I absolutely love this photo; it's a six-month exposure of some bridge (I don't rightly remember--no, not the Brooklyn, or that one in Cincy that was a precursor to the Brooklyn Bridge--anyways).
The long, paint-like arcs above the bridge are of the sun's seasonal variations in height. It's always fascinating to see something clearly demonstrated with actual, natural, physical examples instead of the usual man-made graphics in texts of such phenomenon. Sort of like seeing video of the curvature of the Earth; as if it is some sort of proof of accepted ideas.
Yep, that's right. Proof of an accepted idea. That's so contrary to how should logically think of things. Yet, we still--even hen we 100% believe in something--must find some sort of affirmation for that belief. Why is that? How is that? Honestly, I find it hard to believe that we all need to be shown that yes, A is true even though you would sworn your own life by it.
But, it's how we think. It's how we are, and I know I'm the first to desire that the things I know be proven and confirmed--at least once. Oddly, though, the things I can't really know--or ever know--I don't find myself too interested in proving. Maybe it's a subconscious understanding that it's a waste of time. Or is it?
I don't know.
I've been listening to a fuck-load of Langhorne Slim. While I was first introduced to him by a relative (an extremely awesome relative, obviously) last summer when I traveled to the good ol' Cali-fone-ya, I have been steadily becoming more and more of a fan over the last nine months or so. In an almost rebirth of this interest in his music, the last two weeks have been almost nothing but Slim's music. That's the obsessive personality characteristic coming to fruition; I can't let something I enjoy remain in moderation, on ho, oh no. The pleasure of meeting him en concert a few weeks back was of utmost pleasure. Incredibly humble and eager to meet his fans; granted there were probably only 10 of us in the entire building (and I knew one of them) who were there mainly for Slim, it was satisfying to meet such a troubadour with such a well-mannered demeanor.
The next few chapters are really hard to foresee at this point. I know the major plot points, and where the story is (and is likely) heading, but I really can't quite see the actual plot lines. For myself, it's strange to not at least be able to anticipate the general idea of how that following week or two will unfold and what obstacles/challenges/ideals/etc. I will face, but I feel strangely relieved by this.
I think it's too easy to get comfortable with the norm. Sometimes a good shakin' is all your outlook needs.
Shake away, I 'spose.
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It rained a lot this weekend--and I mean a lot. A good rain always sort of resets the world. Like that feeling after taking a shower after not taking one for three days--yeah, I know, I really stretched for that metaphor.
I have found myself thinking lately how much I miss such simple pleasures. That goes back to the whole 'regret' thing I used to hark on all the time. It's so easy to remember the big events in your life--the important and altering events--but it's so impossible to forget all those little things that you used to live sublimely. The best (and worst part) is that you can never remember all of these events at any given time--unlike the big events. So you spend your days doing your routine and then
BAM!
You remember that one ride on the flat on the ATV, or that drive around Ashland late at night with a couple cafe mochas. Or that time at the soccer field with the only people in the world that mattered. That ungodly early morning wake to a friend who traveled far and early just to see you. Or that time when you slammed on your breaks, nearly going through a crowded intersection somewhere on US-23 in Ohio. Or that time at the flood walls on the banks of the Ohio, eating, of all things, mcdonalds. That one time at the irish pub with the incessantly rude (as yet indeterminable) europeans. That time, laying in bed reading an article out of the National Geographic the night before a doctors visit. All those cool summer nights in the fields, made so very warm by the crackling fire, but mostly by the joy of your company.
Of all the things I do to sustain my survival--eating, sleeping, exercising, working--it's the little box of these memories that does the most, and that will be true, always.
I made a decision the other day to play with my old band at least once more. It seems it may--if only 75%--happen. Of that 75%, I am just as satisfied. Now to make it happen--the wheels are turning, just gotta make 'em move.
The wheels are turning, now to make it happen.
