In an infinite universe wouldn't it be unlikely that no other planet had evolved a travelling life form advanced enough to visit us? What a fluke for us to be the billion, billion to one chance of being the most advanced. But then, on a planet with billions of life forms, what would the chances be of me being born one of the most intelligent species number? There's something odd going on here.

New House

Bluetit

Skree Woodwork

Polar Opposite

...and then days where nothing is dull. Every object is a work of art. Even my torn leather boots are vehicles for all the scars of entropy telling the story of their lives. The puddle water, absorbed in to their flesh. Dust and oil, sweat and soil. Unlaced at home, my feet are free. Moist and warm my socks  cool in the evening air. Fragrant and rude, like small beery pubs or damp dogs, drying by the fire.
The good fortune I have had in finding work that feels both worthwhile and fun. I very well may have found my way back home.

A few further thoughts on the previous reflections on depression

I spoke of being deluded in the sense that we all are. A delusion of who and what we are is necessary to operate in human societies of any type. As we are an animal built of meat we must one day fall and rot. All our aspirations in truth are futile, if you look from the right point. Our actions are no more than the activity of the small fly above me, exploring some cubic box invisible to my eyes, below the light shade. The romance of our self image is purely delusional. It is a story we spin ourselves.
And we mock those whose self narrative clashes with a more mundane reality we are all party to. The pompous are perhaps more evident today than at any when gone past. Celebrity, the pond where narrative swirl transcends the mundane and a world held up on poles by us all is only a mirror of any artistic field of play. Can we really say there is a hierarchy of artistic works, do any objects made for no other reason than pleasing looks stand higher than others? In the greater scheme of things are the great works we share faith in of any innate worth? Because there is only faith. Only through our shared belief that anything is better than mud. There is only the stories we tell each other and ourselves.
So ought we mock the deluded? Aren't we all deluded? In the disturbed wards we could meet a man who thinks he is Jesus, in parliament meet a man who thinks he is a great politician, in the royal academy we could meet a woman who believes herself a great artist. But in truth there is no substance to any of it. There is only faith. Or, put another way, delusion.

Happy Birthday, if you're out there

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