To balance each day, something from the past, some of the present, something done for the future. Some familiar, some stretch, some serious, some play. Some use of mind, some daily life maintenance grind, some body in motion.
It was wonderful to canoe again to heart’s content. It’s been 2 years and I wasn’t sure I could do it again. Since frozen shoulder it improved to a point then is good enough. I can lift heavy pots again, shovel, cycle, drive. It gets fatigued easily and the nerves are all screwy so if being pressed they overreact. It randomly pops. It’s not exactly normal but I can start pushups again.
Each day needs balance. Some solitude, some connection, some action, some reflection. Some reading, some writing. Some vegetable, some grain, some vitamins of range of dietary spectrum. Some fresh water over, in, and out.
She lived well, did what she loved on her own terms. Everything was borrowed time. She wasn’t expected to live to be a teenager. She was painfully shy but if someone crossed a line in mistreating a friend she’d put them in line with “that’s enough now” and when she said it, it clearly was. That ended it. She’d lobster for a while. And all would settle. She wore what she loved, a lot of purple and orange because you do what you love and other people can’t tell you otherwise, or reason you out of it if you have any sense.
When she laughed there was just a small quake to begin, then she’d redden and redden and snort and her whole body shook with the almost-containment.
While others were in the habit of “critical thinking”, heavy on the critical, and more to the lagging, she’d declare, “well, I like *like* it.” And that standing of ground was a definitive closing statement on the subject. Her speech was full of old phrases “peachy keen”, “cool cat” and “gee whillikers” without any irony because she got a kick out of them. They’d make her giggle.
In high school she was mostly Advanced level courses, taking every history class she could, just like I did. She wrote copious notes for in her hand that was round, looped, even as a typewriter and pressed hard into the page to emboss it.
She had ambition since childhood to go to Wales, which her family held out like a carrot/whip for years. If she’d lose weight they’d pay her way.
She aimed to be a librarian technician and pay her own way. She had some of the lockstepped courses from Algonquin College. She lived in the far east end of the city while I liked in the far west. She lived in what my mom would call a group home. Supported community living.
Instead of plans, one day after serving tea to the old ladies she loved being among after church, while walking down the steps of the house of god, the stitches of her heart “unstitched” in an embolism.
Love those you love while they live. Later may do you some good, but rather limits it. Spend the time now.
Over and out,
Blogs have the advantage of not being hosted on someone else’s platform unlike twitter, FB, Pinterest. Maybe that amounts to someone buys your data and accounts and transfers from one corporation to another vs. someone scrapes all your data. Might that be the distinction?
But maybe when control is with such corporations, it allows the words to be seen as ephemeral and never owned, which might be a good thing. You don’t release it as a kite but as a bird.
Hosting-structures of social media run by advertising which I’ve not allowed on my blogs. (I guess two of them now have that, with google ads placed.)
I haven’t sought sponsors. It seems that it would perjure the content and make any writer an unreliable narrator to be beholden to those who support. It adds to the digital pollution to be in a state where product is always being pitched at you. We went for a walk and even down a tree-dark alley, in a window was an ad for a political party.
Blogs shouldn’t have such bedfellows. Thinking shouldn’t be curtailed by what would the sponsor think and put yourself under the power of money yanks. Ads might supplant motives. If one wants money, go to Patreon.
Old school-thinking I suppose. Maybe magical thinking discounting the opportunity costs of time spent writing for free often to no one in particular. Social media quip for bit also puts on constraints of scope and tone of and subjects what can be spoken of.
Any publishing is an odd backward way to communicate. It seems set to fail. Instead of delivering the relevant information to the relevant person, just put it out to the universe and see who finds it. Maybe you bundle it up and tell someone in particular but it’s still likely written to one person.
Social media is snippet exchange. When there’s such length (as this) people don’t acknowledge most of the speaking, will say something simple. I find it horrifying. Say someone babbles on cover-up sort of scree of photos and babble and slips in, and her/his spouse/cat/parent died. And no one notices that that is the key kernel of information. And they’ll comment on the flower pot or say a cheery hello and ignore the elephant in the text.
Reading and writing online breeds a sort of passivity. Instead of talking to your member of parliament, write a strongly worded note to yourself in a digitally public space. Or give a thumb’s up to one. May as well sign a petition on a fencepost.
Thinking is a form of action. Writing is a form of action. But both are incomplete.
I have been writing online a long time. I was in the first heat of people joining National Capital Freenet. Because I am that old, I used to build the blog with html directly. As soon as I could get a page, I made one for my poetry.
As time moved, I substantially altered templates to customize. Then used themes as is.
I used to house them all on our own home server. Egad, The Mac Cube, anyone remember that bit of beauty from, gulp, 15 years ago.
I shifted gradually to blogger and to letting Flickr host pictures (Now over 1 million and 5 thousand views). And subsequently photos disappear or not load sometimes or get a watermark over them. Would I want to go back to self-hosting and typing the html of the photo sizes?
This iteration of Humanyms is 11 years old. (It started at another url in Feb 2003, so 12 years ago).
Huh, that’s a 10-year-anniversary next month for the poetics and poetry blog.
I like having a place where I can consolidate my thinking. It wouldn’t have to be online. Lots of people live entirely unpublic lives. I think because I was shushed, shut down, told to to shut up so much as a kid, I refuse to. Of course, some people express thru paid venues. I do to a lesser degree.
I look at my mom and her constant talking and see a counterpart. We are both hyperverbal. I read a book every 2 or 3 days. She reads a book a day. She writes daily but mostly talks. I may talk to someone each day but mostly write. We both plough a lot of words thru our heads.
She tends to talk to anyone anywhere and pump them for their life story and divulge wild level of details about hers to any clerk or technician who will pause for long enough. But don’t I as well. She at least talks to people she can see and who are part of her flesh-and-blood-routine. She narrowcasts. I broadcast. And that perhaps because I had so much school intervention for dyslexia and mine is milder than hers. She had one-room-school house interrupted education to grade 7 and I had steady-on schooling, and special accommodations for some of my 20 years in school.
I tend to plug away, but spread wide. She has recorded the weather and events of her life for over 50 years.
I used to have skeleton posts running on all the blogs with it auto-posting to obscure when I went on vacation and to even out the burst of writing intensely, more than anyone can read, and times when I don’t write.
The hubby-photo blog i 4 years of weekly, and is filling in with archival when I find old photos.
And there’s pesbo as I mentioned which I see no reason to stop but have no schedule for. Sometimes a run of daily, sometimes a gap of a few weeks.
At least 3 of my blogs have died without a trace, a pond’s ripple. One was a fictional persona diary written in French, one a flash fiction blog and a briefly lived venting blog way back almost in usenet era.
Some are sporadic like an earworms blog, a dream blog, and a 365-blog which I thought about doing again but selfies was an era that passed really.
The food blog scaled back to 5 days a week last year and after 9 years I’ll close shop on at the end of the month.
The cat blog has been going 11 years, but has been sporadic since Cat 1 died. This cat just isn’t a blogger.
40-word-year: 7 years but sputtering and may close as well.
Some are still going. Here, sporadically, but the daily or twice a week stopped. I try to not let more than a 10-day gap enter.
What are blogs good for. I’m not sure anymore. If they stay up, and are well-indexed by the search engines and searchable within themselves, they can be a live-catalogue of what to sell in a sort of friendly setting. They can be a showcase, but that’s what a website is. Or was before it became a place to show animations and videos. Hm, grumpy cat’s got nothing on me.
I want to get a cutting of my great aunt’s yellow roses. She died in the 80s but apparently some aunts have pieces from her her rose bushes. We did manage to transplant some trilliums for our shade area. Our Heuchera was dug up and carried off in the high. One of our Canadian anemones as well. Nearly one of the other new flower was lifted but whatever was digging only uprooted it as if trying to tuck a baby tooth under it. Replanted and heavily watered it’s looking more itself. Although those blooms nearly opening have pocketed that plan. Our ferns are further snapped off. I think its the horny squirrels chasing each other that trample it down with their dozens of runs as surely as one quick heavy footstep. But some things are flourishing.
I don’t see myself copying and pasting all these photos, here’s the gardening album if you’re up for inhaling beauty.
I have been hermitting with books when floor or other projects aren’t underway.
I don’t know what compels the degree to which I read so many in parallel. They colour each other well sometimes. Underway are: A history of the development of the Ottawa Public library; a history of the Experimental Farm; a biography of Lett, the confederation poet; a biography of the Kells. All take place around the mid-1800s to the early 1940s. At the same time watching all 3 seasons of Mr. Selfridge, of the same era. They all can add views in the round and reference the same events.
Sunny as a bee’s behind, isn’t it.
Tiny little plants are coming along. Do you suppose we’ll get peppers? This year in the cage we aren’t liable to lose them as they finally ripen. Elsewhere all kinds of experiments including growing curry. Who knew. Thought that came off bottling plants, little glass tubes plucked off full of powder.
The tube skylight installed over a few hours is casting a diffuse light over the half-ripped out kitchen floor.