About 3/4ths done installing another storm door. Need door knob and deadbolt to complete.
A couple performance rehearsers arriving soon. After that, out for beer and food.
Pretty shot. The installation was the usual comedy of errors to many to list, aided and abetted by high winds. But at least the temperature was perfect for that kind of work, balmy mid-60F's.
Oh, also wrote a BlueDwarf monitor this morning. Just tweaked it a bit after noting missing a scraping case.
Interesting.
Scott Adams just mentioned that some democrat male killed his family and himself over the Trump win, and went on to point out that the guy had "MSNBC eyes".
My condolences if you don't know what that means.
Peace is cessation of taking re-flection to be re-el-ity.
Eschewing homework leads to want-ing ex-planation.
This message is an instance of taking re-flection to be re-el-ity.
The only way out is seeing neither/nor, which is the absence of seeking either/or, i.e. wallowing in duality.
The characteristic of a modern liberal that jumps out at me the most is an inability to take a joke.
Of course, taking a joke (heh... initially typed 'job'..) requires being able to see a joke, which requires seeing nuance, which requires not rejecting nuance for it seeming offensive to poor whittle 'ole you/me.
Yeah, that's how it seems to me.
Trump has an odd sense of humor that leans heavily on hyperbole, and it sails kilometers over the heads of those hellbent on taking literally anything with the remotest whiff of being contrary to cherished beliefs, but welcoming even the nuttiest of ridiculousness with open mindarms so long as its uttered by a teammate.
Oooh. Now there we go.
Although there are plenty of hard parts in aging, the hardest for me is the forgetting.
Not facts 'n figures so much as todo-ings.
Getting all the way back with a plate of reheated leftovers to where the 'puter is, sitting down, and there's the empty seltzer can my wife forgot to put in the recyclable bin, and which I forgot to bring it's direction when I went back the previous direction of its location in order to give the microwave a couple more minutes. That can was supposed to be in tote to avoid yet another trip. But it wasn't. In fact, it essentially no longer existed until I returned to the 'puter, and looked in groaning dismay over the can's still sitting there unaddressed, requiring another trip - assuming I remember to bring it that future time.
Multiply that by a hundred, and you have a large chunk of my day(s), anymore.
Boo hoo, right?
Or was it a "just desserts" snicker?
But, gosh, I used to be so multitask capable. But now hands don't successfully hold as many things, and if I add, say, a screwdriver to a back pocket to be more multitask-fully complete, I'll invariably wind up sitting on it instead of remembering to remove it and place it the still familiar place where I'll find it again.
But then there's the good side of forgetting, namely that I honestly don't remember any other instances of having doofusly done the same. I imagine them resting in some mental meh bucket, maybe. Or there was suddenly a need to feel good about putting it that way.
So I'm picking out spaghetti from in and around my wife's beloved "stuffed shells". To me, that latter sinks to the level of pasta stuffed with fresh snot.
The derangement is profound to a degree there's no communicating with it. Its assumptions swoop in the direction of any thought or idea not in accord with it to pick pick pick at it, scream at it, do everything to keep it away from its imagined safe space withdrawn from what it can't accept, and thus what it fears.
Except that safe space isn't safe at all. It's merely a tangled morass of mutually confirming thoughts in card house formation. It's armor rusted through, bent, and torn, but impossible for the wearers thereof to see for that impossibility being a feature of the armor - <queue Whitney Houston> the greatest chink of all.
The previous was inspired by witnessing yet another meltdown over something that isn't even actually happening, and yet millions have collectedly murmured it into their existence, their reality.
How could it not appear to be derangement from an un-afflicted outsider?
They get this look in their eyes. Adam Schiff perfects it in a shelf of card decks of spades. Nancy clearly in its throes. Chuck's smirk hinting "I don't believe it, but I can pretend I do whilst laughing all the way to the bank over others actually believing it".
No one suspects a thing when its an op they're running on themselves.
What a laughably ridiculous existence.
"The basis of all teaching of becoming enlightened is the idea that a change of belief or experience can lead to a personal knowing of oneness, self realisation or of discovering your own true nature. The whole investment in a progressive path goes on feeding the story of me attaining something. Even the suggestion of personal surrender or acceptance can be initially attractive and bring a satisfying state ... for a while. There are many so-called non-dual 'teachings' which feed the story of me becoming liberated. However, the oneness that is longed for is boundless and free. It cannot be grasped or even approached. Nor is there anything that would need to be done or changed or made better than that which is already everything."
Is there a difference between faith and thought? Isn't faith just thought plus "is real"?
Arguing with others is paramount to arguing with dreams squared inasmuch as they are, by definition, dreamed figures in dream states. Not that the definition is obvious, mind you, because faith makes them seem real instead of merely dreamed.
New day, new way, new way to say.
Heck of a dream last night, but it's becoming obvious - in the dreams as well - that they're the running with a seed thought.
Just like *this* dream.
Laying back on a couch, two pillows under the knees, inflammation in various place, so much tension, mental struggle to settle on words, and so on.
All seeded by a notion of an "I" both doing and being happened to.
Why is there no one to talk about that with?
There are prescribed topics; all others are proscribed.
Nothing solid about any of it letting go of clinging to the idea that there is.