More grey skies and cold winds wreaking havoc with my sad garden and cloudy mood. Best to limit indoor activities that lift our spirits and remind us that it is the simpler things in life that sustain us.
He treated her like vinyl
fell in love at first sight
with the bold colour
and sleek lines
hot and cold
the story of his skin
James Burke and his late 1970s series Connections must be to blame for why the Professor and I always feel compelled to link up random comments about small seemingly innocuous “things” with their place in the far larger scheme of things. All those little bits of our world that we have become accustomed to, that we attribute or ascribe, that we deny or decry, sometimes have far different origins and infinitely more complex backstories than we take the time to consider.
Bringing such thoughts to others’ attention inevitably gets us into trouble. There seems to be a really fine line between revelation and lecture where offering up an alternate explanation for why things are often comes off as just plain pedantic. In real life, physical or verbal indications give one a relatively good idea of which direction the conversation will be going but in the virtual world context is variable and tone is highly subjective. Sometimes we are left unsure of just how much more to say or even whether to pursue the thread.
Our interactions on social media can be problematic for no good reason and bring to mind that uncontrollable kid with no censorship filters at the luau running around arms flailing, screaming “Why? Look at that! NO!” and then crawling under the table howling “Impossible!” when you offer an answer. Entering into such “discussions” becomes a fire-walk of promethean proportions. Meanwhile, his parents are otherwise occupied or (un)concerned and the guests are casting sideways glances at each other. We are left with the impression that maybe it is better just to drop it and help ourselves to some of the better libations. But doesn’t someone have to say something?
What to do, what to do…
Even the smallest child seems to have a fascination for things that wash up along the shores of the ocean. Watch people as they wend their way along the beach: they stop to pick up striped rocks, pastel-hued sea glass or bits of wood that have been polished to a silky softness. This is the sea’s sculpture gallery where a combination of fierce sun and salt has stripped away bark and roots to reveals a new twisted form – each is unique, only hinting at a previous greener incarnation. The small ones sometimes find their way home with us, the large ones rest like weighty monuments waiting for the next week or year when we may visit once again.