Good morning. 🌺🌻🌼

1 June 2026

Charlie has positioned himself in my office doorway, waiting for the minutes to tick by until mealtime. Honestly, I remember doing the same thing decades ago — standing in line outside the mess hall (or “dining facility,” as they call it now), waiting for the doors to open. That was just the way of things, especially on weekends when I’d already spent my pay and mostly existed from one meal to the next.

I’ll freely admit that as a young man, I wasn’t exactly the wisest of the bunch. Luckily, we were paid twice a month, in cash. Assuming we had the weekend off, the money usually disappeared that first weekend, leaving a long stretch of days before the next payday. And weekends back then weren’t even full weekends — a half‑day on Saturday and Sunday off, unless we were in the field, deployed, or otherwise occupied.

As I implied, I probably could have used my time and money a whole lot better than blowing it in the off‑post bars whose sole purpose was to extract every cent from freshly paid Marines. I was a mess back then. My theme song was probably straight out of The Wizard of Oz:

"I could wile away the hours
Conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain
And my head I'd be scratchin'
While my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain" - Harold
Arlen/ E.Y. ‘Yip’ Harburg

Actually, I was smarter than most, I think — but my brain was still relatively new, and I hadn’t yet learned how to use it… or maybe even how to turn it on.

Believe me when I say the old line is true: live and learn.

“In youth we learn; in age we understand.” — Marie von Ebner‑Eschenbach

“Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes.” — Oscar Wilde

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” — Søren Kierkegaard

#photo #photography #photographer #photographylovers #nature #flowers #life

He took the step. The small version, the one he’d written down and made specific and finally done. And then he sat there, waiting. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing resolved. The notebook was still open. The tea was still warm. It felt more or less the same as before. He’d expected to feel different.

The step didn’t fix everything. Of course it didn’t.

And yet something in us expects it to. We’ve been building towards the move for weeks, months sometimes. It has weight in our imagination. It has shape and significance. We’ve written about it, circled around it, finally made it small enough to take. And then we take it. And the world doesn’t rearrange itself. The feeling we were waiting for doesn’t arrive. Things feel more or less the same.

This is the anticlimax. And it’s one of the most important moments in the whole process, precisely because it feels like nothing.

Why the Anticlimax Feels Like Failure

It doesn’t feel like nothing, actually. It feels like something went wrong.

The logic goes: if I’ve been building towards this, and I’ve finally taken the step, then something should have shifted. There should be evidence that it mattered. There should be clarity, or relief, or at least the satisfaction of having arrived somewhere new.

When that doesn’t come, the mind starts looking for an explanation. And the easiest explanation it can find is that the step was wrong. That the signal was misread. That the direction was wishful thinking dressed up as insight.

But that’s not what the anticlimax means. Not even close.

The anticlimax is what it looks like when you take a real step in a real direction. Because real steps don’t produce revelations. They produce small data points. They tell you something quiet and specific about whether the ground underneath this direction is solid. That information rarely arrives with fanfare. It arrives as a slight adjustment in how things feel, which you might not even notice until a few days later.

The disappointment comes from comparing the actual experience with an imagined one. The imagined version had music. The actual version was just a morning, and something you did, and then the rest of the day.

What the Anticlimax Is Actually Telling You

If the step felt flat and you’re tempted to dismiss the direction entirely, pause before you do that.

Ask yourself: did the step feel wrong, or did it just not feel dramatic enough?

These are different things. Wrong has a quality to it. It feels misaligned, uncomfortable in a particular way, like wearing the wrong size of something. You know it in your body before you know it in your head. Wrong sends a clear signal.

Flat is different. Flat is just the absence of the drama you were expecting. It doesn’t mean the direction is wrong. It often means you’re exactly where you should be, doing the unglamorous middle part of something real.

Most meaningful work feels flat in the doing. The significance of it only becomes visible in retrospect, when you look back across weeks or months and see what accumulated from that first unremarkable step.

So if the step felt flat but not wrong, that’s useful information. It means the direction might be right and the expectations just needed adjusting.

If the step felt actively wrong, that’s useful too. It means the signal needs more examination. Not that you’ve failed. Just that the small test gave you honest data, and honest data is always worth having.

Why Neurodivergent Minds Are Especially Vulnerable Here

The anticlimax hits harder when you’ve been waiting a long time to take the step.

For ADHD minds, the momentum leading up to action is often fuelled by anticipation. The idea of the step carries energy that the step itself may not. When the reality doesn’t match the internal hype, the drop can feel significant. Not just flat. Deflating. And that deflation can trigger the familiar cycle of abandonment: this isn’t working, on to the next thing.

This is worth naming explicitly because it’s a pattern, not a verdict. The drop after anticipation is a feature of how ADHD brains process reward and novelty. It doesn’t mean the direction was wrong. It means the dopamine that was attached to the idea of the step has been spent, and now the actual work needs a different kind of fuel.

The different kind of fuel is habit and structure. Which is exactly what you already built. The routine holds this moment. You don’t need the excitement to carry you. You need the system. And you’ve got one.

For those with a more internalised perfectionism, common in autism and many twice-exceptional profiles, the anticlimax can trigger a different response. A quiet sense that the execution wasn’t good enough. That you took the step wrong somehow. That real readiness would have felt cleaner, more certain.

It wouldn’t. Readiness never feels clean from the inside. The anticlimax is what competent, honest action looks like when the imagined version gets stripped away.

What to Do Next

Don’t make a big decision in the aftermath of the anticlimax.

This is the most practical advice in this post and probably the most important. The hours and days immediately after a flat-feeling step are not the right time to evaluate the direction. The emotional weather is distorted. The absence of drama can read as the absence of meaning, and that reading is almost always wrong.

Give it a week. Write the step in your journal. Write how it felt. Then close it and do something else.

Come back to it after seven days. Read the entry again with some distance. Notice whether the flatness still reads as failure or whether it just reads as a thing that happened. Notice whether anything shifted between then and now, however slightly.

Then ask: was there anything in that step, even one small thing, that felt true? Not exciting. Not revelatory. Just true.

If there was, that’s your next signal. Small, honest, worth following. Take the next small version and see what it tells you.

If there genuinely wasn’t, if the whole thing felt wrong rather than flat, then you’ve learnt something real. The direction needs adjusting. That’s not failure. That’s the process working exactly as it should.

Journaling Prompts: After the Anticlimax

Give yourself a few days before using these. Don’t do them immediately after the step.

• 1. Did the step feel wrong, or just not dramatic enough? Try to locate the difference in your body, not your head.
• 2. What did I expect the step to feel like? Write the imagined version. Then write the real one. Notice the gap.
• 3. Was there anything in the experience, even briefly, that felt true? Not good, not exciting. True.
• 4. What does this step tell me about the direction, honestly? Not what I hoped it would tell me. What it actually did.
• 5. Have I done this before, dismissed a real direction because the first step was flat? This is worth sitting with.
• 6. What would I tell someone else who described this exact experience? Write it plainly. Read it back.
• 7. What is the next small version, if I’m honest about what I found out? It might be the same step again. It might be a slightly adjusted one. Just name it.

The step didn’t fix it. That was never its job.

Its job was to give you a small piece of real information. To test whether the direction was solid or imagined. To move you from speculation into experience, however quietly.

You’ve done that now. The ground is a little more known than it was before you took the step. That’s not nothing. In the middle of a process this slow and this honest, that’s actually quite a lot.

The next step will probably feel flat too. And the one after that. And somewhere in the accumulation of flat, honest, unremarkable steps, something real will have been built.

That’s how it works. You already know this. You’ve already done it once.

On moments that were never meant to be noticed… but never forgotten.

We take photos for a lot of reasons.

To remember. To hold onto something before it slips away. To capture a moment we don’t want to lose.

People take photos of everything—the big moments, the small ones, the ones that feel important, and the ones that don’t seem like much at all.

And sometimes, we hand that responsibility over. We hire a professional and entrust them with the burden of capturing the most important moments of all.

But not every photo stays with us. Some get a quick glance, maybe a smile, and then they fade—lost in a feed, buried in a folder, forgotten over time. And then there are the others. The ones that hit a little different. You don’t just see them—you feel them. They pull you back without warning, not just to what happened, but to how it felt to be there. For a moment, you’re right back in it.

And whether you realize it or not, those are the ones that quietly remind you of the why.

Back in college, one of the jobs I had was as a photographer—but not the photographer. I wasn’t the one directing people, lining them up, or telling them where to stand. That was my boss, the main photographer. He handled the big moments, the planned shots, the polished ones—the kind that made it into the fancy, bedazzled albums, the ones that got framed and hung in prominent places.

Me? I worked the edges.

I took the candid shots—the behind-the-scenes moments. Unposed. Unplanned. Completely real. While everyone was focused on the “important” moments, I was capturing everything in between: a laugh that slipped out too early, a quiet glance no one noticed, a conversation happening just off to the side.

My photos didn’t make it to the front of the album. Most of them ended up tucked away, placed into cheap sleeves, forgotten over time. But those photos carried something different. They carried stories. Stories of unplanned moments, of unexpected interactions—the kind that don’t ask for attention but hold onto it once you see them. The kind that flood you with memories every time you come back to them. The kind that unapologetically remind you of the why.

Today, it’s different. Now, everyone has a camera in their hands. Everyone is documenting life as it’s happening—the meal about to be devoured, a kid on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid or incredible, a sunset just beyond the trees, light filtering through a beer bottle.

Everyone’s a photographer, and honestly, it’s a beautiful thing.

But not everyone sees the same way.

Back then, it was just me, hired to hang out and document your moments from a different point of view. Sometimes that meant standing nearby, listening in on conversations—about life, about your story, about the “why” behind who you are, or about nothing at all. Never really part of it, but somehow a necessary presence.

There was no pressure. No performance. No forced smiles. Just presence. Just people being themselves. There were laughs. There was silence. Arguments. Disagreements. Whatever happened, it was real.

And while all of that unfolded, I was there with my camera, quietly capturing it all—the glances, the gestures, the in-between moments, the unguarded pieces of humanity. It felt awkward at first. Really awkward. But then something shifted. The walls came down. And then people appeared.

And what was left wasn’t just a collection of photos—it was something honest. A story. Your story, lived, not staged, told frame by frame. A story to share, or one to keep close just for yourself. Or maybe just small pieces of it, released into the world. No fanfare. No celebration. Just smiles, memories, and stories told later, recalled fondly over drinks.

I still hold on to the idea that the best photographs aren’t the ones that are carefully planned, heavily filtered, perfectly processed, and beautifully framed. Don’t get me wrong—when done right, those can be some of the most visually stunning images you’ll ever see. But the ones that stay with you, the ones that matter, are something else entirely.

They’re the unfiltered ones. The unplanned ones. The ones that live in the background, quietly holding everything together. Those tell a story, sometimes about an isolated moment in time, sometimes a small piece of a larger journey.

Somewhere along the way, I realized those were the moments I was drawn to most. Not the perfect ones, but the honest ones. Not the ones we perform for, but the ones we live in.

Like a writer tells stories, a photographer captures moments that will be relived countless times.

Maybe that’s what this is now—a return to that space. A conversation. A moment. A story unfolding without direction. Just people, as they are.

And maybe… that’s the most beautiful part of all.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.

The Old Wardrobe

Those old dresses…what you once wore and how you wore them, how you fit into things, the way they felt. There was the comfortable one and the one you had to wear on certain, special occasions. Now, just familiar strangers. That old blouse that used to be your favorite, cream colored but had that small speck, a stain you hid under a button, a brooch, or a sweater. If it was noticed, you had a few stories prepared. You had to have reasons ready.There’s the old coat with that inner lining you replaced, hemmed twice, but it kept fraying. It had such raw edges like a fringe. If the weather warmed, you had to carry it on your arm and it became a small burden. On those days, you asked yourself why you brought it in the first place. It was like two dresses sewn together when you only paid for one.On the bottom shelf of the old wardrobe, there's a newspaper lining. It's torn and faded, the type nearly gone. Within its mess of creases, folds, and holes you barely make out a number followed by the words killed in action. As you decide which clothes to keep and which ones to discard, you think about lining the bottom shelf with something different, something without ink…this time.Photo by me. #Art #Clothes #Life #Love #Photography #Poetry #Reading #Relationships #War #Writing

How We Show Up for Every Customer, at Every Step

There’s a quiet myth about the word “premium.” It brings to mind distant service, unanswered messages, and an experience that feels designed to impress rather than to genuinely help. We’ve never thought that trade-off was necessary.

Being premium and being accessible are not opposites. The best experience a customer can have is to feel like someone is paying attention to them, not just at checkout, but the whole time.

Here’s how that looks in practice, at every stage of your order.

Before You Place an Order

There are usually questions before anyone hits “buy.” When it comes to sizing, timelines, materials, and suitability, it’s the little things that make a purchase feel right or uncertain.

Our main priority right now is to be totally accessible. It’s not technically available, but it’s actually responsive. We’re looking for real answers, not just templated deflections.

When someone reaches out, they get a thoughtful reply that acknowledges their question as a valid and important thing to ask — because it is.

No one should feel like they need to earn the right to ask something. If you ask questions early on, you’ll be able to place orders with confidence.

When You Place Your Order

We like to mix things up.

Our confirmations are written by ourselves.

We include a real person to write back to, not a no-reply address.

This is the point when most brands stop communicating, thinking they’ve done all they can. We see it as the moment the relationship actually begins.

While Your Order Is Being Prepared

The period between placing an order and receiving it is when anxiety quietly builds. Customers don’t want to be flooded with updates — but they do want to know that someone is on top of it.

We’re pretty proactive. If something changes — a delay, an unexpected change, anything that affects your order — we’ll reach out before you have a reason to write in. We’re the first ones to reach out, and we make it clear what’s going on and how to move forward. No one should have to call us for info about their order.

Proactive communication isn’t about managing optics. It’s about respecting your time and your plans.

After It’s in Your Hands

Most transactional relationships end at delivery. We think the most important moment is just after it.

A short, unhurried check-in — not a review-solicitation blast, but a genuine enquiry — signals that our interest in your experience didn’t stop the moment the package left our hands. If something was wrong, we want to know, and we want to be the easiest possible people to tell. If something worked really well, that matters too.

Over time, this follow-through is what separates a brand that feels attentive from one that just looks polished. We remember preferences. We carry context forward. We try to get a little better to work with each time

What This Actually Means

Premium but accessible, in plain terms, looks like this: short response times, honest communication when things are delayed, packaging that shows care, messages that sound like a person wrote them, and follow-ups that aren’t fishing for five stars.

It means no customer should ever feel that their concern is too small, their question too basic, or their order too modest to deserve real attention.

The true measure of a premium experience isn’t the price point or the aesthetic. It’s whether the customer — at every stage of the journey — felt like someone was genuinely glad they reached out.

That’s the standard we hold ourselves to. Not because it’s always easy, but because it’s the right way to treat people.

I saw this quote today, and it resonated with me deeply:
“We are writers, my love. We don’t cry. We bleed on paper.”
I have no idea who wrote it, but it hit me anyway.

As a creator—writer, musician, photographer, cook—it applies across the board. Our emotions are always on display through our work. Not always overtly, but subtly, in ways that often go unnoticed. That’s what makes it so powerful: expression as transformation rather than release.

It’s stories told in ink, light, and flavor. Look closely enough, and you’ll find… a little bit of someone in everything they create.

It’s not that artists don’t feel deeply—we probably feel too much. But instead of letting it spill out raw, we distill it. We translate it. We reshape it into something that can exist outside of us.

A writer turns ache into rhythm and language.
A musician turns it into sound and silence.
A photographer freezes a feeling in light and color.
A cook folds it into flavor, memory, and comfort.

It’s rarely loud or obvious. The most honest parts are tucked into the corners:

The way a sentence lingers just a beat longer than it should

The chord that resolves… but not quite

The shadow in a photograph that wasn’t “planned”

The extra pinch of something in a dish no one can quite name

That’s the bleed.

What’s powerful about that quote isn’t the toughness it suggests—it’s the vulnerability it hides. Putting emotion into your work means letting people feel you without ever announcing it. And maybe that’s why it resonates so much: creating isn’t just making things… it’s processing life in a way that leaves a trace of you behind.

Not everyone notices it. But the ones who do? They feel it immediately. And in that moment… a little bit of us is everywhere.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.

There is a flaw in the system

Hello

If this is your first visit, welcome to Musings. Today I am musing about fate or the flaw in the system. If you have been here before, welcome back. Over time we are going to talk about many things: the past, the present, perhaps the future, travel,

New Car

Three weeks ago I finally replaced my 2008 van.

It had been a great ride. We drove from Florida to central Mexico and back five times and up to new York and surrounds several. It hauled paintings and plants and an unimaginable variety of stuff over the years, never complaining, always dependable. In the end it had dents, a cloudy GPS screen, a broken side mirror and failing paint. But it still ran, never complaining.

It took a long time for me to let go. It was like I was forsaking an old friend. Letting go when the chaise showed age for a new shiny ride. Ah . . . well, I went ahead just the same.

I bought a new Subaru Outback, shiny, full of features and with a reputation of reliability and safety. The first house I bought cost half the price of the car.

Two days later I was rear ended . . . stopped in traffic and “BAM bam”.

The officer said, “She hit you twice didn’t she? Yeah, they hit you the first time and the momentum carries them forward and they hit you the second. Yep, That’s what happened.”

My assailant was a young woman aged 21. She had just bought her car, aged 24. They told her “It was in good shape”. Was is the key word. Not anymore.

I felt sorry for her. She looked so defeated. She claimed “the brakesfailed“. The officer said, “They all say that“. The boy friend said he put brake fluid in her car that afternoon. Who knows? Fortunately she had insurance.

So now I needed to deal with the insurance company, State Farm. They were very accommodating, approving the repair, a rental car for the time the car was being repaired with a list of approved repair companies close to me . . . all in about ten minutes.

The next day I went to the approved repair garage I had selected and did the paperwork. And we ran into a problem . . . .!

The car is a new model . . . too new. The dealers don’t have replacement parts. Who knows when they will have them?

I wonder what my old van would think about this.

On A Different Note

RECENT WORKS

Whispers in the night

Tempest

What the clouds remember when the sky parts

The piece above is a diptych and can be hung as two panels or one.

On a Different Note

I used to be a banker, but then I lost interest

Lillies

girlfriends

Red Beach Two

Morning Symphony

Take a look at my website:

www.ttribby.com

Works on Paper

On The Waterfront

Impressions of Florida

#Art #cars #college #Family #Food #FraternitiesAndSororities #Fraternity #life #nature #PhiGammaDelta #photography #Seattle #Travel #UniversityOfWashington #winter #writing #ZetaPsi