Having read through the remainder of this year's Jazz Hands entries, I have learned several things. The correct spelling of "Trolley" for starters, has an "e" in it...omit the "e" and the word becomes incorrect. "Cannot" is one word, not two. There are times that the "not" portion needs a bit of emphasis, and believe it is okay to write "can NOT" if the situation warrants, however the more accurate form is the one word compound. Additionally, I use "cannot" a ton. Must be some sort of a word crutch.
Mistakes help us learn, and although change is incremental, every day is an opportunity to reassess the use of compound words.
Another valuable lesson is that I have shown a tendency to incorrectly write "their" when "there" is the appropriate word. This happens to be one of my least favorite types of errors. Posts written in haste and without a proper proof reading allow these irritating errors to slip through the cracks.
On July 1st I wrote about a photo session that was never revealed due to embarrassment. I fully intended to get back to that fairly quickly and post the dramatic, high art hand jazzing photographs, but lost sight of the specific agenda. At this point, I see no reason to withhold. Though I will not allow them all to be seen, here is but one of the images captured. If nothing else, the talented photographer deserves to have his handy work displayed. Besides, this blog was an exercise in total self-immersion, so it seems fitting to wrap the final stages of the journey up with one last image of a hand that has jazzed every single day this year...attached to me.
Mistakes help us learn, and although change is incremental, every day is an opportunity to reassess the use of compound words.
Another valuable lesson is that I have shown a tendency to incorrectly write "their" when "there" is the appropriate word. This happens to be one of my least favorite types of errors. Posts written in haste and without a proper proof reading allow these irritating errors to slip through the cracks.
On July 1st I wrote about a photo session that was never revealed due to embarrassment. I fully intended to get back to that fairly quickly and post the dramatic, high art hand jazzing photographs, but lost sight of the specific agenda. At this point, I see no reason to withhold. Though I will not allow them all to be seen, here is but one of the images captured. If nothing else, the talented photographer deserves to have his handy work displayed. Besides, this blog was an exercise in total self-immersion, so it seems fitting to wrap the final stages of the journey up with one last image of a hand that has jazzed every single day this year...attached to me.
All of the mistakes, all of the photos posted then not posted and then finally reposted, all of the words that make up each and every day's imperfect entry has led to this moment in time. Without the errors, who knows where we may have ended up. A system of rivers cut gorges at an incremental pace, but the currents swirl around bends and plunge off of high cliffs, eventually converging into but one large body of water. Not unlike the arteries that make up our circulatory system, pouring into the heart.
Watching the sun rise today, as the commute to my highly important make believe place of business allowed a moment or so to adequately appreciate the warmth on my face, it certainly did not seem to be racing westward across the sky at a torrid pace. Incremental progress, however, is progress nonetheless and I assure you despite the sun's seemingly stationary position, it will descend soon enough and this day will certainly end.
Sifting through each page that has been written in this blog over the course of the year, every day adapted and plodded forward incrementally. Tiny chunks of change seems like no change at all until you scrutinize the events and look at the whole. Once that sun hits the western horizon line and the atmospheric refraction transforms its color and shape, all of that slow, incremental progress hastens. Suddenly it's dark. Suddenly we're left to question where our time has gone.
365 Days of Jazz Hands is now at day 360 and experiencing its own version of atmospheric refraction. Incrementally carving a gorge, we've suddenly reached the heart, the body of water, and the horizon line, grammatical errors in tow.
We're heading to our conclusion at an ever increasing clip.
All of the preparations have been meticulously cared for and everything is in place. Final arrangements to transform and completely disappear have been made and tomorrow marks forty-two days since coming to terms with Coworker Mitch. Forty-two days since initiating our game.
We shall feel the cool, liberating metal against skin, piercing into the depths of unreasonability, we shall shed our long sleeve shirts once and for all, for there will be nothing left to conceal within them. We shall seize each precious moment that remains and hang on to the last sliver of sunlight before it slips away into the cooling, twilight air.
Tomorrow much blood will be spilt marking the destruction of doubt and senseless want, corrupting tedious routine, deviating the cycles of incremental illness.
As mirrors offer refracted images of ourselves, the words contained within these documented Jazz Hands deployments and abstractions refract in a similar manner.
As the sun sets on this day and descends on the year, atmospheric refraction will skew reality, giving us an obscured version of the truth much like the image we see in the mirror each and every morning. This leaves us a choice of what to believe and how to believe it. We have an opportunity to create our own world, to shape our existence the way we see fit. Free to deploy Jazz Hands on our own terms, eschewing classic structure and form, these are our hands, we can jazz them how we want. The same can be said regarding the paths we pursue in life.
We are our own past, our own present and ultimately our own future. We are the sum of our choices that accelerate one existence into the next. If we don't like the reflections in the mirror, it's ours for the shattering and like the pieces of glass scattered upon the floor, the self-destructive patterns and cycles can break as well.
Many words were expended in these daily posts to depict humanity as a people unwilling to break free of the cyclical horrors it seems to excel at. Genocide, bombings, wars, school shootings, there seems to be no end to our violent tendencies. If it's possible to unlock the shackles we have clasped onto our collective ankles, it must begin as an individual endeavor.
Change must occur incrementally. Maybe one day we'll experience atmospheric refraction and suddenly wonder where all the violence has gone.
This blog has been about a lot of things. But all of the topics covered seemed to be converging on tomorrow in some way, shape or form.
Today's Jazz Hands present a future with hope and promise, however there's a long journey ahead filled with mountains to climb in order to achieve it. Good thing getting there is most of the fun.
Watching the sun rise today, as the commute to my highly important make believe place of business allowed a moment or so to adequately appreciate the warmth on my face, it certainly did not seem to be racing westward across the sky at a torrid pace. Incremental progress, however, is progress nonetheless and I assure you despite the sun's seemingly stationary position, it will descend soon enough and this day will certainly end.
Sifting through each page that has been written in this blog over the course of the year, every day adapted and plodded forward incrementally. Tiny chunks of change seems like no change at all until you scrutinize the events and look at the whole. Once that sun hits the western horizon line and the atmospheric refraction transforms its color and shape, all of that slow, incremental progress hastens. Suddenly it's dark. Suddenly we're left to question where our time has gone.
365 Days of Jazz Hands is now at day 360 and experiencing its own version of atmospheric refraction. Incrementally carving a gorge, we've suddenly reached the heart, the body of water, and the horizon line, grammatical errors in tow.
We're heading to our conclusion at an ever increasing clip.
All of the preparations have been meticulously cared for and everything is in place. Final arrangements to transform and completely disappear have been made and tomorrow marks forty-two days since coming to terms with Coworker Mitch. Forty-two days since initiating our game.
We shall feel the cool, liberating metal against skin, piercing into the depths of unreasonability, we shall shed our long sleeve shirts once and for all, for there will be nothing left to conceal within them. We shall seize each precious moment that remains and hang on to the last sliver of sunlight before it slips away into the cooling, twilight air.
Tomorrow much blood will be spilt marking the destruction of doubt and senseless want, corrupting tedious routine, deviating the cycles of incremental illness.
As mirrors offer refracted images of ourselves, the words contained within these documented Jazz Hands deployments and abstractions refract in a similar manner.
As the sun sets on this day and descends on the year, atmospheric refraction will skew reality, giving us an obscured version of the truth much like the image we see in the mirror each and every morning. This leaves us a choice of what to believe and how to believe it. We have an opportunity to create our own world, to shape our existence the way we see fit. Free to deploy Jazz Hands on our own terms, eschewing classic structure and form, these are our hands, we can jazz them how we want. The same can be said regarding the paths we pursue in life.
We are our own past, our own present and ultimately our own future. We are the sum of our choices that accelerate one existence into the next. If we don't like the reflections in the mirror, it's ours for the shattering and like the pieces of glass scattered upon the floor, the self-destructive patterns and cycles can break as well.
Many words were expended in these daily posts to depict humanity as a people unwilling to break free of the cyclical horrors it seems to excel at. Genocide, bombings, wars, school shootings, there seems to be no end to our violent tendencies. If it's possible to unlock the shackles we have clasped onto our collective ankles, it must begin as an individual endeavor.
Change must occur incrementally. Maybe one day we'll experience atmospheric refraction and suddenly wonder where all the violence has gone.
This blog has been about a lot of things. But all of the topics covered seemed to be converging on tomorrow in some way, shape or form.
Today's Jazz Hands present a future with hope and promise, however there's a long journey ahead filled with mountains to climb in order to achieve it. Good thing getting there is most of the fun.
Day three-hundred and sixty complete.
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