Mental composting......
Improvising is so, so hard to do.
As a child, it was the name of the game. And I just can’t figure it out.
Is there now just too much control, too little time, or larger and larger defeats to a smaller and smaller Id.
As a child, it was the name of the game. And I just can’t figure it out.
Is there now just too much control, too little time, or larger and larger defeats to a smaller and smaller Id.
Idealism got rear-ended by reality and now walks with a dreadful limp.
Consequences were once
less of a prime factor and now we count in prime numbers [ode to a
minivan]
Calculations riot my decisions that once used to be made in
absentee.
Things that used to be bold
and underlined are now lowercase and italicized.
It takes more volition to say nO than yeS in this new World Wide Web……in this new wild wild west…in this new world wild web…..[airplane mode is
redeeming me]
Artifacts retire, air controlled, behind clear glass in some asymmetric museum; relics constructed
and assigned to a greater value.
Where do ideas go to retire? {No, the library is more a hovel for unaffordable
housing}
Is there even a shelf life on ideas? [expired; flotsam] [can canned ideas sit on the shelf too?]
[and those sprightly wise ideas that will always propel into forever tomorrows, where are they?? a museum on an academic campus? somekindof personalized mental museum with a great loaner program??]
Maybe those elderly ideas go on bed rest? Or prison? Or on a locked hallway on the top floor of some hospital?
And better yet, who are
the curators?
