I’ve been spending some time lately thinking hard about old stuff. The sort of ancient history that clogs up your filters,  slows you down and sometimes I feel like that cliche of the hamster spinning in its wheel. Thats kind of a sad game for a hamster, let alone a midlife (?- if I live to a 100 that is) woman, trying to make sense of a senseless universe.  I don’t want to throw all my old gathered fluff away, because that would be diminishing me in some way, but I want to put it in a beautiful storage jar somewhere, where I know it is safe and cherished, but where I feel it too will be safe and undamaged.  Then I can get on with the present, and start doing some creating again.  I think.  I may be totally wrong about that, and when I mention it it sounds a bit pompous. All I do is play really, but as far as I can see  that is all we all do.  Some of us play at doing businessy things, and some of us play at doing homey things. and some of us combine the two, and some of us even get to play at fun things like making pictures, or playing tunes. Some of those tunes are epic and get picked up by some of the people playing at businessy things, and then they get played on adverts. Some of us play with colours and form, and the ones that get really good sometimes get paid to have them installed in museums and galleries, but only when they are dead. Or nearly dead. Which brings me back to mortality, and reflection and knowing that all that has gone before has made me who I am, but that I am more than that too, and I want to roll out some of the next chapters. So I have to bury some of the ones already written. Bury in a metaphorical sense of course.  Some of the story is dead already, which is part of the problem. How do you argue with a dead man?  You can’t.  And I still have some things left to say, so I will have to consider this dilemna.  Enough now, for a monday morning. Peace to you all.


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