Blog - petrostudio LLC
Since about this time last year I’ve been keeping a diary of sorts. So high school. It has been a collection of thoughts about the evolution of my life in my 40s. It is not all good, but not all bad, either. It is mostly embarrassing.
I posted about this on Facebook recently, the significance of the number 44 at my alma mater, Syracuse. Today, I am 44 years old and, since this year has been full of significant changes, I thought I’d explore why my college days (and more) have little importance to me now.
I get a wild hair across my backside from time to time in regards to my website and branding, thinking, “I should just burn it all to the ground and start again.” But then the prospect of doing all that work sets in. “Maybe just a controlled burn,” sounds a bit more comforting.
I recently started a bathroom remodel. Actually, I started a bathroom remodel, what I am currently working on is a bathroom gut and replace. Cut and paste. Remove and redo. Whatever, it is broken and I must fix it. It is kind of a parallel to life right now I guess.
I’m fascinated by people that don’t know anything. Ok, perhaps not anything, but simple things. Like, “How do you get there?” I don’t know about you, but there’s this nifty new invention they call a map. “Where do I get one?”
Diablo III was released in May of 2012. I played it a bit after launch, but lost interest. Reaper of Souls, the expansion, was released nearly two years later. It vastly improved the game, and I played a bunch more, including the Crusader class. But I fell out with it – it just didn’t hold my interest. Then I didn’t play it again for 3 years. I’m playing in again, now. Why?
A colleague had a child just last year. He’s an older guy, younger girlfriend, and has always been a very laid-back, surfer-type. We had been ribbing him for months about the drastic change in lifestyle that was about to occur. I think he took it in good fun, and maybe listened a bit, but you are never prepared for the change that a child brings. You could see it in his face in the months afterward – he was tired. Tired, but happy.
I have a love of historical fiction borne, I believe, of my affinity for Conan Doyle’s tales of Sherlock Holmes. I have read the anthology several times over, and sought out the various “estate-approved” modern tales, though some pale vastly in comparison to that which they are tying to emulate.
I remember using a typewriter. A lot of people don’t. Actually, I think a lot of people that used a typewriter don’t remember using one, either. I also remember writing letters. By hand. With a pen. In cursive. What happened? Not to the methods – but to the writing.