I've been thinking about the ways in which I relate to time, as a concept.
One view of time divides it up into goals and deadlines. It's like a race. Our goal is to cross each finish line, to complete our tasks, and reach a theoretical perfect state through this series of steps. We are at state X, we want to be at state X++, which will be “better”. An example of this is how we relate to work weeks: We work through the week, to Friday, where we get happy because we have a weekend! But then the weekend ends, because time doesn't stop. This is true of just about anything. There was a book I saw once, called After the Ecstasy, the Laundry that makes this point in it's title. I never actually got around to reading the book...
Yes, it's one of their “kids” albums. But have you ever heard a “kids” album like this before? The songs are as complex and rich as any of their regular “grown up” fare, but with toned-down themes to be more palatable to younger groups of listeners.
We have been being very good about not going out, but we needed some sunlight. So we chose a place that should have been a nice, easy hike, and we hiked up there.
For years I've been looking for a way to keep an organic, self-organizing system of notes, something that ties all my thoughts together so that I can get at the ones I want based on what I'm doing.
The band Dinosaur Jr was active and well known during the years when I was in high school; more than that, they are right up my alley, musically. I've heard the name of the band more than once, but I never really knew anything about them. They've just been there.
There's a neurotic need (in me at any rate) to keep my mind occupied, even in those moments when I don't have a whole lot to do. Not that “constant distraction” is particularly healthy, of course. And when you're just looking for a time filler it's easy to surf the same few short (anti-)social media sites, or short-article sites over and over, perfecting the art of Doomscrolling .
It's great advice, except it's more difficult these days. Where is “here”? I'm writing in my house, but the audience isn't here. If I switch web sites, jumping to, say midnight.pub, then I'm addressing an entirely different audience, even though I haven't physically moved at all. So being here must mean being present not only in my location but in my action and intention.
My family and I went to the lovely Loveland Living Planet Aquarium last night, in masks, counted, and social distanced, so we could get out of the house even in these times. The aquarium is adding a new exhibit, called the EECO that is built under a giant claw-shaped thing that they got from U2's 360° tour. It makes for a striking view from the freeway, and they've put it on a nice plot of land that used to just be ugly dirt near the freeway.
