Keeping up with keeping up
Summer has begun in Seattle, with temperatures in the 60s and frequent rain. It's in fashion to complain, but I've never cared much for fashion, find weather talk tiresome, and really don't mind the weather in the first place.
Been missing writing, so giving journalling another go. Enough of my entries have some mention of this that I should really just say, "Ditto last entry."
Today I'm doing some user research with Microsoft, which establishes that not only does my soul have a price, but it's also deeply discounted. Further, the study is at The Bravern in Bellevue, so that price is, paradoxically, upscale and pretentious. Sounds about right.
What's the deal with "keeping up"-with people, events, tasks, even distractions like entertainment or sports? Is it even possible? How worthy of pursuit is it? Starting to think it's maddeningly out of reach, that we can always reach for so much more than we can truly grasp, that all of it is more a stream to slip into or wave to surf than anything that can ever be accomplished or managed. And the fact is, I care so very little about most of it; it's the illusion of possibility that eggs me on more than any of the "things" with which I can "keep up." My sense of the possible is warped, and it often cuts into any judgment of value I should probably be making.
Been missing writing, so giving journalling another go. Enough of my entries have some mention of this that I should really just say, "Ditto last entry."
Today I'm doing some user research with Microsoft, which establishes that not only does my soul have a price, but it's also deeply discounted. Further, the study is at The Bravern in Bellevue, so that price is, paradoxically, upscale and pretentious. Sounds about right.
What's the deal with "keeping up"-with people, events, tasks, even distractions like entertainment or sports? Is it even possible? How worthy of pursuit is it? Starting to think it's maddeningly out of reach, that we can always reach for so much more than we can truly grasp, that all of it is more a stream to slip into or wave to surf than anything that can ever be accomplished or managed. And the fact is, I care so very little about most of it; it's the illusion of possibility that eggs me on more than any of the "things" with which I can "keep up." My sense of the possible is warped, and it often cuts into any judgment of value I should probably be making.