There are six minutes left of my forty-third birthday. It has been a good day. I enjoy birthdays – well-wishing, presents, attention – who wouldn’t?
I am now one minute into my forty-fourth year. So far, so good.
In the photograph is my new wireless keyboard. It is great. It’s an apple product – of course it is great. They may have their critics and their failings but Apple certainly know how to churn out gorgeous chunks of industrial design sex. One of capitalism’s more agreeable triumphs.
There is a Dave Brubeck documentary on. It’s jazz that I like, which is a new sensation to me. This is good. New sensations are thin on the ground as a person ages. It also gives me the inspiration vibe – the one that makes me want to get the paints out. It’s a vibe (and I don’t believe in ‘vibes’) that is commonplace these days – I have a few ‘directions’ at the back of my mind – things I want to play around with.
Aside from the painting, construction etc I’ve been toying with the notion of making my own paper. A cursory glance at the internet gives the impression that is is a discipline with a very low barrier of entry. I have already begun to assemble some rudimentary materials for it. I want to take it further than just paper though – stick some unlikely materials in there, see what occurs.
There is a danger that I am all talk, and no getting things done. I begin the next block of college projects next week and time will be squeezed again. Less time to experiment. Unless I do it within the college framework. Yeah, may ask the tutors if anyone has any paper-making experience. One of the new subjects is textiles – I’m sure I could shoehorn paper-making into that somehow. I look forward to it.
3-D Form is another new subject. I am led to believe that we are going to be making a container of some nature. Right up my construction alley.
I noticed that I have 7% power left on this machine. I’m glad that we don’t have a similar percentage alert left on our lifetimes. Although, I am sure it is a concern mulled over somewhere in the ocean depths of our subconscious.
Thirty-seven minutes into my forty-fourth year and 5% power. Numbers whisper ‘go to bed…’