I've had less and less to say lately. There's no one reason for it. My desire to pour my heart out to the world is something that isn't that important to me anymore. I get a feeling that what goes on in my head is best kept in there. Maybe I fear getting myself in trouble or in risk of ostracization, which would be fine with me, so long as my family doesn't disown me. I guess what I feel and think is a bit different, so sayeth the Lamb. It's not like I'm some great innovator, rich man, or guru. I'm the weird adult, who was the weird teenager, who was the odd child. I've tried to see things the way I was supposed to and I'll be honest, I couldn't see that sail boat in the 3D picture where you had to cross your eyes, either. So, I guess I am just supposed to surrender my perspective and go along with it all to make everyone happy and comfortable--whatever works. Bleh...I need to stop bitching and do something better with my life.
I think I will write a novel about Frankenstein, only he's hunkier and starts a virtuous romance with a teenage girl. If only the jocks with garden implements and torches would just leave him alone. Yeah, that's the ticket.
My latest craze has been finding abandoned mines and Native American rock art around the hills where I live. I am amazed at what I have found in my backyard, so to speak. I have found a couple of steam engines and boilers, panels of rock art, and more poison ivy and snakes than I care for. The weird thing is that in one area that I've found a network of mines recently, I had reoccurring dreams about, going as far back as ten years ago. In those dreams I was finding all sorts of holes in the mountain. Well, in real life, I did find the mines, but they are all mostly reclaimed or caved in. It's a good thing, because abandoned mines are death traps.
Okay, it's time for me to go to sleep.