travelbug / Texts
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We had that EXACT wind ornament. Every xmas it was part of the ritual to pull it out and set it up. It's so delicate. My mom moved back to England 15 years ago and I think it got sold at some haight ashbury garage sale. funny, i didn't miss it until i reminded of it. i love being awash in a long forgotton memory.
hey...this one got rejected? Its ambiguity is such a strength.
"craptastic" may I quote you?
bug, bug, bug, bug, bug, bug
love, love
travel (ahem) bug
supervote would be awarded on the basis of writing good poetry, not using your own reading collection and the superlative choice of city lights bookstore. the angels are smiling and blowing their trumpets.
I'm with you fish on all but the resets. yellow evil bear has it right. sometimes life beyond sf0 takes over and if you came back in a month later (or so) to find your points wiped out, it would be a bit discouraging. resets have their place, but every six months? perhaps the reason so few people completed the gift thing, is because tasks do take time. some solutions come in an epiphanous wave. others reveal themselves, like dreams, over time. isn't some of the pleasure of this "game" keeping this secret task within you until life speaks the same language as SF0?
I used to absolutely despise fennel. now i actually quite like it, especially with olive oil and lemon. mmmmmmmmmm
awfully chivalrous to come to my defense sir fish.
while i certainly hoped for some votes (don't we always), my praxis acknowledged that i knew i may not have been keeping to a "strict" definition of "to shrink".
loki's point is fine (albeit unnecessary) since yes, SF0 is about creative interpretation. if my interpretation was weak, so be it. if it wasn't then bring on the votes!
If there is such a thing as an art of living, then the man who lives life as an art will have a sense of his own beginning and his own end. And beyond that, he will know that his end is in his beginning, and that each breadth he draws can only him nearer to that end. He will live, but he will also die. For no work remians unfinished, even the one that has been abandoned.
Paul Auster, 1975