When I was at Monticello the tour guide told us that TJ frequently ate Mac and cheese, French fries, and vanilla ice cream. The fatal American need to have everything off the kids menu at a restaurant
There should never have been a Toy Story 4, but since there is a Toy Story 4, I'm so grateful they made a Toy Story 5. It means that Woody's story doesn't end with him abandoning all his friends forever--even if he's got his own life, he still stays in touch with his friends and comes back around when they need him, and I needed to see that.
5 is nowhere near the level of the trilogy, but it feels like they took the corporate mandate and made a story that mattered. It feels like good fanfiction--not necessary, but filling in gaps in the story that are nice to explore. It had a perspective on growing up that was missing from the trilogy, and I'm surprised to find that the series is better for having mentioned this.
I actually found myself wondering if I liked it better than 3. Not that it's the better movie--3 is a better-constructed film on almost every level--but that maybe I enjoyed it more. (It helps that I consider 2 far and away the best and most enjoyable movie of the series, and 5 was like a sequel to that). And let me tell you, that was not a thought I'd ever dreamed Toy Story 5 would spark in me.
I think it would do people a lot of good, both mentally and societally, if they started thinking of at least some of their actions not as good or bad, or moral or not, or fun or not, but as whether or not they’re the behavior of someone who lives in a society.
On Friday, I got a notification that I had a package. My apartment has package lockers that FedEx/UPS/USPS/DHL/etc. deliver int and when they register a package to me, I get a code emailed/texted to me that I can use to pop the locker open.
I didn’t remember getting a package, but that happens sometimes. I preorder a lot of things and Bookshop doesn’t always let you know when they’ve finally shipped something, or a friend surprises me, or whatever. So I put some clothes and shoes on and went over to the leasing office building to get the package.
It was not for me. FedEx is gonna FedEx.
So I picked it up out of the locker and went to the leasing office staff to hand it to them. They were kind of closed for lunch, so I was contemplating what to do if they weren’t in. It had the address. I could walk over there and deliver it maybe?
‘Cause see. A lot of people apparently just shut the locker and are done with it. But if I did that...how would this person know they had a package or where it was? How would anyone get the package back out of the locker, now that the system registered it as retrieved? They don’t have the code, and the code is expired anyway.
I could just leave it in the locker. Or take it out of the locker and dump it to the side where it could be pilfered; the exact function the package lockers exist to prevent. It’s not my package. Not my problem.
But it costs me a tiny bit of inconvenience and time to place it in the hands of and appropriate custodian and save a bunch of other people a lot of inconvenience and time. I live in a society. Society is designed to save everyone across the society as much time and effort as possible cumulatively.
Sure, it’s easier and faster to just shove your shopping cart out of the way and pull out. Not your problem. You don’t need the cart anymore. Except now the cart is blocking other people’s cars and other parking spots and can ram into cars and people and some poor worker is going to have to go track it down. You have saved yourself a tiny amount of time and inconvenience and in doing so wasted everyone around you’s time and convenience.
Sure, you could put your neighbor’s mail from a government agency with an URGENT stamp in your mailbox and mark it “NOT AT THIS ADDRESS.” Or you could. Just. Pop it in their mailbox or slip it under their door (I’ve been having mail problems recently okay. Give the USPS more money).
You don’t have to wait an extra 5 seconds to hold the door for someone just behind you. But. Like. Come on, man, really? (Unless you're entering a secured area with restricted access, because that causes a separate cache of problems)
Weighing how much time and effort something is going to cost you compared to how much time and effort it will save everyone else around you cumulatively is...well...pro-social way to think. There are obviously always going to be exceptions and a balance to things, especially if the cost to you is much, much higher proportionally.
We live in a society. We live in many societies.
You can leave your dishes all around your house. But whoever has to do the dishes later (even if it’s you!) is then going to have to remember or know this happened, figure out where they all are, pick them up, deal with any spills/etc. that incurred, and return them to the kitchen and then was them. Was that really worth just putting them in the kitchen earlier? Maybe. But probably not.
“But what do I get out of that?” Firstly, you’re a tarpit. Secondly, you get all of the time and energy everyone around you has saved you by also being a functioning member of a society.
Societies work because we’re all contributing so the burned is distributed, just the way people can walk over a bed of nails but not an individual nail. We all take up a small part of people’s burdens that aren’t necessarily ours so we all have better lives.
Consider: how pro-social is your behavior? Sometimes pro-social behavior is a huge undertaking for massive gains elsewhere. But so much of the time it takes an extra 30 seconds, an extra minute.
And what little pro-social tasks can you tally up lately to feel proud and accomplished of yourself? It’s good for you. Try it out.
The text block that I wasted spent most of yesterday binding seems to be holding together and is ready for covering
I've been so good at adulting! Balanced my checkbook, went to the post office, made appointments! It makes up for all the stuff I didn't do on my day off.
Toy Story 5 was surprisingly good, and I'm enjoying thinking about it. (And in general, I'm excited to see more movies at that theater, because it's been nicely refurbished, and I'd forgotten how fun it is to see a film in a crowd)
The poetry collection I found in the thrift store is turning out to be exactly what my scattered, distracted brain wants, and I'm excited to keep dipping into it.
The bug book I got from the library is surprisingly fun as well. Very basic, but with lots of cool pictures, and the short bits of information are easy for my fried brain to read. It's giving me fun worldbuilding ideas.
I got to try so many flavors at the Coke Freestyle machine and now have Lime Coke to get me through the day
i must not get takeout. takeout is the wallet-killer. takeout is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face the kitchen, fridge, and pantry. i will make choices about what to cook and then execute them. when hunger is gone there will be nothing. only i will remain.
@inklings-challenge I forgot that the deadline was today and not the 31st, so I sat down and banged this out in an hour. It may someday be part of my original novel, or a tag story to it. For now, it hopefully includes enough information to stand on its own.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
The verse was heavily underlined, as if the previous owner had either found it comforting, or wanted to draw the next owner’s attention to it. Hugh couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t known the man well enough…he had barely known him at all. He suspected that, if he’d been able to ask, the answer would have been something rather poetic that more or less added up to, "who says it can’t be both?". He closed the old Bible with a snap. The smell of old leather and old paper and old dust floated up to his nose.
It had been two weeks since Hugh had been left behind as a witness, forbidden to interfere with something that he reluctantly had to admit was a miracle, pure and simple. The word tasted wrong in his mouth, even now, but he didn’t have another one. Technically it had been a victory. The last clues by which a mortal might learn to sing the world’s song were now forever out of the reach of evil men, and the world was safe. But it had been a cruel miracle, he couldn’t help thinking. It had not restored his lost friend to him. It had robbed him of many men who might have been new ones. It had robbed him of a guide who might have stood in place of his long-absent father. Even the never-ending song of the earth, never far from his mind now that his soul’s ear had learned to hear it, was not a comfort. The earth did not understand grief — it didn’t understand anything, truly, but what it had was more like a consciousness than it was anything else, even though it wasn’t really a mind — but it especially did not understand grief. Leaves fell and rotted and became earth, nourishing trees, which dropped more leaves. Trees fell and rotted and became earth and the earth grew new trees. The earth did not know loss. Nothing was lost, only changed.
*And is that not true of us also?* asked Abbot Joseph’s voice, in the back of Hugh’s mind. Hugh would have scoffed at the idea even a month ago. Now he could not deny it. *But you are still lost to me,* he thought to the illusion of the abbot. *And you have left me with power I haven’t even started to understand and a world that doesn’t work anything like I was sure it did.*
Which was probably why Joseph had left him his own Bible, really. It was heavily annotated and cross-referenced with commentaries and lexicons. There were notes on Greek and Hebrew and even Latin in the margins, which the professional part of Hugh longed to dive into headfirst with a good dictionary and a week or three of free time. But this page didn’t have complex linguistic notes. Just a heavily underlined verse.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Hugh was sitting on the front porch of his dead best friend’s house, within a morning’s walk from the cave where they’d found the dam—accursed rune inscription that had started the whole thing. *If this is comfort, it’s awfully cold.*
Then his phone rang, and he picked it up on instinct. "Hugh Leynham."
"I just thought you ought to know," said a voice it took him a moment to place, "I sent young Samuel to follow you after you missed breakfast."
Only one person called Sam "young Samuel," and that was the older Samuel who ran the library, one of a handful of other survivors of the Brothers of the Cross. (Hugh wasn’t really one of them, but he’d fallen into their circle by default, as the sole witness to the fate of most of the Order, ascended into the heavens in a burst of light and song that had left a valley floor a molten mass of stone and knocked him clean off his feet.)
"I believe," Brother Samuel continued, "that he intended to take that bizarre machine offroading after you if he couldn’t find you at the cabin, so if you’ve gone off into the woods, you might want to make your way back."
The monks were definitely denizens of the 20s, but the 1220s, and they shared a collective mild confusion about Sam’s admittedly odd-looking Jeep, affectionately known to its owner as the zombiemobile and more affectionately known to Hugh as the car that had driven through a firestorm and over waves of earth that were behaving more like the sea during the only car chase of his life. In fact, now that he thought about it, he could hear an engine grumbling its way up the long gravel road. "I think he’s almost here," Hugh said.
"Good."
Before Brother Samuel could say more, Hugh asked the question that had been bothering him for weeks. "Why did he give it to me?"
Samuel apparently didn’t need the context of the question. "Because you would read it, even if you did not understand it yet."
"I think it comforted him." Hugh looked down at the worn pages, and did not say, *It has not comforted me.*
"What is the greater pain, to believe that everything which has happened happened without reason, or that it is truly part of God’s plan?"
"It shouldn’t have taken that. They shouldn’t have had to die. I should have known Rob was going to—"
"My son, you are one man. In that battle, you were chosen as a witness. There may be other battles in which you are chosen to fight. Do not bind burdens on yourself that are not yours to bear. Do they deserve to be remembered?"
"Yes." The answer was instinctive. "Of course they do."
"Then remember them, Hugh, and trust them. They knew what they were doing, even if we don’t, and God knows better than any of us ever have."
The zombiemobile pulled up to the cabin with a crunch of gravel, and Talia jumped out of the passenger seat. "You didn’t say Sam was bringing Talia."
"She was worried about you. You’re not the only last heir of a scattered order, you know. Grieve, my son, but don’t wallow in it."
"Hey, Hugh, you missed breakfast!" called Sam-the-student-who-was-not-a-monk.
"They're here." Hugh got to his feet and hung up the phone. "Only because I knew you would save a burrito for me."
It was the kind of banter he had once had with Rob. It still stung, and it probably always would. He wasn’t sure why their friendship had deteriorated. They hadn’t had time for more than a brief forgiveness and farewell when Rob had saved his life, and so many questions had gone unanswered. But…just a little…the sting was beginning to feel cleansing, as well as painful. "I’m not that nice," Sam said, shaking his head. "Lucky for you, Talia is."
Hugh thanked her, eyes on the burrito so he wouldn’t meet her eyes and forget how words worked. Then he climbed into the back seat and ate his burrito, and Sam avoided all the potholes until he was finished with it.
Well, I just realized that, as I'm at the end of the time for the Inklings Challenge, I better post what I have rather than keep thinking that I will be able come up with something new. So, @inklings-challenge and Tumblr friends, here is Part 1 of Again and Again!
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“Tell it again, MaeMae”
“I’m tired, Peter.”
Mira no longer cared about the sharp edge that crept into the words. Exhaustion leaked through her until every movement hurt, and every word was an effort. She would not tell the Story today. Not again.
“MaeMae. Pleeease.”
Mira looked pointedly into the flames, and zipped her coat all the way up, hunching down until she was burrowed up to her eyes like a turtle, hiding from the world, and from the eyes that looked up at her pleadingly from a too-thin face.
From within the warm coat-cocoon, she wearily laid out her stores of energy in her mind, and calculated how much it might take for her to tell Peter the Story. How much it might take if she was to go find something to eat. How much it might take for her to Move them (again). How much energy she even had left. Every thought floated in the air, just barely evading her; as if they waited in the moment behind or the moment ahead, taunting her in her weakness.
“MaeMae.”
“I’ll tell you the short version. If you’ll be quiet.”
She felt, rather than saw, the little arms wrap around her waist; the scruffy head burrowing against her side; the sore feet stretching toward the warmth of the fire.
“Okay. Ready.”
“There was a people once.”
“The Brave and the True,” the muffled correction floated towards her through the coat barrier.
“Something like that. And—” they died. They failed. They lost their way and the Bravery and Truth gave way to lies that fled into the night. Nothing but Lies and Fear time and time and time again.
“And they were waiting for a Leader, because they could not stay Brave and True and Good on their own.”
They waited for their King. And their King did not come.
“The world was dark, as they waited.”
The world is dark now. And cold, and cruel, and—
“But these People were given one thing to push away the darkness.” A vain hope. A foolish chance. A vision that kept them frozen in time, looking for that which would never come.
“A Story of what would come.” A story that was a lie.
The fire snapped, and sparks flew up, burning little black freckles into the faded pink of Mira’s coat.
“So,” Peter said, as relentless as ever. “Tell me the Story.”
She sighed, and spoke the ancient words:
“The King will come; a life after death, a branch from a tree they cut down.
The Spirit of God will rest upon him; the spirit of wisdom, of counsel and might, of knowledge and fear of the Lord.
He will never judge by the things his eyes see, or decide by the lies that he hears.
But in what is good will be his delight, With righteousness he will decide what is right, and judge with all fairness the poor.
The wolf then shall dwell right beside the young lambs, the leopard lie down with the goat. The deserts shall run full of springs overflowed, the lion shall eat only straw and be filled, and a child, still small, then shall lead them.”
“Little like me?”
“Hush. The earth shall be full of the Goodness of Him, like the waters that cover the sea. His people shall never be hurt or destroyed, the tree that was cut will stand tall and rejoice, and the peace they will have will be glorious.”
Mira closed her eyes against the hopeful silence.
“The End. Go to sleep.”
Peter wriggled closer.
“I can’t wait until He comes,” he whispered at last, looking into the flames with a hunger deeper than an empty stomach. “Maybe if we Move enough, someday we’ll find Him. Maybe, if we find Him, we can bring Him home.”
Maybe pigs will fly. Maybe people could actually be Brave and True and Good.
“Go to sleep,” Mira said again, and waited until his breaths had evened out to carefully extract him from her side, and tiptoe out of the cave and into the night.
whenever i look into a historical monarch who doesn’t get talked about much and is just kind of a blank spot in my understanding of the historical narrative, 95% of the time what i find is pure white hot blistering capability. a pencil pusher for the ages. a 39 year reign with no more than three hours of sleep a night. there aren’t any good stories from his reign because he systematically caught and stopped all catastrophic good stories before they could start. you shrimply must respect it
I see your pomodoro method and I raise you procrastinating until you have a healthy level of fear and anxiety and then locking in for 5-7 hours straight
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