[General] The Sponges I've Loved

I'm averse to throwing many things away.  More because it feels irrational to me to discard useful things prematurely, but also to be more minimalist (minimalise? minimise? minimize? minimalize? minimalizt?), to reduce the amount of waste I generate, to be efficient.

How does holding on to something encourage minimalizm?  I'm talking about the case where the object still has real use, and simply discarding it would mean needing to replace it.  Preserving the existing instance of it helps save time, energy, and waste.  W00t. 

Oh, right, so sponges.  I like to wet mine, microwave for 90 minutes, then after they cool, drain and soak them in vinegar for a bit.  Then they're possibly ready for another week of cleaning.  Or ready to kill me?  DUN DUN DUN.

[Microblog] A different blog

Blogging has changed since 2003.

[General] A Love Song

I used to romanticize romance.

I also use to consistently write -ise instead.  Things change.

Here is an AMV of the song Melodies of Life from Final Fantasy IX.  Spoiler warning: contains spoilers if you watch the video; you could just listen, I guess.

This song was very important to me growing up.  It captured a lot of my feelings on the concept of love before I ever really loved anyone by choice.  Things change.

This past decade, I now wonder at so much cultural media and social understanding of Love.  For me, I don't think this song would be healthy to indulge in.  I think a lot of things now.

It's slightly terrifying, these machinations of emotion we've built monuments to.

[Microblog] Typos

Typos are the children you didn't expect, but ought to love anyway.  Nurture your typos.  Love your typos.  Type your typos.

- The Committee for the Preservation of Autoincorrects

[Microblog] Parched

Keep your towels dry.  Hand towels, dish towels, bath towels, beach towels, et cetera towels.  Dry.  Them.  Out.  Let them breathe.  Let them spread out.  Stop bunching up your towels.  Spread them out and let them breathe, on all sides.  Do not put a wet towel on a towel hook.  Do not bunch up and toss a wet towel in the laundry.  Do not leave dish rags soaked in the sink.  Let your towels dry out.

The water wants to be free.

[General] Cycles and Sated

It's been hard to engage with the world, with the news cycle, with current events.  I find ways to, to try to act.  To act.  No try.  Act.  Like watching a train wreck slowly unfold, pre-emptively.  It cannot but happen, perhaps.  The limits of x, the limits of human potential.  Limitless limits.

Cycles and patterns, I'm sated of their details.  Tomorrow might as well be procedurally generated by pseudo-RNG named determinism.

Care about others.

[General] Who are you, bones?

Blogger.  Who are you?  I mean you, the audience.  Who?  For whom would I write if ever I did write?  Audience.  Voice.  Forget having a practical, real audience.  I do not even have a target audience.  Would I write for me?  For a specific friend or group of friends?  For a non-friend, via indirect communication?  I have had all of those audiences before.  What is there even to say?

Voice.  Where is it?  When did I last see it?  What were we doing?  Was it at a proverbial Christmas party?  I open my electronic mouth and only ellipses come out.

...

Voice.  

Everything is bones now.  Structures.  Relationships.  Abstractions.  Skeletons of reality dance before me.  Meatless, like me.

I was once afraid that I would too easily devolve into being the passively entertained.  I watched a couple seasons of Supergirl and Gotham; not because I particularly liked them, but they helped remove me from something inscrutable.  Was I doomed to chain one aimless spectacle to another ad nauseum till doom?  

No, it would appear not.  Attention.  Audience, voice, and attention.  Where has my attention gone.  My average attention over the past 3 decades might have remained approximately comparable.  Perhaps actually sharper now than at some points.  But not for TV.  Not for Netflix.  Am I sated?  I play some video games, and they are never as engrossing as they once were.  Still are, but fleetingly.  Then a chore.  A chore to play.  Play.

Play.  One of the two people that I ever chose to love is obsessed with the concept of play.  It's important.  Important to not lose as you mature and decay.  Play.  I think I got that even without extra guidance.  I had a harsh reminder of its importance once, when I realized I failed to play enough.  Play.  Now it requires effort.  Work to play.  I'm still grateful for it.  For play.  Even if it requires work.  Sometimes it doesn't, and that is a delight.

Audience.  Voice.  Attention.  Play.  The bones of my thoughts.