Morning is a beginning time. It starts off the events of the day however that may turn out to be. Some mornings may be faster and more productive than others, but the very nature of Time is that it moves on ahead, progressively in succession of one after another until the very product of the morning is brought about by whatever chains of events that are contrived to be managed and manipulated successfully.
Some mornings are more memorable than others. That is not to say that more events transpire than what transpired during other previous mornings. It is only that some mornings contain the strings of priorities that are tied to greater significances. Some priorities are significantly more important than others, just as some mornings are significant and therefore highlighted in memories’ domains.
This morning is not any different than the previous mornings, except perhaps in the media format presented by satellite television. And, perhaps I spent less time at Super Stupid than most other mornings before I descended to the kitchen to make coffee. After the water for coffee was filtered, I turned the tap on for Scratchy, plucked two pudding cups from the fridge and went into the livingroom.
Twister is spoiled by my offerings of what I eat. It isn’t much in amount as it is in the act of sharing two pudding cups habitually. Twister gets excited, mewing loudly and leads me into the livingroom. I sit on the couch and she sits on the coffee table. I open the first pudding cup and spoon mouthfuls for myself while Twister laps loudly at the pudding top. I finish the first pudding cup, open the second pudding cup, and immediately begin sharing the treat.
While I eat the pudding cups, I sit and watch the TV, and think of diverse distractions. It is amusing to share the pudding cup with Twister. For Twister, the pudding cups are an expected treat, not a reward for anything other than just being Twister, the Twister sister. Yet, for all of the excitement and show, Twister really doesn’t lap up more than a spoonful or so of pudding in total.
I finish the pudding cups and turn off the TV. Twister often precedes me out of the livingroom back into the kitchen. I pour two cups of coffee and slowly hike up the wooden hill to the bedroom. The cups of coffee are set on the furthest night table. A bit of playful teasing helps me to decide whether to stay back in bed or stay up.
This quiet morning is not much different by my decision to stay up. I was thinking about something I wanted to write. I always have something I want to write, but whether I actually do or not is merely a choice of priorities. Coffee is always a factor of my decision making processes.
A bubble of energy can be a space-time continuum scaled proportionally to a complete and separate universe. A bubble of energy can also be of different energy intensities ranging from photon particle or even atomic particle characteristics provided the outer energy field has stable intensity greater than the surrounding existence environment and any possible encounter.
It has been remarked that I have an uncanny ability to use simple English words to describe some of the most complex conceptual iconographs. That same intellectually advanced mind often failed to translate my simple iconography that necessitated highly detailed analyses and innumerable confirmational communications. What does it mean? What does it relate to? What are the underlying circumstancial factors? What order of accesses, authorizations, priorities, and related resources are perforce necessitated? What kind of being am I? What do I have hidden on my person that enables me to communicate extensively as required in detail concerning random topical specializations?
A field of energy can be maintained almost indefinitely by an energy generator set at the required frequencies and intensities within a wide range of existential circumstances. The energy generator can be composed of opposing photon particle constructs that literally bleed energy from the carrier laser or quantum particle beam provided the energy generator is adjusted to an angular displacement that is neither perpendicular nor aligned to the base carrier beam.
Literally, a bubble of energy containing energized or ionized particles can be sent to almost infinity at quantum velocities provided there exists identical beginnings and endings of the base carrier beam. I do know the basic essentials of the theories and conceptual designs, but I am only a Stupid button pusher. I need Super Stupid to create and control the real energies and masses that are involved in whatever activities that must be actuated by necessity to bring about my iconographic intentions. Gee. How did I know that?
I contain unrelated and genetically generated libraries of iconographic information that concern whatever conceptualizations I am conditioned to respond to in specifically related circumstancial reactions that are subliminally and subconsciously interrelated. I honestly don’t know how, only that there are specific results of certain reactive actions. I can do this to control that which results in the gross generalization of the sunshine breaking through the clouds to illuminate me, my immediate area, and all that I am immediately concerned with. Something gets pointed out to me in a way that I make realizations appropriate to my intentions.
My dad hated that gift I blatantly displayed so purposefully. My mom knew I was a specially gifted child and only watched in a pleased satisfaction. My brother knew to use me indiscriminately at every moment of proximity. My sister merely kept distance and visibility to an absolute minimum. Others rarely even suspected the existence of something relative to what I caused or otherwise brought about.
I write in parables, approximations, fictionalizing factual fables, and other forms of stories that may or may not contain germinations of my personal understandings that could possibly relate to, but are not related with any and every possible topic. Right, another story teller, complete with verbiage on the loose in the red caboose at high noon of the showdown day. And, so it was, at least enough to be written and thereby settle yet another paradox. I hate paradoxes that make me do all sorts of strange and unusual things. Again, it happens.
