A while ago I signed up for and started posting to Instagram, thinking it was a handy place to share extra pictures and see what my friends are putting up. At first it seemed fine because I didn’t have to scroll through so much garbage (like on Facebook) to get to the meat, but already I’m disheartened. Instagram’s at least 20% advertising; every fourth or fifth post is a sponsored one. Maybe this has to be expected from a “service” that’s free, but I start to lose interest when they overdo it. I’ll stick it out a while longer, though, or until my head explodes. So far I’ve been posting a picture every morning. Are any of you able to copy and save photos from Instagram? I’ve tried and failed. It would be damn handy, saving time uploading from phone to laptop and resizing for this blog.
There’s snow on the ground again this morning. The sky is white-grey. There’s a book at the library for me so I might drive in this afternoon, though Emil phoned last night and said he’s staying in town this weekend — which means I don’t really have to go. It’s not like we’re out of food or anything. Still, knowing one of the books I’ve ordered is there waiting for me … I may not be able to resist. I try not to make unnecessary trips so as to do my non-essential-polluting part but another book to read is essential.
“The consolation of imaginary things is not imaginary consolation.” – Roger Scruton
This quotation struck me when I saw it in (if I’m not mistaken) P.D. James’s detective novel The Murder Room, which I finished last night and will donate back to the library where I got it for 25 cents in the first place. On the weekend Scott’s cousin, who lost his wife 28 months ago, was having supper with us and we talked about communications received from our loved ones after their passing. I told him about Mom, in a meditation, saying “There is a heavenly choir and I get to sing with it!” If you knew Mom, you’ll understand why this meditation was comforting.
Finlay, Trelawnyd doesn’t sound remotely bland! It’s funny how life somewhere else in the world can seem exotic, a word a friend from California recently used to describe her idea of Saskatchewan, which sometimes seems bland to me because it’s my everyday. I like your daily accounts of life in your little (?) Welsh village.