There is something comforting about routines. Not all routines, of course, but even then, it depends on the individual and how they see themselves, how they see the world, and how they see themselves in the world.
There are those for whom the idea of driving to work by the same route, sitting in the same cubicle, and performing the same tasks day in day out sounds like torture. Others might see it as security. And others still might see it as a dream come true.
I suppose the task has something to do with it, but not always. Approving permits may sound boring to some, but the feeling of power, or perhaps the satisfaction of well-executed responsibility, might imbue some individuals with a sense of purpose that blossoms into pride. In that sense, any task that produces the same feeling of power or of guardianship or duty would be as good as any other that does the same.
Indeed, such is the very nature of bureaucracy . . .
Even them who eschew the rigors of routines such as — for instance — people in the arts, or athletes, or anyone in non-traditional vocations, even they will often fall into a routine; usually, one they find comfort in. Some may become superstitious about it or come to believe that a part of their routine is not only necessary but essential for the successful completion of their tasks.
One of the things I try and do whenever I notice I’ve fallen into a routine is to consciously fight it. Not all routines, because some are useful and there’s little downside to them.
But, for example, take something like getting the same locker at the gym. The problem with that routine is that lockers are not assigned. That means that occasionally someone else gets “your” locker. That disruption in the routine could cause a slight discomfort. Perhaps even a large discomfort; large enough to wake long-dormant murderous tendencies.
I don’t like that. I don’t like it because I give someone else a bit of power over me. They wouldn’t even know it, but their use of “my” locker disrupts my routine. Their actions intrude into my awareness. What should be inconsequential now occupies — however minimally — my thoughts.
The solution? Like I said, I vary the lockers I use. I force myself to “not care” about which locker I use. Do that long enough and — after a while — you really won’t care.
I still rank stuff. I prefer one shower stall over another (it has to do with water flow and dispersion spray — I have a ranking for all the available showers stalls, from “most preferred” to “oh, hell no!”), I have preferred parking places (it has to do with minimizing the odds of someone denting our car), I have preferred restaurants and while I don’t object to trying new restaurants, they immediately get ranked and the ranking determines the frequency of visits.
Anyway . . . routines; try breaking them. It helps you see things differently and be more aware of what’s going on around you.
. . . wow; I could have said that right off the bat and spared readers the long tirade here.
And now, the photo. That, my friends, is the famous Aldis lamp that signaled the Brittish were coming by land. Or, was it by sea? Am I confusing it with Captain Ahab’s lamp when he was looking for the honest man? No, wait . . . that was Diogenes when he had been swallowed by a whale. No, no, that was Job hunting whales . . . You know what, it doesn’t matter. It’s a lamp. Just a lamp.
We’ve been at the new place for almost a month now. We have a routine of sorts but we’re still tweaking it. Don’t worry, this is one of them useful routines. Also, since the major feature of the routine is to hit the gym, we’re not all that bothered when it gets disrupted.
I’m still not as productive as I used to be, mostly because I’m easily distracted by all manner of things. I’m almost back to reading all the blogs I subscribe to, but I’ll be dropping a few because the number of blogs I’m now following has grown to something that is not readily manageable.
In fact, one of the reasons I’m not writing (I’ve not written any fiction for a number of months now) is because I have (self-imposed) obligations depriving me of large blocks of uninterrupted time. Some people can write snippets at a time, but my writing tends to be in large uninterrupted chunks . . . chunks I’m finding difficult making time for.
More and more, I’m thinking it may be time to take a break from the Internet and realign my priorities to address my needs and wants. We’ll see.
Been there, done that . . . wait; I don’t know any rich people. I mean, a few who are comfortable, but rich? Not that I know of. But, boy, if I did know any, I’d probably shoot up to 190 or 200 pounds. I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe . . . elastic stuff so it could grow with me.
One thing I have no problem doing are these doodles. They just keep flowing. I suppose one has to be thankful for even the small and insignificant things in life.
And . . . that’s it
Some of these posts will likely be longer as the mood hits me, but most will be thus; short, uninteresting, bland, and relentless.
You can read about Project 313 HERE.
That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.
Note: if you are not reading this blog post at DisperserTracks.com, know that it has been copied without permission, and likely is being used by someone with nefarious intention, like attracting you to a malware-infested website. Could be they also torture small mammals.
Please, if you are considering bestowing me recognition beyond commenting below, refrain from doing so. I will decline blogger-to-blogger awards. I appreciate the intent behind it, but I prefer a comment thanking me for turning you away from a life of crime, religion, or making you a better person in some other way. That would mean something to me.
If you wish to know more, please read below.
Note: to those who may click on “like”, or rate the post; if you do not hear from me, know that I am sincerely appreciative, and I thank you for noticing what I do.
. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.
Finally, if you interpret anything on this blog as me asking or wanting pity, sympathy, or complaining about my life, or asking for help and advice, know you’re likely missing my subtle mix of irony, sarcasm, and humor.