One of the most frequent complaints about the current intersection of the web and society is that we share too much. Every day more and more content is shared in more and more online places. We share videos, we share pictures, we share audio and written words. And yet, if you take some time to actually look at what’s shared, you’ll notice that very little is actually shared. There’s a lot of quantity, not much quality. And I’m not talking about quality from an artistic point of view. I’m talking quality from a humane point of view.
Maybe it’s just me but the more time I spend online the more I enjoy consuming content from people who are not afraid to share content in a very honest and sometimes vulnerable way. People who share without an agenda, people who share because they think it’s important to communicate both the ups and the downs of this shared experience we’re all going through called life.
Life can be joyful and wonderful and marvellous. But it can also be a fucking nightmare. And yes, it’s important to celebrate the victories and to immortalise the glorious moment. But it’s also important to document the failures, the shitty moments, the dark places our minds find themselves stuck in. It’s all part of what makes us unique after all.
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Good morning from Connecticut. Today, makes it 1,467 consecutive (almost) days on this daybreak morning walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a Row.
We were primed for another rant following last week’s diatribe: “Ladies Give Me Your Best Shot.” All the targeted Ladies (aka Sawsan) went scurrying back to her Den (with her Broom). Her replacement, while not an total embarrassment, is on her way to earning that merit badge shortly.
So, there’s one Lady left standing. I asked Susan if I can share more specifics about her OCD, that being her neuroses with light switches at the top and bottom of the stairs. Wally and I got a hostile reaction, and decided that this was a red line not to be tested.
I walk, wandering, ruminating. What shall we blog about today? Is it…
How I gained 10 lbs in 10 days? (Cake!)
How my insomnia has progressively deteriorated during the same period? (Cake?)
Why my Doctored-ordered Glucose test (a pre-diabetic alert) reported an alarming upward trend? (Cake?)
I walk.
I noodle these issues (and others), feeling the weight of their drag.
My mind turns to a University Hospital, less than 60 minutes up I-95 North. At this moment, good friends have returned to the Hospital with their infant daughter Ellie. This hospital stay will likely keep them in Hospital through their first Mother’s Day, with timing of returning home uncertain.
I walk.
I look out over the horizon.
And here they come.
15-20 minutes before (almost) every sunrise, they come — Birds, it’s feeding time.
First it’s black dots, then it’s the outline of the flock, then it’s the audio growing louder, the Call of the Wild, with the added percussion from the beating of the wings. My breath slows. My skin tingles. I follow them in my viewfinder as they approach the coastline.
If there is a God, he’s built this.
It’s Atlantic Brants this morning. Their wings beat fiercely until they approach the beach, wings fully outstretched as they glide down in their descent, then softly splashing down among the safety of the flock.
You too Ellie, you too.
I stand and watch up to one hundred Brants feeding and tuk-tukking along the shoreline.
I needed to have a better way to retrieve useful information from my handwritten scrawls. A way that I could sit in a meeting, writing naturally with pen and paper, but at the same time be able to later use the information I had recorded.
In other words, my notes needed to be:
Handwritten
In my normal handwriting
Searchable
Clear and concise for future recall
I'd seen the Rocketbook note system before. A notebook (or printable templates) that could be scanned using a clever app and saved to email or cloud services like Dropbox. It was pretty clever. The app could also apply OCR to convert these scans into basic text files. Not bad, but not brilliant either. Formatting was a bit hit and miss, so required a fair amount of manual correction for typos, odd punctuation and clarity.
The solution to this?
A tool I've used a few times before - Claude AI. I uploaded the .txt file and asked Claude to "clean up the attached to be clearer and more concise." Whilst the final output was still plain text, it took little time to add the occasional bold, underline etc.
So, by filing this text note, with the original pdf of the handwritten page, I ended up with useful, searchable notes, in double-quick time. Win-win!
I think this is pretty cool. But if you're not convinced, maybe if I told you that I created this blog post using this very method, well what would you think then?
I thought that I had missed them. For the first time in many, many years. I’d been distracted, pulled away by the human world. A world of deadlines, screens, worry, artificiality and bland, mediocre time sameness.
In my early morning walks with the hounds I’d spotted modest little clumps among the park trees, hidden in small pocket glades. Behind the cast iron railings near to a disused medical surgery, flanked by empty lager cans and plastic rubbish were a few more, although sitting in amongst them, white examples made me think that these were not natural, not wild. These glimpses made me smile, but didn’t lift my soul.
So when travelling back to my old stomping ground, to finish off some errands on the old house we used to live in, at lunch time my wife, son and I took the opportunity to stride out into the old woods we used to visit daily. To give the dogs a run, but also to see if we could still manage to find some.
The sun was hot. For May it was a warm one, 22 degrees. The ground was dusty and dry. The dogs sniffed about and then began to recognise the old landmarks. Soon confidence gave them courage to run and range wider and further. They chased scents and squirrels, real or imaginary.
We reached the first wood. This one is now an island in the middle of new build “executive” houses. Over the years I watched the machinery devour everything surrounding it. The rabbits, badgers, birds and mice gradually corralled into this small island. The trees looked as lovely as ever, slowly greening up and starting their springtime awakening. Fresh leaves soaking up the energy from the sunlight. The woodland floor was barren. Empty. Nothing blue to be seen.
Had I blown it? I’m acutely aware as I age that this could be my last time to see bluebells. Maybe this time I’d missed the opportunity. Damn busyness. Damn the working life. I felt out of sync, out of season if I’d missed this annual chance to re-calibrate myself into spring and re-awaken my sense of wonder.
With a slightly heavy heart I carried on. The dogs were happy, oblivious to us humans, save the occasional check back to the pack. The company of my wife and son were lovely. I valued them. I valued this walk. But I missed the Bluebells.
Into the bigger wood, one that’s weathered the encroaching builders better. More space, more trees, less footfall. The dogs flew away crashing through the undergrowth. The green woodland floor spotted with sky reflections. Pools of spring sky. Blending into a weak soft haze.
The air was still. As I breathed I picked up the tiny subtle traces of sweetness. The perfume was almost imperceptible, but it was there and it was unmistakable. The scent of spring, the pockets of hazy blue. Individuals still standing, heralding new life and a rush to grow.
My beloved Bluebells.
Sparser than the main growth. These were the stalwarts or the hangers on. The late to the party die-hards. Their display was maybe not the pinnacle of what they can achieve, not the haze so thick under the trees that it seems to dazzle and flow and swell like water. That haze can almost bring me to tears after a long winter of dark and brown.
No this was different. This was the bluebells last act of 2024. But I’d made it. I’d seen it again. I’d loved it again. I felt reconnected, reset again.
