Blob and beauty in the eye of the beholder

It was hard to describe.

Indescribable, even.

It didn’t look like much to him.

It looked like everything to her.

Disagreement abounds. And. Would for a very, very long time. Infiltrating in ways big and small. It sucked the energy not only out of the room but out of the soul, at times.

There are two sides to every story.

One is lie and one is truth.

One good egg versus bad egg versus over egg versus sunny side up.

For what seemed like an eternity—the secrets and truths of one another battle on when words don’t adequate. The blob takes on a life all of its own without taking ownership.

The Blob. It takes on a different shape on different days. One man’s terror is another man’s entertainment. Yep. Sad and true at the same time. Sick, maybe demented. Who knows. How well the cookie crumbles when the stakes are down and the only place left to run is in the corner. Or closet. How well are the moments of our life? Memories like the blob-filled corners of our mind. Misty. Water-colored. (bs)

Unconvincing to those who had not lived it and quite convincing to the ones whose only choice was to live with it.

So. In repeated attempts to make sense of the nonsense we play hide and seek. With ourselves. With the truth. The consequences may or may not be appropriate.

The blob, like the ink blot, is supposed to tell the truth. Inform others how whack a doodle we are. Or may become. If we keep on keeping on. The way we are. The way we were. Keeping the pace of things, thoughts and feelings. Bottled up. In a bottle. The remedies can be endless.

Ambiguous at best.

Subjective at worst.

Positive.

Negative.

Compound.

Thoughts.

Feelings.

Can all be so, yucky.

Succumbing to the temptations of looking or not looking at things in the same way. Taking and testing ourselves into oblivion is an obvious way to obliterate the numbness of confusion.

It is not called “Blotto” for nothin.😳 and can be true of many participant’s behavior at the local watering hole too.

Human resource gurus, versed in all things psychological, historically used the blot test to see if an eligible participant was eligible -ly eligible.

Huh?

Crazy, sane or “normal.”

Doctors of medicine, too. Challenged the blob and blot test with veracity and questioned the accuracy of the blobs and blots. The shot. The smile. The freeze frame of life.

Then along came the handwriting assessments……..✍🏻 And the assessments continued long after the pens dried out and the pencils had no sharpeners.

Leonardo da Vinci built a career out of blobs and blots. Victor Hugo too. The lucky ducks. Talents with tithes that came in all shapes and sizes. Judges judging others’ sadness, saneness and coherence in the face of altering realities. Who am I to judge? Who may you judge? What is art. And. What is not. The stick figure drawings of a child versus the cascading shades of grey are all the same to some.

Expressive language at its very finest.

Beautiful. Wonderful. Expressive language of innocence.

Intelligence. Artificial. Superficial and the in between keeping pace while keeping up with the Joneses has its craziness and “bonkers” factors. When is enough, enough? How much can one take?

Just ask Alfred Binet. He devoted his talents to deciphering intelligence. Specifically in students. He was tasked with the challenge of determining which classroom students did not learn effectively in regular classroom instruction so they could be given remedial work. Oftentimes, seeking any kind of remedy becomes a futile dance. (wk)

Blobs.

Blots.

All mean something important to someone.

”The operations of intelligence could be explained by the laws of associationism” John Stuart Mill.

[Not the associationist of the local HOA either😡.]

Introspection and externospection in anticipation of something better or different.

One man’s dream is another man’s nightmare.

Standing alone has detractors. Individually of course. The shadow of the self may be the only thing left standing. The blob of oneself is not nor ever destined to become its only reflective aspect. We keep checking the mirror to see if something has changed. We all look at life’s situations and each other differently. We dig deeper when there is meaning to be found in the toughest of circumstances.

There is always much more to life. More life to live. More opportunities to take on the playground bully or the bar room brawler. With intended or unintended consequences of unconsciousness for thee, but not for me.

Collectively we have a chance to right the wrongs and accept the best in another, their best effort. Maybe. Maybe not.

”The collective unconscious consists of universal heritable elements common to all humans distinct from other species.” However. This does not necessarily imply a genetic cause.” (wk)

Includes the soul and I guess one must concede—the family cat.

Nature versus nurture.

And. All things “in between”.

Translation:

One man’s blob is another man blot.🦠🪬🧿🔬💣🥊 And this can be the remedy we sought all along and did not know it. Life can change in an instant. In a photographic finish.

Something old.

Something new.

Something borrowed.

Something blue.

That was then. This is now. The passage of time reconfigures the preconfigures and molds. Thoughts, words, actions are similar, but not the same. Opportunities mold us into beautiful beings, blobs and blots. Inheritable and heritable all at the same time.

Ironically, when words fail, story tellers of all things “us” for tens of thousands of years. Tens of thousands of years! (wk) Have been trying to tell us, we are ok and have been trying to tell us all along that to doubt is part of life’s mysterious way. Blob. Or. Blot.

Intelligence. Schmintelligence. Why society “felt” it was its job to pigeon hole a person into a graph, subset and group just to survive for gain is a mysterious question waiting to be answered.

Or at the very least, answerable. Who can answer what is better or best? Who is better or best. Prove life’s certainties with the certainty of 1+1=2?

Throughout history, brilliant men have tried. To answer that which is unanswerable. Slap a label on and move along? A label gives us the ability or disability to say what we need to say—that is if anyone is listening or hearing the message, the messages and the scribbles of stick figures of all things communicable.

The lucky ones slip by with a pass. The unlucky struggle. The rules change. The goal posts may move, too. To make the deal, to not make the deal. And. Something in between.

The next steps are “out there” somewhere waiting to be taken. Trips and falls, slips and crawls render us fearful when the grimace tells the story of pain and the laughs of “hey stupid” get it right continue on in the corners and recesses of our collective consciences.

What happens next IS anybody’s guess. Maybe the best we can do is just accept the cards we are given, deal with ‘em and then take it from here and heredity.

Finally admit. If we dare to allow ourselves……

Life can be one big beautiful blob.🙂