Imagine that you are able to travel backwards in time, and visit yourself when you are seven years of age. You're surprised that you're a remarkably cute kid, and it troubles you, slightly, that you're not really all that different from how you are today.
But it turns out your quest is to give your seven year old self a toy. The toy must be smaller than a breadbox, and it must cost less than twenty five dollars in today's money. But with the wisdom of age and way too much mileage, you think your seven year old self will just love it. What do you give? Tell me about it, with such whys, wherefores, and what-have-yous as you might use to grace my comments page.
Some days you swim with the sharks.Some days the sharks swim with you. Some days you imagine you're a shark. Some days you imagine everyone around you is a shark. Some days you realize that when they call you a bala shark, you're just a tame tropical fish that looks a little like a shark. Sometimes you're just a few schools of sardines short of fed. Sometimes you're mako on a plate. But you just keep grinning. and typing. grinning. typing.
Today I progressed immensely on my multiple work projects. I am a busy man. Tomorrow I meet a key deadline with a motion opposition. I spend some portion of the weekend finishing an appeal brief to meet a deadline next Wednesday. They say that a shark can't ever stop moving forward. At least, I think it was a shark. Maybe it was a Model T. I remember the woman in my law school class who analogized intimacy with a shark, on the theory of perpetual motion, when for some reason in a room full of people someone asked, LJ-meme-like, "which animal reminds you of....". Funny how things stay with you, tenacious like a shark.
Jake at the Austin CD duplication place phoned to say he'd finished the digital master from the cassette.
He asked about the songs at the end. "What about the one that sounds like footsteps walking away?". I paused, unable to remember if I had written a magnum opus based on syncopated footsteps. "Oh, delete that", I finally decided. "What about the odd hum at the very end?". "That hum? That's the first song, beginning to play again, delete that", sparing Jake the needless long explanation of how that's the mike rammed down a piece of PVC didge pipe, providing sonic luft to "Silent Night".
The CDs will be here either Saturday or Monday. But I am beginning to be inclined to mail CD and cards out separately. After all, the postage difference is probably roughly nil per item, due to the relatively low cost of sending cards. Yet, to me, more mail is better than less mail. But who knows?
I like the wind, because it blows me all over the map.
My wife saw a Geminid shooting star recently, but I've missed the showers. I lately fantasize how I wish they'd explore the ocean depths with a space-program worthy intensity. Imagine what we could learn, if we saw the places beneath as worthy of the most intense exploration?
We go see Handel's Messiah Monday, but I hope I am not disloyal when I say that I would rather see "you're a good man, Charlie Brown", though I've seen it too many times before.