- Finish the novel.
- Finish developing the App prototype (MVP).
- New trading algorithms released.
- Film the screenplays and other performances.
- Claim my free pensioner’s bus pass.
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Friday 29 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-29
Saturday 23 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-23
Saturday 16 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-16
Wednesday 13 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-13
Tuesday 12 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-12
Monday 11 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-11
Sunday 10 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-10
Saturday 9 October 2021
In One Billion Years
Friday 8 October 2021
Links
Thursday 7 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-07
Friday 1 October 2021
Journal 2021-10-01
Thursday 30 September 2021
Journal 2021-09-30
Sunday 26 September 2021
Journal 2021-09-26
Saturday 25 September 2021
Journal 2021-09-25
Podcast #10: Episode 2
POEMS
BY ROBERT WALKER
Dead shadows dance in the night
yearning for the dawn.
Cold and forgotten walking scars,
drained by decay,
wasted by time,
stretch out,
hungered and blurred,
to a spark ignited,
climbing,
rising from the ground.
From the last depths,
rays of hope entwine in the sky,
kissing the hills;
breathing new life
and wonders layered in light.
Naked with joy, a new day, a new world is born.
THE OUTER VIEW
Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.
Friday 24 September 2021
Podcast #9: The Outer View
THE OUTER VIEW
BY ROBERT WALKER
Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.
Journal 2021-09-24
Thursday 23 September 2021
Process of Improvement
Wednesday 22 September 2021
Content
This is a template outline for the areas in which I hope to contribute content over the coming decades. Everything is at robertwalker.blog, but I’ve added external links below.
It may not be practical to stretch myself thinly, but really, I see all the activities as complimentary points of interest in the same panorama.
Songwriting:
Playlist – YouTube
Singing:
Playlist – YouTube
Playlist – SoundCloud
Artworks:
Board – Pinterest
Acting:
Podcast – Anchor
Writing:
Blog – Blogspot
Screenplays – Scribd
Lyrics – YouTube
Poems, short stories, books – in progress…
Stand-up:
Comedy – planned…
Film/video:
Playlist – YouTube
Apps:
Accounting – Wibamu
Trading tools – MetaTrader
Trading system – Vimeo
Games:
Board games – Vimeo
Images:
Google Maps – Google
Board – Pinterest
Curated Playlists:
Playlist – Apple Music
Playlist – YouTube
Podcast #8
“TO BE, OR NOT TO BE”
– HAMLET IN HAMLET BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (ACT 3, SCENE 1)
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.