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Creativity and the Workplace | Sunday Morning Thoughts
Another week of the good ‘ol 9-5 is set to begin, or in my case, some 7-4’s, 8:00-4:30s, and maybe even a 7:30-6:30. My position as a copywriter is one I am proud of; my creative aspirations are paying off and I get to tap into the exuberant parts of my mind that I cherish so much. I won’t lie and say everyday is like peaches and cream – sometimes I encounter dull tasks, or things I really hate doing, but that’s life right?
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Natural Energy | Sunday Morning Thoughts
The fresh blue sky is covered with wispy white clouds, creating a plush and somewhat oceanic covering that could later turn to an angry storm, or just continue being overcast. I can see just the tops of the trees that line the opposite side of the stream bank; a stream I can’t see now but know is there. The green, rounded tops – accented by ragged, leafless branches of one individual tree – appear dark against the light blue and white fluff of the sky . Why is it that these colors are so soothing, so incredibly calming?
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The Turn of a Century | Sunday Morning Thoughts
From John Steinbeck in East of Eden: “There’s no rot on this clean new hundred years.” What’s in the future? Uncertainty. Hope. Despair. Innovation. Hardships. Triumph. Sickness. Life.
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Bug Bites, Rain, Greasy Hair | Sunday Morning Thoughts
As a kid, I was always excited to go on camping trips. My family would plan two or three every summer, whether this meant traveling to a new location, heading to a usual place, or just bringing tents along to our camp for the 4th of July so we didn’t have to sleep inside (Note: on a sweltering hot day in July, my grandfather likes to keep camp’s inside temperature right around 90 degrees).
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Like A Plant | Sunday Morning Thoughts
This morning I’m on my couch under a pink and black fleece blanket – a no-tie blanket I made when I was in high school. My coffee is almost gone, and it seems like the rain outside is falling harder than when I woke up.
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Empty
A shell. An empty shell. Sitting dormant in a familiar environment, but nothing to exist for. Except for the enjoyment of others; the pleasing of others; the smiles on their faces when they spot said shell and pick it up, hold it, keep it, love it, store it, forget about it. A shell. An empty shell. Numb to the cold slap of the waves crashing around it, marking the activity of life. Numb to the activity of life. Whatever else is swelling, crawling, breathing around itself takes the form of blurs scurrying around; the shell takes no interest. A shell. An empty shell. Formed over many years, weathered many storms, and…
A blog about books and miscellany
