe a realization I had in the wake of a feeling that came and went.
The definition I'm currently working with is
"A brief sadness brought on by the sudden realization that you have never felt so deeply for a romantic partner as you have for the moment that just passed. That you lament the passing of the moment, while also feeling immense gratitude for having been able to experience it. You embrace the turn in the clockwork, unconcerned by the knowledge that the best cannot linger no matter how much we should like it to. Simultaneously in love with an instance and painfully aware loneliness and solitude in such an infatuation."
...
For now let's call it self-lamenfatuization.
Side effects include a high pitched frequency felt in your heart when you look in the mirror; which will quickly pass, but whose sensation will haunt the bearer for some time afterwards...
Wednesday 24 January 2018
Day 84
In feverish dreaming, I remember:
In a cave. Alone. I sit in pitch black.
It is difficult to fathom the layers of shadow before me. I cannot move, for fear of the dark.
Open your eyes.
A voice whispers. It is soothing and calm, yet powerful and chilling. My remaining senses are enveloped by the vibrations of this would be guide.
Open your eyes.
They are open.
So then you can see?
No, I cannot.
Then you must have yet to open your eyes.
I do not argue, as the juvenile argument has strange wisdom in it.
Close your eyes.
This I do.
Now: Open your eyes and see.
This I do. And now this I can.
The cavern is alight with blue flame. I know this fire is not real. No warmth, only luminescence. A faerie light that only I perceive.
Now nothing is hidden from you.
I trust these words to be the truth, but somehow know that a price has been paid. Some compact has traded a part of myself for this new vision.
Despite this feeling of dread I whistle; only to hear my echo's chorus. I click my tongue for percussion.
I am alone in this wonder. In a darkness that can no longer encroach me, making music that will lead me.
Nothing shall be hidden from me.
Tuesday 23 January 2018
Day 83
From a letter I'm not sure I sent, but hope I did...
Monsters must linger under beds. They look ridiculous anywhere else.
"Even closets?" I hear you offer, skeptically.
"No, that is where skeletons live, and we need not fear them. They're just bones."
An easy fix would be to sleep standing up; as stallions are want to do, or switch to a hammock; like Gilligan. Yet we both know the symptom is not the disease...
Now I'm no doctor, but I do have a Nan from St. John's and she used to cure warts with vegetables - Follow me, I'm sure I have a point.
Nanny would grab a potato fresh from the garden and cut off a peel, she'd then trace a crucifix on the little imperfections and bury the peel somewhere out in the garden.
She'd come back, wash her hands and say, "It's buried. Now, forget about it."
St. Johns dermatologists would fail to reproduce Nanny O'leary's cure-all Potato Peel: I suspect that they used store bought; always use fresh.
But allow me to offer the treatment for emotional grievances.
Heed Nanny's words: Bury your grief. Forget it. You don't need it anymore.
Day 82
New game:
Sit or stand in front of a wall in your room. One with decor. Furniture. Pictures. Colors are good.
Stare at it. Take a mental picture.
Now close your eyes.
Conjure the image you only recently saw.
Now that it is in your memory, let the outlines of the image begin to blur.
As if the image is of paint and you've spritzed the whole scene, with the colors beginning to run.
Reach out with your very real hands, into that illusory canvas and begin to play.
The same way you did as a child while finger painting, only now reality provides all the colors you need (also the cleanup is alot less taxing.)
Now: play. Make suns and moons. Waves and mountains. Pull a book from a nearby shelf; still in your mind's eye, and pull a page out. Plaster the letters on the wall. Then watch in wonder as the images from those words leap out, and canvas their visage on to your imagined wall.
Reshape those images and their colors. Expand a world. Zoom in on a smaller one. Discover a story you never thought you knew.
Transform what you saw into something else. Anything else. everything else.
Once you've transformed this wall that holds up your room: open your eyes.
If upon opening your eyes you realize that all lines are in fact blurs and that the world we live in is simply a blending of the many parts of this world's makeup: you win.
You lose if you eat the paint.
Sit or stand in front of a wall in your room. One with decor. Furniture. Pictures. Colors are good.
Stare at it. Take a mental picture.
Now close your eyes.
Conjure the image you only recently saw.
Now that it is in your memory, let the outlines of the image begin to blur.
As if the image is of paint and you've spritzed the whole scene, with the colors beginning to run.
Reach out with your very real hands, into that illusory canvas and begin to play.
The same way you did as a child while finger painting, only now reality provides all the colors you need (also the cleanup is alot less taxing.)
Now: play. Make suns and moons. Waves and mountains. Pull a book from a nearby shelf; still in your mind's eye, and pull a page out. Plaster the letters on the wall. Then watch in wonder as the images from those words leap out, and canvas their visage on to your imagined wall.
Reshape those images and their colors. Expand a world. Zoom in on a smaller one. Discover a story you never thought you knew.
Transform what you saw into something else. Anything else. everything else.
Once you've transformed this wall that holds up your room: open your eyes.
If upon opening your eyes you realize that all lines are in fact blurs and that the world we live in is simply a blending of the many parts of this world's makeup: you win.
You lose if you eat the paint.
Sunday 21 January 2018
Day 81
The pile of clothes on my chair has taken shape and formed into a sentient creature.
The skin of my spring bathrobe, which I still haven't put away, stuffed with socks, underwear and dirty shirts; the creature - let's call it Fumplarp- gradually makes it's way to my bedside in the night.
I'm not worried about it doing me physical harm. Kind of hard to be physically imposing with no bones and muscle mass made up of wool.
No, Flumparp's only purpose seems to revolve around reminding me of all the things I failed to do today.
While you sleep it sighs disappointingly, as if to say, "you can sleep so soundly having not done anything with your day. How are those emails coming? The bag of garbage? How about those books you said you'd read. No no, you should sleep. You've earned it! What with your YouTube surfing, sudoku starting before abandoning, podcast listening, cat cry ignoring, won't go outside because you can't be bothered to lace up your boots workaday schedule. I wonder what such a one might be dreaming of. Most likely sleeping in past the alarm. Then again what do I know? I'm just the thing your negligence made..."
This is what adult monsters look like.
Day 80
Old game, new twist:
"If I had a billion dollars, I would_____"
It's a familiar game and most have played it before, but play it again.
The people you'd help, the causes you'd support, the world you'd change, the business ventures you'd start, etc.
Now, this time you only have a million dollars.
"Just a million?" I can hear you say through eye rolls comparable to planetary rotations.
It's still a lot of money, but not so much you can lose track of what to do with it. You can't buy all your friends and relatives a private jet now, can you? And let's face it, the insurance would destroy you.
But still, the good you can do and the starts you could make towards that billion are a possibility.
What do you do with your million?
Again.
One hundred thousand?
Again.
One thousand?
Again.
Five hundred dollars?
By this point, the number doesn't seem so far fetched. You can even save towards it.
Now, I'm not any kind of financial alchemist, I do not know how you could make your five hundred dollars become a billion, but I do know a thing or two about dreams.
And dreams are always supposed to live in that unreachable hypothetical billion dollar sphere.
And I can tell you that at the one dollar mark, you can begin to sow the seeds for that dream.
You can work, today, towards the heart of those top shelf ideals. You just gotta reach.
You lose the game if you dedicate yourself to just making money.
You win by A) dreaming
and B) striving achieve dreams
If you don't have a dream yet, try helping other achieve theirs.
Better yet, help others achieve their dreams, regardless.
"If I had a billion dollars, I would_____"
It's a familiar game and most have played it before, but play it again.
The people you'd help, the causes you'd support, the world you'd change, the business ventures you'd start, etc.
Now, this time you only have a million dollars.
"Just a million?" I can hear you say through eye rolls comparable to planetary rotations.
It's still a lot of money, but not so much you can lose track of what to do with it. You can't buy all your friends and relatives a private jet now, can you? And let's face it, the insurance would destroy you.
But still, the good you can do and the starts you could make towards that billion are a possibility.
What do you do with your million?
Again.
One hundred thousand?
Again.
One thousand?
Again.
Five hundred dollars?
By this point, the number doesn't seem so far fetched. You can even save towards it.
Now, I'm not any kind of financial alchemist, I do not know how you could make your five hundred dollars become a billion, but I do know a thing or two about dreams.
And dreams are always supposed to live in that unreachable hypothetical billion dollar sphere.
And I can tell you that at the one dollar mark, you can begin to sow the seeds for that dream.
You can work, today, towards the heart of those top shelf ideals. You just gotta reach.
You lose the game if you dedicate yourself to just making money.
You win by A) dreaming
and B) striving achieve dreams
If you don't have a dream yet, try helping other achieve theirs.
Better yet, help others achieve their dreams, regardless.
Saturday 20 January 2018
Day 79
You know that thing you feel bad about. You know, the thing you can't tell anyone about.
I know.
I know you feel ashamed. You feel broken. You feel alone.
You don't always know it's there, until the moments when it reminds you.
It holds your hand when you reach for the phone. It puts a finger to your lips when you want to talk about it.
You can feel its hand around your neck when your trying to take in a calming breath.
It doesn't speak in words, just feelings. Like the beat of a drum; but that drum beats from the back of your skull and rings through out your body. Like your bones are the pond and it's breaking the calm surface with rings verging on waves. You just it to be calm again.
It's the secret you didn't know you were told, before you even knew what secrets were.
And it's been carved on the underside of your insides, but despite how deep it is you still cover it up.
Because you can't let anyone else know.
Because that's how secrets work.
Ya. You know what I'm talking about. That thing.
I know it.
I'm telling you this, in the hopes that you - yes, the you that is reading this - no longer need to hold on to it.
It's out now. You can let go.
You are released from your charge.
Be free. Be bold. And above else be.
I know.
I know you feel ashamed. You feel broken. You feel alone.
You don't always know it's there, until the moments when it reminds you.
It holds your hand when you reach for the phone. It puts a finger to your lips when you want to talk about it.
You can feel its hand around your neck when your trying to take in a calming breath.
It doesn't speak in words, just feelings. Like the beat of a drum; but that drum beats from the back of your skull and rings through out your body. Like your bones are the pond and it's breaking the calm surface with rings verging on waves. You just it to be calm again.
It's the secret you didn't know you were told, before you even knew what secrets were.
And it's been carved on the underside of your insides, but despite how deep it is you still cover it up.
Because you can't let anyone else know.
Because that's how secrets work.
Ya. You know what I'm talking about. That thing.
I know it.
I'm telling you this, in the hopes that you - yes, the you that is reading this - no longer need to hold on to it.
It's out now. You can let go.
You are released from your charge.
Be free. Be bold. And above else be.
Friday 19 January 2018
Day 78
Adult human walks into a drug store. To buy things. Adult things.
Not candy or chocolate bars. No. This adult human goes to the greeting card aisle to buy a card. "Not adult enough!" I hear you exclaim. Well what if I told you this purchase wasn't for an immediate situation or individual. This purchase is in anticipation of a future event, should one require a greeting card.
Very adult.
While stamps shall also be purchased, in case future cards nee future mailing services.
Afterall, what good are good wishes, if the receiver cannot receive them?
Much maturity.
And of course a good pen will be purchased here as well, for the one day well wishing trinkets to include a personalized message of comradery.
These items all are purchased with the use of monetary bills or plastic cards. No pennies were counted out for this purchase.
With their bag of goods he adult human walks home. Not so fast as to be accused of horsing around, but not so slowly as to be seen as dilly dallying. Their walking speed is an appropriate adult speed.
Once home the adult removes their boots, without needing to be asked. They are adult. Not child.
They enter their domicile - not my room - and sort the contents of the bag.
The pen shall be sorted into a cup. The cup is decorative and specifically for the containment of writing utensils. It is not a cup for the drinking of juice or water.
The stamps shall go into the letter writing drawer next to the desk on which the not drinking cup sits.
The unspecified cards shall also go into the letter writing drawer.
And should an occasion or event arise, in which greeting cards are necessary, our adult human is prepared.
Surely they will send cards. They will be sent on time, with full knowledge of the nation postage systems expected delivery times. Birthdays. Congratulations. Thank you's. Thinking of you's.
Adults are prepared to send correspondence at the drop of the hat. As this adult is an adult, not a child pretending at adulthood, they too can correspond instantly.
... Except they wont.
They still have cards from the last time they tried this. Some of the envelopes even have addresses on them.
They inside of these impersonal half folded pieces of card stock remain empty.
Writing in them is the hardest part.
Because to this truly adult person, it is a sign of submission. Submitting to distance and time. That we didn't just see each other yesterday and we likely won't see each other tomorrow. And there's a picture of an animal on the front of this so we'll both just pretend that's enough to forgive the months to years we haven't been face to face.
Because the world is too big. And when I go to write down a personal message to you, I just want write:
I miss you so much in this moment. Deeply. Sadly. Completely. And it won't last, because I need to get back to my life. But right now, I feel the hole in my life that you should occupy. And it hurts me ... So happy birthday?So a drawer full of good intentions. And all because someone didn't have the grownup ability to numb the little kid heart that still beats.
... I hate greeting cards.
Not candy or chocolate bars. No. This adult human goes to the greeting card aisle to buy a card. "Not adult enough!" I hear you exclaim. Well what if I told you this purchase wasn't for an immediate situation or individual. This purchase is in anticipation of a future event, should one require a greeting card.
Very adult.
While stamps shall also be purchased, in case future cards nee future mailing services.
Afterall, what good are good wishes, if the receiver cannot receive them?
Much maturity.
And of course a good pen will be purchased here as well, for the one day well wishing trinkets to include a personalized message of comradery.
These items all are purchased with the use of monetary bills or plastic cards. No pennies were counted out for this purchase.
With their bag of goods he adult human walks home. Not so fast as to be accused of horsing around, but not so slowly as to be seen as dilly dallying. Their walking speed is an appropriate adult speed.
Once home the adult removes their boots, without needing to be asked. They are adult. Not child.
They enter their domicile - not my room - and sort the contents of the bag.
The pen shall be sorted into a cup. The cup is decorative and specifically for the containment of writing utensils. It is not a cup for the drinking of juice or water.
The stamps shall go into the letter writing drawer next to the desk on which the not drinking cup sits.
The unspecified cards shall also go into the letter writing drawer.
And should an occasion or event arise, in which greeting cards are necessary, our adult human is prepared.
Surely they will send cards. They will be sent on time, with full knowledge of the nation postage systems expected delivery times. Birthdays. Congratulations. Thank you's. Thinking of you's.
Adults are prepared to send correspondence at the drop of the hat. As this adult is an adult, not a child pretending at adulthood, they too can correspond instantly.
... Except they wont.
They still have cards from the last time they tried this. Some of the envelopes even have addresses on them.
They inside of these impersonal half folded pieces of card stock remain empty.
Writing in them is the hardest part.
Because to this truly adult person, it is a sign of submission. Submitting to distance and time. That we didn't just see each other yesterday and we likely won't see each other tomorrow. And there's a picture of an animal on the front of this so we'll both just pretend that's enough to forgive the months to years we haven't been face to face.
Because the world is too big. And when I go to write down a personal message to you, I just want write:
I miss you so much in this moment. Deeply. Sadly. Completely. And it won't last, because I need to get back to my life. But right now, I feel the hole in my life that you should occupy. And it hurts me ... So happy birthday?So a drawer full of good intentions. And all because someone didn't have the grownup ability to numb the little kid heart that still beats.
... I hate greeting cards.
Wednesday 17 January 2018
Day 77
New game:
This one requires a little bit of setup, but it'll totally be worth it.
You'll need: a global communications network by which you can communicate with everyone on the planet at the same time; suggest getting facebook, tumblr, twitter and youtube to assist for good PR.
The music and lyrics to Earths global anthem (which you already composed in the "write and compose Earth's global anthem" game.)
Send digital copies of tune, lyrics, parts, etc to everyone on the planet.
Set a time and date; remember to include the date and time for other time zones.
I recommend a shared google calendar. Eventbrite doesn't always account for international destinations.
On the set day and time: everyone sings the planets anthem simultaneously.
And for one brief moment, the entire planet is united.
You lose if this becomes a tower of babel situation and the planet gets flicked by a giant hand.
You win by trying to bring people together.
Bonus points if the temporary unity of the species summons those aliens who've been monitoring us this entire time, and finally welcome us to the intergalactic playground for fun and games.
This one requires a little bit of setup, but it'll totally be worth it.
You'll need: a global communications network by which you can communicate with everyone on the planet at the same time; suggest getting facebook, tumblr, twitter and youtube to assist for good PR.
The music and lyrics to Earths global anthem (which you already composed in the "write and compose Earth's global anthem" game.)
Send digital copies of tune, lyrics, parts, etc to everyone on the planet.
Set a time and date; remember to include the date and time for other time zones.
I recommend a shared google calendar. Eventbrite doesn't always account for international destinations.
On the set day and time: everyone sings the planets anthem simultaneously.
And for one brief moment, the entire planet is united.
You lose if this becomes a tower of babel situation and the planet gets flicked by a giant hand.
You win by trying to bring people together.
Bonus points if the temporary unity of the species summons those aliens who've been monitoring us this entire time, and finally welcome us to the intergalactic playground for fun and games.
Tuesday 16 January 2018
Day 76
A pitch for a tv show that's about pitching tv shows.
The first words of an amazing novel.
The last words of a terrible novel.
A recipe for food by someone who has never cooked anything before in their life, but needs to make up a fake recipe to impress a woman he likes.
An advice column for women detailing how to convincingly fake interest in a guys clearly made up recipe, so that he'll be confidant enough not to have to keep lying to you.
The categories and sub categories of some made up plant species that thrives on dust bunnies.Possible answers to the question "what's next for you." that won't make me feel like a fraud because I don't have an actual answer.
Things to say when someone compliments you, that aren't just deflections
Imaginary characters ordered by favorite foods
What you want to say before they go, next time.
A breakup letter with your bad habits
A list of places you've been, in order of most likely murder mystery setting
A note to your future self that you can hide somewhere and surprise yourself with
A list of things that are for you and you alone, which may be why you keep making lists that you don't complete, because to you the only list worth completing is the one in which you can be of service to other people. Even though you aren't always as proactive in the pursuit as you'd like.
A scavenger hunt prop list and where you'd leave them in case of your sudden disappearance!
The first words of an amazing novel.
The last words of a terrible novel.
A recipe for food by someone who has never cooked anything before in their life, but needs to make up a fake recipe to impress a woman he likes.
An advice column for women detailing how to convincingly fake interest in a guys clearly made up recipe, so that he'll be confidant enough not to have to keep lying to you.
The categories and sub categories of some made up plant species that thrives on dust bunnies.Possible answers to the question "what's next for you." that won't make me feel like a fraud because I don't have an actual answer.
Things to say when someone compliments you, that aren't just deflections
Imaginary characters ordered by favorite foods
What you want to say before they go, next time.
A breakup letter with your bad habits
A list of places you've been, in order of most likely murder mystery setting
A note to your future self that you can hide somewhere and surprise yourself with
A list of things that are for you and you alone, which may be why you keep making lists that you don't complete, because to you the only list worth completing is the one in which you can be of service to other people. Even though you aren't always as proactive in the pursuit as you'd like.
A scavenger hunt prop list and where you'd leave them in case of your sudden disappearance!
Monday 15 January 2018
Day 75
I recently stated, that I should like to be a glutton of the soul.
Not sure if there's any wisdom in that.
I also stated to a lover that if aliens had to take them away to a place where joy and ecstasy would constantly invade them and compound in effect, I would be happy to lose them, despite my own selfish longing for them.
Neither statement really communicates my feelings accurately.
Gluttony is a feasting that is never fulfilling, I wish that for no spirit.
And my alien scenario only works if the person in question meant little enough to me, that I could bear their parting.
I can. But I one day hope not to.
I hold out hope that I can one day know someone and grow so fond of them, that their absence hollows me out.
Some day.
Perhaps the two indecipherable sentiments could combine.
Into one coherent thought.
In being spiritually fulfilled, I should feed into a person so much that I find I am unable to be emptied?
...
Or keep saying the wrong words to articulate your feelings.
Once the wrong ones are done, we may yet find the right ones.
I hope?
Saturday 13 January 2018
Day 74
I don't want to live a metaphor, I wanna live a life, but I keep writing about life, when I should be writing metaphors.
I'm not great at metaphors.
I lack conviction.
That's the big difference between metaphor and simile.
A simile is softened and non committal.
"It's like this" is the literary equivalent of "I'm happy being whatever you need me to be."
A metaphor is unapologetic. A metaphor is declarative.
A metaphor is me making breakfast when you ask what I want.
I dunno. Here's some porridge you didn't ask for.
... admittedly, not a great example of a metaphor.
But that is why I have a hard time making.
Me having a hard time spelling commitment, may be a metaphor, but I'm unsure.
I'm okay being unsure, but what if I choke up when I am sure, and can't be decisive. Just because of habit?
Day 73
Making your map to bliss.
The first time I experienced wonder and awe is lost to me.
I wasn't yet capable of forming memories, when it happened.
Just taking it all in. This. That. Everything.
But the phantom ring of that first moment echoes in and around me.
A tone only I can hear, even if I don't always recognize it when played.
My entire life has been a elusive chase, in the largest game of hide and seek you ever did see.
It has shown me the base of my ambitions and plunged me fathoms deep within my own ego; which of the two is grander, explorers may never know.
Resist the urge to praise my stamina. There have been several instances when I'd given up the chase. Sometimes in deliberate defiance, offended that I should even have to chase down my own happiness. Shouldn't it just come when I call?
No. That is not how this works. Not that I know how it works, but I do know how it doesn't work.
It doesn't work in solitude. It won't be imagined or conjured. It will not be tricked nor bought nor bargained for.
It must sought. Sometimes in the most unfamiliar of places. Sometimes in places you've been a hundred times before. Tricky when wants to be, but worth it or the times you catch it...
So. How do we do this?
The best directions I can give, are to ask for directions.
The right people will direct you towards what you seek.
Which people? You'll know, when you know them, if your bliss has been near.
That ringing will vibrate the instruments within your chest.
It may hurt a bit, but in place of yelps, you'll find sighs.
In place of absence, you'll feel presence.
When you find these people, mark them on your map.
If you find you are lost in your quest, these are who you go back to.
Keep. Looking.
The first time I experienced wonder and awe is lost to me.
I wasn't yet capable of forming memories, when it happened.
Just taking it all in. This. That. Everything.
But the phantom ring of that first moment echoes in and around me.
A tone only I can hear, even if I don't always recognize it when played.
My entire life has been a elusive chase, in the largest game of hide and seek you ever did see.
It has shown me the base of my ambitions and plunged me fathoms deep within my own ego; which of the two is grander, explorers may never know.
Resist the urge to praise my stamina. There have been several instances when I'd given up the chase. Sometimes in deliberate defiance, offended that I should even have to chase down my own happiness. Shouldn't it just come when I call?
No. That is not how this works. Not that I know how it works, but I do know how it doesn't work.
It doesn't work in solitude. It won't be imagined or conjured. It will not be tricked nor bought nor bargained for.
It must sought. Sometimes in the most unfamiliar of places. Sometimes in places you've been a hundred times before. Tricky when wants to be, but worth it or the times you catch it...
So. How do we do this?
The best directions I can give, are to ask for directions.
The right people will direct you towards what you seek.
Which people? You'll know, when you know them, if your bliss has been near.
That ringing will vibrate the instruments within your chest.
It may hurt a bit, but in place of yelps, you'll find sighs.
In place of absence, you'll feel presence.
When you find these people, mark them on your map.
If you find you are lost in your quest, these are who you go back to.
Keep. Looking.
Friday 12 January 2018
Day 72
Things to remember if and when you find you're not the one.
Don't be upset. No one really is. Not all the time, anyway.
Can you imagine being the one at all times. That would be exhausting, both to be and to be around.
If I were the one, and found out someone had been waiting all this time for me, I'd be embarrassed to say the least.
And sad. And tired. But most of all, I'd just want to sit at home not being the one for five goddamn minutes. Developing tastes and faults outside of whatever oppressive destiny loomed over each one of my one shoulders.
Look at that person. The one biking in the rain without a helmet! Bold move not me. I can pull that shit, being an overused plot device - especially in young adult fiction - but your just you.
You with your distinct you-ness. Not a chosen destined one. Not today. Not now. Not like me- Oh goddammit! Not another harrowing incident requiring a hero to rise. I JUST WANT TO NOT BE THE ONE FOR ONE FREAKING MINUTE!!!!
... I've taken this to a ridiculous enough conclusion.
Before you were biking home in the rain, without a helmet on - sorry mom - you sat across from or stood beside or were just on the phone with someone who needed something.
They weren't necessarily asking you for it. You sensed a need and felt a compulsion to help. So in that moment you wanted so desperately to be ... well y'know.
Sometimes being me is wanting to be more than I am, or more than I have ...
Sometimes being me is failing to do either.
Sometimes being me is being okay with that.
Today I am not the one.
But there is one in me. Till then, I'm just me.
Scratch that: till then, I'mjust me.
And who knows, they may be the one and not know it. Wouldn't that be grand, if we could all be our own one.
At least when it really counts.
... boring book material, but I'm not writing life. Just trying to live it.
Don't be upset. No one really is. Not all the time, anyway.
Can you imagine being the one at all times. That would be exhausting, both to be and to be around.
If I were the one, and found out someone had been waiting all this time for me, I'd be embarrassed to say the least.
And sad. And tired. But most of all, I'd just want to sit at home not being the one for five goddamn minutes. Developing tastes and faults outside of whatever oppressive destiny loomed over each one of my one shoulders.
Look at that person. The one biking in the rain without a helmet! Bold move not me. I can pull that shit, being an overused plot device - especially in young adult fiction - but your just you.
You with your distinct you-ness. Not a chosen destined one. Not today. Not now. Not like me- Oh goddammit! Not another harrowing incident requiring a hero to rise. I JUST WANT TO NOT BE THE ONE FOR ONE FREAKING MINUTE!!!!
... I've taken this to a ridiculous enough conclusion.
Before you were biking home in the rain, without a helmet on - sorry mom - you sat across from or stood beside or were just on the phone with someone who needed something.
They weren't necessarily asking you for it. You sensed a need and felt a compulsion to help. So in that moment you wanted so desperately to be ... well y'know.
Sometimes being me is wanting to be more than I am, or more than I have ...
Sometimes being me is failing to do either.
Sometimes being me is being okay with that.
Today I am not the one.
But there is one in me. Till then, I'm just me.
Scratch that: till then, I'm
And who knows, they may be the one and not know it. Wouldn't that be grand, if we could all be our own one.
At least when it really counts.
... boring book material, but I'm not writing life. Just trying to live it.
Thursday 11 January 2018
Day 71
I've been thinking, which usually means I'm restless. Or bored. Or avoiding action.
But let us humour my thoughts.I've been thinking of the gods we must kill in our lifetime. The altars we built before we were ready to take responsibility.
Health, wealth and happiness are no longer the whim of fickle faerie folk. They're not solely our own either, but to say we do not have agency is naive.
I think of the altars I must shatter.
The comforts I have tended too closely.
I am a child in many ways. And we all need to indulge in that part of ourselves when we can.
But I cannot wait for the world to make a move and wonder at the lack of change.
A grown man asks "Why didn't the world heal itself?"
The wind replies,
"Why didn't you?"
But let us humour my thoughts.I've been thinking of the gods we must kill in our lifetime. The altars we built before we were ready to take responsibility.
Health, wealth and happiness are no longer the whim of fickle faerie folk. They're not solely our own either, but to say we do not have agency is naive.
I think of the altars I must shatter.
The comforts I have tended too closely.
I am a child in many ways. And we all need to indulge in that part of ourselves when we can.
But I cannot wait for the world to make a move and wonder at the lack of change.
A grown man asks "Why didn't the world heal itself?"
The wind replies,
"Why didn't you?"
Wednesday 10 January 2018
Day 70
As a child I recall being told that I could be anything I wanted to when I grow up.
Today I was shocked to find myself to be a grownup.
"Finally!" A tiny voice within me cheered, "Now you can be whatever you want!"
Say what you will about the excitable toddler, with mushroom cut and a love of wrestling,
he's not wrong ...
Today I was shocked to find myself to be a grownup.
"Finally!" A tiny voice within me cheered, "Now you can be whatever you want!"
Say what you will about the excitable toddler, with mushroom cut and a love of wrestling,
he's not wrong ...
Tuesday 9 January 2018
Day 69
Bad ideas:
- Challenging your clock to an arm wrestling match, victory is only a matter of time. Whether in a minute, or an hour.
- Staring contests with mirrors: it's not that you'll definitely lose, it's just that there can never be a clear victor
- Saying one more minute; which minute it will be one more of, is left deliberately vague.
- Saying "I love you" out of fear.
- Saying anything other than "don't go" after they say they "I wish I could stay here."
- Going to bed angry.
- Waking up angry.
- Eating angry.
- Doing most anything you enjoy in life while angry.
- Skipping breakfast.
- Letting her walk out without one last kiss.
- Letting her walk out at all.
- Staying while she walks out.
- Staying long after she walked out ...
- Squishing a bug with a book and leaving the book with the bug face down to surprise you later.
- Kale
- Challenging your clock to an arm wrestling match, victory is only a matter of time. Whether in a minute, or an hour.
- Staring contests with mirrors: it's not that you'll definitely lose, it's just that there can never be a clear victor
- Saying one more minute; which minute it will be one more of, is left deliberately vague.
- Saying "I love you" out of fear.
- Saying anything other than "don't go" after they say they "I wish I could stay here."
- Going to bed angry.
- Waking up angry.
- Eating angry.
- Doing most anything you enjoy in life while angry.
- Skipping breakfast.
- Letting her walk out without one last kiss.
- Letting her walk out at all.
- Staying while she walks out.
- Staying long after she walked out ...
- Squishing a bug with a book and leaving the book with the bug face down to surprise you later.
- Kale
Monday 8 January 2018
Day 68
Carrying a bag of seed on this adventure seemed a foolish thing. With the distance to be covered, what gardening did our hero have planned?
Every night before sleep, she would sit by the fire and speak to the bag and its contents.
She would word out her doubts, regrets, rages and misgivings. She would shout. Whisper. Whatever sound she could produce, and some nights it was little more than a whimper.
But she spoke her fears aloud and rested with dreams free from conflict.
Each morning after these nights, when it came time to break camp: she would remove one pip from the bundle in the bag and plant it where her head had just laid. She buried the solitary pip, and moved on.
Every night she does this and every day brings her closer to her goal.
When the day finally comes, when her destination is near, the bag will likely be empty.
Some might think the weight irrelevant in making any sort of efforts forward.
Freedom from the weight of a bagful of seeds won't make her noticeably lighter, but the burdens she buried with them can no longer keep her from flying.
You can fly too, if free from a forest of weight.
Every night before sleep, she would sit by the fire and speak to the bag and its contents.
She would word out her doubts, regrets, rages and misgivings. She would shout. Whisper. Whatever sound she could produce, and some nights it was little more than a whimper.
But she spoke her fears aloud and rested with dreams free from conflict.
Each morning after these nights, when it came time to break camp: she would remove one pip from the bundle in the bag and plant it where her head had just laid. She buried the solitary pip, and moved on.
Every night she does this and every day brings her closer to her goal.
When the day finally comes, when her destination is near, the bag will likely be empty.
Some might think the weight irrelevant in making any sort of efforts forward.
Freedom from the weight of a bagful of seeds won't make her noticeably lighter, but the burdens she buried with them can no longer keep her from flying.
You can fly too, if free from a forest of weight.
Sunday 7 January 2018
Day 67
And at the end of the day, he looked at the large pile of once glittering dust near the base of his ticking clock.
Each grain all that was left of the essence of opportunity once contained within the minute hand, now shook off with by the inevitable onward march of time and resting unused on the hardwood floor.
With regret in one hand and desperation in the other, our tragic hero swept up the contents and placed them in a jar. The jar was labeled - progress never made - and placed upon a shelf. The shelf was quite massive and housed other jars with similar labels.
Best intentions never acted on.
Curiosities never fed.
Good times not fully enjoyed.One might look upon the contents of such a shelf and bemoan the number of sad curios our procrastinator had collected. His despair, however, did not live with the jars already placed; but rather with the empty spaces between them. Knowing that they would soon be filled. With one weakness, or another ...
The torture of such a collection would one day drive him mad.
Each grain all that was left of the essence of opportunity once contained within the minute hand, now shook off with by the inevitable onward march of time and resting unused on the hardwood floor.
With regret in one hand and desperation in the other, our tragic hero swept up the contents and placed them in a jar. The jar was labeled - progress never made - and placed upon a shelf. The shelf was quite massive and housed other jars with similar labels.
Best intentions never acted on.
Curiosities never fed.
Good times not fully enjoyed.One might look upon the contents of such a shelf and bemoan the number of sad curios our procrastinator had collected. His despair, however, did not live with the jars already placed; but rather with the empty spaces between them. Knowing that they would soon be filled. With one weakness, or another ...
The torture of such a collection would one day drive him mad.
Saturday 6 January 2018
Day 66
New game:
Who's that in the mirror?
If you're like me, you don't spend a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror.
Next time you do: be surprised.
If wearing glasses, take them off: dramatically.
Approach the stranger your seeing, as if for the first time.
Scan the face, the jawline, trace the cheekbones with your thumb.
Test out the smile muscles- THAT! That smile! Where did that smile come from? What was the first thing this stranger smiled at with this smile.
furrow your brow and ask where they mastered it. Schoolyard professors. Board room meetings. At the battle upon the rainy weir.
Ask these questions of your strange visitor.
When it is time to walk away, and you will know when it is time, bid your mirror-folk farewell.
You lose if you challenge them to a staring contest.
Other than this, you win just by playing.
Bonus points if you actually make contact with a mirror dimension.
Bonus points revoked if they invade and conquer our dimension.
Who's that in the mirror?
If you're like me, you don't spend a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror.
Next time you do: be surprised.
If wearing glasses, take them off: dramatically.
Approach the stranger your seeing, as if for the first time.
Scan the face, the jawline, trace the cheekbones with your thumb.
Test out the smile muscles- THAT! That smile! Where did that smile come from? What was the first thing this stranger smiled at with this smile.
furrow your brow and ask where they mastered it. Schoolyard professors. Board room meetings. At the battle upon the rainy weir.
Ask these questions of your strange visitor.
When it is time to walk away, and you will know when it is time, bid your mirror-folk farewell.
You lose if you challenge them to a staring contest.
Other than this, you win just by playing.
Bonus points if you actually make contact with a mirror dimension.
Bonus points revoked if they invade and conquer our dimension.
Thursday 4 January 2018
Day 65
Past me: I don't know what I'm doing!
Present me: I don't know what I'm doing?!?!!
Future me: I don't know what I'm doing.
Day 64
Welcome to the new currency.
All forms of cash, coin, etc has been replaced by seeds.
But wait! There's more.
Each seed gives you the following choices: you may water the seed and it will instantly become food.
You may plant the seed so that it may become a temporary shelter.
Or you may spend and save your seeds at your leisure.
What will this solve? I'm not sure, but I am tired of working so hard for non-magical objects that have no inherent value outside of the one we have all agreed to put faith in.
Couldn't money just be magic seeds instead!!?!
Just one more idea in my ongoing attempts to make adult life more like play time.
All forms of cash, coin, etc has been replaced by seeds.
But wait! There's more.
Each seed gives you the following choices: you may water the seed and it will instantly become food.
You may plant the seed so that it may become a temporary shelter.
Or you may spend and save your seeds at your leisure.
What will this solve? I'm not sure, but I am tired of working so hard for non-magical objects that have no inherent value outside of the one we have all agreed to put faith in.
Couldn't money just be magic seeds instead!!?!
Just one more idea in my ongoing attempts to make adult life more like play time.
Wednesday 3 January 2018
Day 63
(More) Terrible inventions
Silent music speakers
Non stick post it notes
Dry water
Diet kale
Kale flavored soda
Sour kale
Noise-Free Playgrounds, complete with:
- Immovable swing sets
- Non slick slides
- No running signs
- Children free zones
Fireworks in grey scale
Extra loud velcro
Bottomless shoes
Topless Umbrellas
A setting on digital music editing software that strips emotion from the song you're editing
Flavorless cheese
Silent music speakers
Non stick post it notes
Dry water
Diet kale
Kale flavored soda
Sour kale
Noise-Free Playgrounds, complete with:
- Immovable swing sets
- Non slick slides
- No running signs
- Children free zones
Fireworks in grey scale
Extra loud velcro
Bottomless shoes
Topless Umbrellas
A setting on digital music editing software that strips emotion from the song you're editing
Flavorless cheese
Tuesday 2 January 2018
Day 62
New Game:
While sitting at your writing desk late at night, listening to some random track from your extensive backlog of mp3's you've collected over the years: stop. Suspend all action, and become very aware of your surroundings.
The scattered papers on either side of your computer.
The corked bulletin board lent against the side wall, with tacks holding nothing up, save your wifi password and a Pokemon cross stitch you won at a silent auction for a theatre fundraiser.
The printer you never use, because ink is too expensive. The three-tier organizer meant for files and papers, that actually holds cards, markers and an assortment of envelopes. The latest in a vain attempt to promote organization, made into an extra surface to discards scraps.
Post its notices align the other side wall, assuring me that I hace already given myself permission to "Try. Want. Apply. Accept or Reject. Do and Be." along ewith my mailing address for fear of forgetting it and the definition of Sonder. Above these is a print of an Alex Colville - the composition of which is that of a middle aged man walking in the foreground, while a train is directed in the opposing direction in the background. Were these two figures to be on the same latitude it should end fatally for the man and unpleasantly for the train conductor.
Below art and definition sits an unused wireless speaker. A tissue box sits beside an analogue watch beside a lint roller beside a notebook with words I won't be recording here.
A collage of papers with varying subject, value and origin lies in ironic defiance of the previously mentioned three tier organizer.
You win this game if, while suspending this moment in time, you find connection to each and every piece of your immediate surroundings.
If the connection is uncomfortable, it may be time to clean.
If nothing around you is familiar and has zero mnemonic value: you are also likely not in fact at your desk and need to get back to your house. The police are on there way and you cannot go back to prison ...!
You lose if you go to prison.
While sitting at your writing desk late at night, listening to some random track from your extensive backlog of mp3's you've collected over the years: stop. Suspend all action, and become very aware of your surroundings.
The scattered papers on either side of your computer.
The corked bulletin board lent against the side wall, with tacks holding nothing up, save your wifi password and a Pokemon cross stitch you won at a silent auction for a theatre fundraiser.
The printer you never use, because ink is too expensive. The three-tier organizer meant for files and papers, that actually holds cards, markers and an assortment of envelopes. The latest in a vain attempt to promote organization, made into an extra surface to discards scraps.
Post its notices align the other side wall, assuring me that I hace already given myself permission to "Try. Want. Apply. Accept or Reject. Do and Be." along ewith my mailing address for fear of forgetting it and the definition of Sonder. Above these is a print of an Alex Colville - the composition of which is that of a middle aged man walking in the foreground, while a train is directed in the opposing direction in the background. Were these two figures to be on the same latitude it should end fatally for the man and unpleasantly for the train conductor.
Below art and definition sits an unused wireless speaker. A tissue box sits beside an analogue watch beside a lint roller beside a notebook with words I won't be recording here.
A collage of papers with varying subject, value and origin lies in ironic defiance of the previously mentioned three tier organizer.
You win this game if, while suspending this moment in time, you find connection to each and every piece of your immediate surroundings.
If the connection is uncomfortable, it may be time to clean.
If nothing around you is familiar and has zero mnemonic value: you are also likely not in fact at your desk and need to get back to your house. The police are on there way and you cannot go back to prison ...!
You lose if you go to prison.
Monday 1 January 2018
Day 61
The original purpose for hands, wasn't what you might expect.
We didn't have them so we could hold pens. They weren't for shuffling cards.
There was no macrame to be made, to say nothing of cross stitches or the cat's cradle.
No. Hands, as we would come to one day call them, had a very simple purpose in early days.
You don't remember, but it is among one of the first things you did with your hand when you received it.
You reached out.
And what happened next changed everything.
And you would continue to do so for a very long time.
It would inform the life you live as you would follow the example closely.
To want. To desire. To reach for, so we may find, everything and anything outside of ourselves.
That is why we hold pens. Why we deal cards. Why macrame is macrame and also why cat's cradles have neither a cat nor cradle in them. Or why your hand fits so perfectly in mine and mine in yours. We're reaching out.
It's good that we do. And that we will continue to do so.
And I hope we both one day find something worth holding onto.
We didn't have them so we could hold pens. They weren't for shuffling cards.
There was no macrame to be made, to say nothing of cross stitches or the cat's cradle.
No. Hands, as we would come to one day call them, had a very simple purpose in early days.
You don't remember, but it is among one of the first things you did with your hand when you received it.
You reached out.
And what happened next changed everything.
And you would continue to do so for a very long time.
It would inform the life you live as you would follow the example closely.
To want. To desire. To reach for, so we may find, everything and anything outside of ourselves.
That is why we hold pens. Why we deal cards. Why macrame is macrame and also why cat's cradles have neither a cat nor cradle in them. Or why your hand fits so perfectly in mine and mine in yours. We're reaching out.
It's good that we do. And that we will continue to do so.
And I hope we both one day find something worth holding onto.
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