I set sail ... with the stormy heavens crushing the sea, and my heart twisted with dying. (J. P. Donleavy - The Ginger Man)
They return, to my home for a few years: Dublin, Ohio. So much material: I-270, roundabouts, Muirfield, the zoo, OSU, giant corn, Celtic themes, the "world's largest" Irish festival and - of course - all the f*ing shamrocks.
I can't let this one go. Obviously, I was too subtle. So, here is an "in your face" version. Expect future visits to this lab to witness the possible outcomes of whatever flavor of socio-economic inequality you can imagine.
I have resigned myself to the metaphorical reality that my parachute is not going to open. The only question is, should I at least try to enjoy the grotesquely mesmerizing introspective view on the way down. (Me - Pandora's Box)
Enid rents an apartment in Crystal Lake, Illinois - another place I lived. I do not miss living under the flight path of a runway only 3000 feet away. Not that anyone really cares.
Another day, another mask meltdown. I ponder the cause. Learning about the implied social contract? Confronting existentialism? Fearing mortality? Exhibiting selfishness? Or, f*ing alien brain parasites?
My 2020? Stopped watching movies, Netflix and TV. Then quit social media. I'm a crisis away from abandoning civilization and either riding the rails as a luddite hobo or hiding in a well-appointed hermit cave.
The reasons are many, but for our species to survive - I think it is obvious that half of us will need to go. I guess we can flip a coin or something?
My edgy "end of the world" sarcasm engine has been sputtering lately. It is a very strange feeling. Am I broken? I've never had this problem before. And the oddest part? Knowing why. But NOT knowing why.
Perspective. Only 60+ cities in the USA, totaling 54m people, have a population over 300k. 84% of Americans live someplace COVID could have entirely erased from the map. Cincinnati, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, Orlando ...
I make recurring character cartoons in bunches. But I limit them to one post per week. And then I forget I made them. I want an anti-social VR bubble - no more tiny pangs of guilt from ignoring people!
My semi-retirement plan is to travel as a writer and photographer to document the stories that make us - us. History has a tendency to remember the bad. But every life covers an unwritten novel.
My first dog, Bathsheba, was a rescue Pekingese that had been blinded by someone that threw lye in her eyes. She enjoyed a long, happy life. But she definitely looked more like E.T. in a wig - than a dog.
Eventually quantum entanglement will become a reality. And with it unlimited and instantaneous communication. We can barely handle social media. How will we survive our raw thoughts and emotions?
The natural human world is a monotonous gray canvas. We are not entitled to art. The inspired colors that fill our world come at a cost - borne by painters, sculptors, photographers, writers, composers, etc.
Whether controlled experiment - or accidental discovery - the quest for knowledge is about ascertaining truth. Then, if necessary - we adjust our reality to accommodate for the newly acquired information.
Sometimes I find peace in dreams. If I lie in bed long enough for sleep to catch me. Then the dead speak. And they say? Who we are. What we make. Someday will be found. By scavengers. Looking for something else.
I am old. In my first few jobs I used analog punchclocks. There is nothing like the awareness of life being measured in 6 minute intervals. Note: if you've never enjoyed the experience - that is 1/10 of an hour.
Forget the vast distances involved. Or the velocities required to conquer them. There is only one species in the Universe interested in observing our primordial follies. Or experimenting on us.
(b) I've known evil. Half-cousin, shared name. Troubled childhood. The start? Animals. Then one day? His niece, gasoline. She lived. He spent a life in/out of prison. Night before last release. Hanged himself. And? I don't know.