About 2 months later than usual.
We typically get flooded out of work in early February. This year, late March.
Is what it is. You don’t argue with Mother Nature or Reality: both are ruthless bitches with zero mercy when you butt heads with them.
So when Mama Nature sends the water to clean out the workshop, just get the hell out of the way and let her do her thing. She’ll get bored soon enough and move on. Leaving behind a muddy mucky mess and weeks worth of mold and other allergens.
Thats just how life is. Nothing is permanent except Change. We get 70-80ish years on this plane of existance before we move on to the next (and theories and ideas abound on whats next. I have mine, you have yours, and maybe the mesh. Or not. But lets not dicker over angels on heads of pins; we’re here now.) In my time I have seen more changes than I thought I have any right to, (and I’m sure you concur) or imagination to dream up. The changes I hoped to see haven’t born fruit (Musk and Bezos are giving it hell though) and we are still very much stuck on this rock, with no hope in my lifetime of seeing the other side of space. We won’t be spreading out to colonize planets and answer the original question: “are we alone?”. (I doubt it, just on statistical analysis it would seem unlikely. But we don’t know. Yet.)
Nor do I think we are evolved enough as a species to make that leap yet. We have massive room for improvement but arguing such is part of the problem there. No one group will agree with any other group as to whats “proper” for a starbound species.
And maybe thats why we haven’t been ‘issued’ the needed break throughs to make that leap.
We’ll get there or destroy ourselves trying. Or we do something that makes the Galactic Council remove us from existence as a virus not to be tolerated.
Lord knows we have our faults. Many a story have been written around those two premises; of galactic intervention and our defending our immaturity as ‘room to grow’.
My Apologies, my writing yesterday and reading news reports this morning along with sitting on thumbs waiting for word to begin cleanup at the shop, have me feeling a touch melancholy.
I don’t want to dive into writing while ‘on call’ . The interrupts tend to blast ideas into oblivion, never to return. (These short blurbs being the exception, they are self supporting and off the cuff.)
So putter, mumble, and wish to hell I were doing something else. Try to keep actions short and somple so I can break away clean without FUBARing something important.
