I’ve reached the dubious goal of having posted for 1001 days with minimal interruption (a few days here and there of scheduled posts, but always a post) and in that effort, I averaged close to five public posts a day (based on the simple math that I am a few dozen posts away from 5000 public posts).
Equally dubious is my suggestion that I have some have kind of kindred relationship with Scheherazade. I’ve hardly told that many stories, nor is my life on the line. But it came to mind, is soon to be posted and, well, there you are…
There is no cake. The cake was a lie. A thousand days of writing gets you exactly a thousand days of writing. No more. No less.
But you can virtual cake, in fact. Here’s my gift to you for putting up with so much compost from my fingertips. Let me know if it is as yummy as I mean for it to be:
I’ll admit, the new metric showing up on the WordPress stats page, combined with the weirdly-worded “Newsletter/subscriber” pre-post checklist has me wondering if y’all are getting spammed in your email folder whenever I post (totally not my intention, nor with my permission). It’s not happening to me, so I suspect it is an opt-in thing, but a new box of stats at the bottom of my web-admin stats page has me concerned that some of you are suddenly getting email spam from this site.
If so, I will aggressively try to figure out why I had this “service” forced on me with no readily identifiable means of turning it off. If it is recipient-side opt-in, that would explain why I don’t have control about newsletters (short of disallowing all follows). I hate spam as much as the next person and would never, ever send you emails for this site without your permission or a very good reason to do so.
Let me know in the comments if I need to investigate further.
Tattoos have gotten so mainstream as to make the waitlist three months long (or longer), no matter where I try to book an appointment. To compound the situation, all of the artists I’ve tried to work with seem weary, as if they thought it was a great way to make money doing art but have started second-guessing their assembly line situation. Artists are closing their books out in advance to give themselves the opportunity to take a few days off, should they want it. And I don’t blame them, especially after my last few months of work (okay, year, but especially the past four or five months).
my smart watch
broke, how dumb
is it i reflect on a
all the time?
do i need to know
steps? my restless
My Fitbit broke yesterday. I flexed my wrist and a little anchor bit broke. Looking at replacement options, I considered an upgrade and then… wondered where the appeal was in microtracking my health stats. It was fun and mildly useful for a spell, but does it really add value to know that I only slept five hours last night instead of 6.5 hours? That “I didn’t get my steps in”? Do I enjoy having to worry about my battery life trickling out at inconvenient times?
One more notification. One more Pavlov endorphin flood. Another cluster of data that isn’t all that actionable other than madly rushing to get an arbitrary 10k steps in for the day. Eight glasses of water that don’t include other liquids because someone somewhere told us that eight glasses are essential when they are not essential at all. Am I giraffe? Or a sloth? Why does it never say that my heart rate is excellent for my age? Or terrible? Always… “good for your age”. Does my resting heart rate matter unless I am an athelete?
Why can’t they make these things so I don’t break them just by wearing them (I eat through metal and plastic always crumbles on me eventually)? I kill watches, I tell people, because it is mostly true. Always has been. If I get more than two years out of any watch, it is an anomaly.
I think I’m going to sit this next one out and just get a dumb watch that only tells me time and the battery lasts without recharging or replacing it before I kill it with whatever is in my body that kills watches and dissolves jewelry.
I took no holy vow
Won't you hold this pagan soul
Hold my soul
I kiss her sandaled foot
She's my holy pearl
The ghetto in your mind
Treating her unkind
I'll reach you if I try
Show me your truth
More memories of walking around Lower Queen Anne, Denny Regrade, Pike’s Market, Belltown and the Waterfront in Seattle. I lived downtown at the time and could always find something interesting just by wandering. Sometimes by just standing and letting the world wander around me. This song, for whatever reason evokes those memories. Maybe it was the whole riot grrrl and garageband scene. Maybe it was the end of a period where I really enjoyed “the scene” in general, something that afterwards seemed to lose it’s luster for reasons I don’t care to go into at this time. Like so many of my life’s decisions, I made them without thinking of the consequences of my actions and I honestly should have stayed put — I’d probably be less surly in my old age if I had. It’s not as if today’s Seattle is the same as it was back then, but I gave up a lot of my individuality by moving back to the heartland, conforming, and trying to get out of disasterpiece theater by deciding to adult.
A few more years being wild would not have hurt my soul one bit. But it is a bit late to go back to the before.
If I sound a bit melancholic, it is because I am. Shocker.
Have a good long weekend if you’re the type who has weekends. I apparently am not that type at this time and will be working.
a curmudgeon without a sense of humor is no fun at all
It might just be me… But I’ve found that I have no taste for angry online rants anymore. Even my own rants feel tiresome, which is why I’ve trended away from launching into one whenever something piques my ire.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t occasionally partake, but I feel that same tiredness when I reread what my spleen has vented.
Then, again… Most things make me feel tired these days. Except when it makes me laugh. Absurdity and satire make curmudgeonly monologues, not to mention other experiences, notably less tiresome for me.
I don’t know what I’m getting at here. Just mental stew splashing out of a leaky pot.
Take care and enjoy your day or night, whichever it might be when you read this.
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I shouldn’t have to write this post, but I find that I need to remind people on occasion that I’m not interested in these kinds of engagements.
Sometimes I overcomplicate matters (No! Really?!?!?) and have to remind myself not to cram too much into a small space when it comes to tattoos. I like my symbolism, but I really need to dial it down a bit in some respects.
As I mentioned in passing, I’ll have an empty home (not including the cats) come this weekend, and I am pondering how best to take advantage of the solitude. I’ve considered gaming until my eyes drop out, but another part of me is aching for something different.
Friday, I have to work, but I’m considering not doing anything at all on Saturday. Wake up, drink coffee, eat simple meals, and spend most of the rest of my time honoring the spirits and in reflection. After work on Friday, I’d probably hit something like Whole Foods or Fresh Thyme, pick up a few greens and colorful veggies, lightly add those to some cooked quinoa and beans, and — if I can find a mock recipe — see if I can drizzle some spicy tahini dressing on the grains, greens and beans. Maybe some miso soup. And then, eat like that for the six or so meals I have to myself, swapping out green (or oolong/pouchang) tea for my coffee. I already have plans to make up some hummus to go with pita I have on-hand. Nothing fancy.
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