'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,

I'm off work for a nice sunny day.

Debating beginning the tackling of the can o' worms construction problem, in addition to (or even instead of) the chainsawing of the fallen tree. Surely I can find a way to get something moderately weather resistant going there before winter descends fully? Gotta do SOMEthing, after all, and winter is a long time.

There's a big Caterpillar street-scrapey bulldozer outside my window, shaping and flattening the dirt section of the road. He's respecting my re-grown grass re-claimed strip, too. Ha! It's all city property, but if I hadn't staked out my assertion that grass go back where that last sloppy road gravelling messed up the edge so nastily, that Cat would be flattening and making driveable another 2-4 feet closer to where I sit at the moment.

I used to know the names of many fundamental kinds of heavy equipment as a kid. Not cuz of those popular videos for children of the big construction machines---they didn't have those yet. Cuzza having a big brother who was into that stuff.

The only Tonka truck I seem to have retained, however, is an army Jeep one.

Well, off to the world in a sec, but wanted to say this: there's something about this Language Log entry that rings the big bells in my head that say there's danger in getting too into the synapses and the happiness located so fundamentally up there/here--- in this guy's case, in linguistics and the meta- kinda level of reading & experiencing meaning. It's a too-in-yer-head thing that is another metaphorical cousin of what I identify with about the striking line in Henry and June (and perhaps in Anais's diaries) when the dude warns her, regarding letting herself get into "aberrant" sexual practices, that (basically) it might well ruin the vanilla for her entirely. The many ice cream flavors of sexuality and their relative appeals to the palate aren't such fraught territory for me. But...

One fear that that "Warning! Don't go too far!" thing has connected to for me for some time is that encouraging too sophisticated or rarified aesthetic tastes to take over seems, to my gut, to have the potential to undo the ability to appreciate many of the "lesser" pleasures of the arts (yes) and of the broader cultural junque-du-jour. That too-in-the-head thing, though: there's an even scarier danger there. Please, goddesses of personality and pleasure, don't let me get to the point that I take the kind of delight Geoffrey K. Pullum does in the coincident tropes. At least if my hunch that he's lost so many more simple pleasures is even a little dead-on.

I want more of the joys of my life to be in, for one, the things of the physical world, and my experiencing/appreciating my entire physiog (such as I can manage), but in, indeedy-do also, at least a good number of more common pleasures of broader swaths of ---okay, fine: bright, but kinda regular and/or connected and/or appreciative-of-the-ordinary fellow human beans.

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