Photography, art, things that occur to me.
In my air travel experience, “full flight” means mostly full and “completely full” means a handful of empty seats. You know it’s really, actually full if they’re repeatedly making dire warnings about checking bags.
The gate attendant just said, “This will not be a full flight,” so I assume it’ll just be me.
As much as I appreciate the craft beer movement, it left me behind a while ago. Nearly every new beer I try these days tastes like it should be called “Death By” something: Death by Hops, Death by Malt, Death by Belgium, Death by Alcohol Poisoning.
from a 2013 Facebook post
I was surprised to learn Teddy Roosevelt said that, perhaps because I’m more likely to think of him riding roughly up a hill shouting “Bully!” Regardless, I find it to be true, more and more the older I get. Just now I was looking at the work of some sketchers I admire, and thinking how much better they are than I am. I picked up my pen and drew for a few minutes, but my work still looked like mine and not theirs so I put the pen down.
On a recent flight, I drew the picture above on my tablet. “I prefer pen and paper, but this was more convenient at the time.” I don’t think it’s particularly good or bad, but I enjoyed drawing it.
A flight attendant saw it over my shoulder. She asked if I was a professional artist. She said she wished she could do what I was doing.
It didn’t make me feel proud, or stroke my ego. It made me glad I was doing what I was doing, and that I enjoyed it.
“Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away.”
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
We are visiting the De Young Museum’s “Cult of the Machine” exhibit, showcasing early 20th-century art that explored machinery, automation and industry and how they affect our lives for good or ill. I find myself absent-mindedly massaging a tendon in my right arm, sore from too much typing.
The French phrase “l’esprit de l’escalier” means “the wit of the staircase”: the perfect reply that comes to you only when leaving a party. About a decade ago, having brunch with friends at Acme in Carrboro, I ordered a weekly special called “The 007 Breakfast.” Someone had apparently been reading the canon and learned that Bond liked shirred eggs, bacon and toast.
The waiter announced each dish as he served them, so when he placed mine in front of me he said, “007.”
Later I realized I should have replied, “Commander Bond when we’re in public.”