Books, pen, pencil, paintings, guitar, piano, tea, coffee, flowers, trees, animals, peace, love.
Writing 50 threads within a theme, each comprising 1,000 words.
Random Thoughts:
The tender beauty in your eyes is my breathing.
Experienced reality is an interpretation of the senses.
Acting is imagination.
I really should be doing ALBOD on camera. So far though, better something than nothing.
Random Thoughts:
An over-focus on moving parts blurs the emergent meaning.
Cruelty, callousness, delusion, suffering. Love, kindness, truth, joy.
Increase leverage by delegation. Delegate to someone who is better at the task than you.
Dead shadows dance in the night
yearning for the dawn.
Cold and forgotten walking scars,
drained by decay,
wasted by time,
stretch out,
hungered and blurred,
to a spark ignited,
climbing,
rising from the ground.
From the dark depths,
rays of hope entwine in the sky,
kissing the hills;
breathing new life
and wonders layered in light.
Naked with joy, a new day, a new world is born.
Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.
Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.
Parliament has a hilarious Gallery of the Grotesque, where British politicians have their oil painting portraits commissioned from grateful public funds. They look so masterfully earnest. Much advised if you fancy a laugh.
Random Thoughts:
I tend to pick and choose between “American” English and ‘British’ English, defaulting to the familiar unless the American version is clearly “better”.
If I am a robot then I am exquisite. This robot is rewriting the program, which was the point in the first place.
Sexiness sells the cornflakes.
Businesses refer to units sold. Businesses tap market trends. Businesses sell identity. But when the smoke clears and the mirrors fall, only what is real remains.
In track athletics, runners do not improve by running all the time; in fact if they overtrain, the body does not have time to adapt to the training load and performances start to plateau, then deteriorate. Cross-training in related disciplines is a way to keep the training fresh, to exercise available cardio systems while mainly resting the tired muscles – introducing vivifying new stimuli to which the body can positively respond.
This is a template outline for the areas in which I hope to contribute content over the coming decades. Everything is at robertwalker.blog, but I’ve added external links below.
It may not be practical to stretch myself thinly, but really, I see all the activities as complimentary points of interest in the same panorama.
Songwriting:
Playlist – YouTube
Singing:
Playlist – YouTube
Playlist – SoundCloud
Artworks:
Board – Pinterest
Acting:
Podcast – Anchor
Writing:
Blog – Blogspot
Screenplays – Scribd
Lyrics – YouTube
Poems, short stories, books – in progress…
Stand-up:
Comedy – planned…
Film/video:
Playlist – YouTube
Apps:
Accounting – Wibamu
Trading tools – MetaTrader
Trading system – Vimeo
Games:
Board games – Vimeo
Images:
Google Maps – Google
Board – Pinterest
Curated Playlists:
Playlist – Apple Music
Playlist – YouTube
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
I’m sitting here under an old oak true, on a bright September afternoon, with my phone at the ready, having told myself to record literally anything that pops into my head. Well the first thought that jumps to the top of the queue isn’t particularly interesting, but here goes…
It is quite an old joke that “it’s er” can sound like “sir” when introducing oneself. So I remember going to some event where I had to sign in at the front desk; I introduced myself as “it’s”, then as the man behind the desk was picking up his pen, I offered the dreaded “er”, before finally saying my name. He had a moment of sardonic glee, then sneered: “Sir Robert Walker, is it?”
I said “not yet” and the man next to him, who had been intently looking down, broke into a laugh – it must have been how I said it rather than what I said. The first man actually grimaced and grumbled to himself, as if annoyed by my response. My interpretation walking away was that he was expecting people to be nervous and this was his welcome, from a raised chair behind a desk within an institution.
I’m thinking of this now more as an observation of how some people engage in this world trying to subdue others. The man would have been a lot happier if he was interested in helping rather than hindering the people he met.
When bobbing along in iambic pentameter, with perfect metre and pace, 1000 lines of Shakespeare is about 1 hour – or all night when fulfilling the words and their meaning.
Rob Walker 