Sunday, September 6, 2015

Labor Deign

You won't remember what you said when you’ve filled and published 100,000 pages, particularly when you’ve repeated ideas you’re not passionate about or uncertainties studied too many different ways. Output becomes a blur. Had to do what one must to pay debts and roll on. Apt and beautiful phrases are, after all, almost as forgettable as what you dreamed before breakfast. Nobody, including you, gets what was written. Chiselers and schemers can’t wait to ambush fools and geniuses through what they next commit to text. Lawyers exist because so many would rather grab, swindle and wriggle out of work, which proves too demanding to do daily for decades among dolts. Childbirth is real labor. The sweat of physical effort smells sweet compared to the stench of crooks who cheat.

Life goes through emotional stages resembling tastes: sweet, salty, sour and bitter, usually in that order. Mom's milk is sweet, and most never mature beyond sugary gratification. Adolescents awkwardly flirt with salty adult pleasures. Umami? Just those earthy, meaty encounters when spouses infrequently get lucky. Achieving and having leave such sourness that only amassing more distracts enough to ignore disappointments. Accumulating anything makes one a target. By the time race has been run, majority has grown bitterly resentful of bad choices they made without really knowing what they could have done given own limitations. Bitter, by the way, is an acquired, but not undesired, taste. Bitter is better than abject despair.

You can get lost in anhedonia, let tasks and tastes grind you down, or prefer simple pleasures, Rosebud, times when you were content. Saltines floating on steaming tomato soup from a can were once as lovely as life could be. Proust had his madeleines. A beignet with cup of french roast after a night of passion can achieve complacency and combine all tastes simultaneously. To share love might be humanity’s main goal, though most clamor for someone else to take up their cause. Lovers often forget that travel is supposed to be fun.

Watched an accident occur on a one-way street in a tourist trap. Parking allowed on left alone, a cyclist hugging parked cars was riding astride an SUV whose driver suddenly decided to turn left without signaling, thus hooking cyclist, who planted bike and face sideways onto its maiden white exterior. Having collected self and ridden off a lighter shade of pale into a throng, left a nice set of scratches that oblivious driver or probably husband won’t notice until inspecting vehicle later. Both were at fault: Cyclist should have been following cars on right in travel lane, not hanging on left; motorist could have stopped before turning. However, not only were neither injured much, this incident will never otherwise be reported, which proves official stats lack factual integrity.

If 4 out of 5 accidents supposedly occur on country roads, probably 4 of 5 fatalities would, too. While traffic analysts like to cite intersection hazards, always suspected from actual experiences and anecdotes heard that being overtaken by motorists is a cyclist’s bane. Accidents downtown occur at slower speeds, so can be avoided, or result less often in fatalities. In countryside, motorists usually exceed de facto 25 mph or maximum 65 mph limits. Physics teaches that, in collisions, speed increases damage. Haste makes waste. That’s why Labann likes to roll so slowly and work deliberately.

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