Friday Resets

Everybody likes a Friday.  Even when you know you have work to do on a Saturday, Friday still feels good.  It's rare to not find yourself in a good mood, at some point, on a Friday.

I worked a job, for a few years, where I worked 7 days a week.  Even then, Friday felt good.  The weekend hours were different, but not so much that you'd look forward to it.  Friday still felt better than the rest of the week.

It just seems like the air is different on Friday.  People are in a better mood.  The old guy who growls at you at the store says, "Thanks" when you hold the door for him on a Friday.

If it weren't for Fridays, we'd probably lose our minds.  Gotta have that regular reset.

A Night Not Spent

Listening to an airplane pass overhead.  It could be a propeller plane.  Doesn't matter, either way, anymore.  A vehicle passing on a nearby street drowns out everything with unintelligible bass-heavy audio.

Whether we want to admit it or not, there's a limited time for everything.  However they pass, or whatever we did with that time, they pass.  Ends come without a start, many times.  Reasons don't matter.  

Except what you've chosen to do, none of the rest will ever be more than a footnote, at best.  All the pages written about whatever else won't chronicle what's never done.  Remember what you didn't do?  Even if you can, it won't be for more than a few seconds.

Moving Over

Flipping up the lid on the old laptop while sitting in a different spot feels like being somewhere else without leaving.  Another perspective from a different angle gives a rusty feeling of seeing something new.  Fine hairs sense changes in the air; it flows in unfamiliar patterns.  

Sounds reverberate their sonic dissimilarities.

Walls throw light to other spots.  Unsettling familiarity sets in.  Deja vu pushes its way through the door.

The time change makes the Sun sit weird for the time of day.  It'll seem normal in a few weeks.  Until then, sleep fights.  Dreams seem to know it, as well. 

Those long gone come back and sit for a spell.  It's as if nothing changed.  Then, back to the normal spot, memory removes the occasion.

Worms in the Microphone

Every time I see this Nirvana video posted with the yellow, foam, mic pop filter and that cheap, right-handed guitar... playing a 'show' in a Radio Shack, I'm transported back to the late 1980s, playing my cheap, Harmony guitar from Sears or JCPenny with whoever, wherever they wanted to play.  Dale Crover on drums, sounding like an unholy Melvin's-Alice in Chains with Kurt and Krist... sounds so much like every version of every band I remember back then playing in the showroom, or workroom, of some local business.  In the 'fellowship hall' of a church, school cafeteria, restaurant basement... literally whenever, wherever.

Random Time Signature #5150

It's Monday in the Western Hemisphere on Earth.  Two LED bulbs shine on either end of the couch.  Dim orange glow shines on knotty pine.  Everything is where it needs to be, it seems.

There's an insanity quietly building in minds that can't find an outlet.  Bubbling and boiling, pressure builds.  If there's not a pressure relief device, the whole thing might blow up.  

Hobbies do that.  Music does that.  

Sun shines just above the horizon, generously flooding everything with healthy, vitamin D enriched light.  Voices rise and fall from the television across the room.  One shaft of light from outside cozies up to the screen, slowly moving up the grain of paneling on the wall beside.  

Everything levels out when you get it out.  Sure, pressure builds up, again.  When it does, though, there's a 4/4 solution.

Sat to Mars

When I was in my early 20s, I had this fantasy of obtaining a satellite-launching rocket and shooting myself in a capsule on a trajectory that would allow me to pass Mars before returning to Earth.  The calculations for that path require a precise launch and little to no room for correction thereafter.  It being likely something would go awry, sending me into space in a wild orbit, my plan was to have a radio station on board broadcasting my descent into madness.

Apparently,  Elon Musk has a similar fantasy:

Elon Musk wants to "Die off the Coast of Mars"

Hot Out

It's nice, outside, today.  Too nice.  It's almost hot.  

I mean, it's February 7th.  

It's 80 degrees.  I'm outside with shorts and a t-shirt.  After a few minutes, I need a cool beverage.

This probably means I'll be cutting grass in February, this year.  It's been a few years since I had to do that.  Not ideal.  Once I start, it doesn't end until November.

It'll probably get cold again, I'm guessing.  Just a couple of weeks ago, it was snowing and in the teens.  I'll just enjoy the warm front and worry about all of that later.