Depending on how the power and internet are, I may NOT be making a post tomorrow. There’s no particular danger where I am in Florida, but there could be downed lines and cable outages. If I don’t post, that’s probably why, so don’t worry.
Author: Robert Elessar
Rainy days and Mondays…
It’s Monday morning…the first Monday of October, after a weekend in which the only positive thing I did was talk on the phone to my sister. Unfortunately, that was cut a bit short by the fact that I was starting to have trouble with my voice; I guess I have a minor case of laryngitis.
I don’t really have anything of importance to discuss today, but I’m not writing any fiction currently, and I have no other personal goals or projects of significance. I don’t really even know what the point of writing this is, to be honest. It’s just something to do on the way to the office, I guess.
I want to stop trying. I want to stop pushing that stupid boulder. I can’t get a single decent night’s sleep, no matter what I do. I didn’t get any exercise this weekend because my feet and ankles/heels have been giving me a great deal of trouble, and it’s also been raining more or less constantly the whole weekend. This is not new. In fact, either last Sunday or the Sunday before, I had a bad slip and near-fall in the rear of the house in which I live because of the wet and muddy pavement, the flailing about from which really wrenched my back; it still gives surprisingly sharp pains if I lean in the wrong direction.
And, of course, now there’s a new hurricane brewing in the Gulf of Mexico that’s supposed to cut across the state later in the week. That’ll be at least mildly interesting, but the main brunt of it looks to be missing this part of the state. It’s coming from the west, so by the time its main body reaches north of here, it’ll expend at least part of its impetus.
If you want something done right, I guess you have to do it yourself, or so the saying goes. If I want to be completely destroyed, I’m going to have to make my own arrangements. I mean, I had planned to start trying to do that‒or at least to roll the dice on it‒two weeks ago, but my plans were pushed back a bit.
Still, it’s not as though there’s been any reason for me to change my mind. I’m still a valueless waste of space and matter and time, in pain every day for decades now, with no real friends‒appropriately, since I’m not worthy of friendship‒and a “life” that only merits the term as a form of mockery.
If anyone out there has answers, I’d be delighted to learn them. I have looked, believe me. But of course, all I ever get when I ask such things are banal homilies and assurances that there are people who care and admonitions to “hold on…blah, blah, blah”. It’s reminiscent of the story told by the Chief in The Outlaw Josey Wales, about President Lincoln urging the tribes to “endeavor to persevere”. If I didn’t already feel nauseated, that would induce the feeling.
Anyway, this is a waste of time and effort. I think I’m going to cut it short. With any luck, this coming hurricane will at least wipe Tallahassee off the map, but that’s unlikely to happen. And, unfortunately, it’s not likely to wipe me off the map, either. I’m going to have to do that myself.
Doubt is called the beacon of the wise, the blog that searches to th’ bottom of the worst.
Hello and good morning.
It’s Thursday, and so it’s time for my “regular” weekly blog post. It’s the first Thursday in October of 2024. It’s also Rosh Hashanah, so for those of you who celebrate it, L’shana Tovah.
I haven’t been working on any fiction at all since my last report‒unless you count my façade of being a normal person or living a normal life, of course. That’s doing what it does, and I continue to do it for whatever reason(s)‒perhaps habit, perhaps duty (to whom or what, though?), perhaps out of self-punishment or self-harm, I don’t know.
I wish I had something interesting to discuss. I’m nearly done with Authority, the second book in the Southern Reach novels. They are (so far) much better than the movie Annihilation was. But they are disorienting, as I’ve mentioned before, and given my own chronic and worsening insomnia and pain, they make me feel as though I might not be experiencing my own life as what it really is. Not that I actually think I’m being fooled or am hallucinating in any serious ways. But I do feel disconnected, separate, as though I’m not fully within or fully a denizen of this universe, but of some nearby, partly overlapping one.
I’ve long suspected that it would be difficult to “gaslight” me, because I have always found my own memory and understanding (certainly of my experiences) to be better than that of anyone around me. Yet I don’t “trust” myself, either, which means I tend to keep checking and confirming aspects of reality to test the consistency of my impressions. It may smack of OCD a bit, but it means that, at least intellectually, I find my own take on reality to be more coherent and consistent than that of most people with whom I interact. Though there are always things one can learn from others, too. One just has to be rigorous and strict in assigning credences.
As Descartes pointed out, we can never truly be certain that some powerful enough entity has not pulled the world over our eyes*. He famously came down to the conclusion, or rather the starting point, of cogito ergo sum‒“I think, therefore I am”, the point being that he knows, to his own satisfaction at least, that he is there and is thinking, because he experiences it even if all else is an illusion.
Of course, even subjectivity could be an “illusion” in some sense, in principle. The characters in all my stories have thoughts and subjective experiences‒they “think” they exist‒but that subjectivity only exists when they are being read, or when I wrote them.
And of course, we could be within an immensely complex “simulation”, and “merely” be aspects thereof. Such a simulation could be paused, say, and this could happen frequently or for tremendous periods of time up in the level of reality in which the simulation is being run, and as long as the simulation picks up right where it left off, no one here would ever have any way to notice or to know.
There could be a googol “higher-level” years between every Planck time in our universe** and as long as the simulation wasn’t changed, or was changed in ways that were logically consistent, there would be no way to see it from inside. This is one of the implications of the “simulation hypothesis” or whatever the “official” term is, put forward by such notables as Nick Bostrum, who apparently has a new book out called Deep Utopia. I have not read it; I never finished his book Superintelligence, because it dragged on a bit and I didn’t find it as challenging or revelatory as I hoped it would be. Maybe if I started again, the experience would be different.
I am reading at least two other books, though. I’m reading Yuval Noah Harari’s new book, Nexus, which is quite good so far, though nothing is likely to surpass his first book, Sapiens, which is one of the best books I’ve read.
I’m also working through Now: The Physics of Time, by Richard A. Muller. He’s trying to describe his notion of the true source and nature not only of time’s arrow, but of time itself. It’s reasonably good so far, but his arguments have not been as interesting or as impressive as I’d hoped they might be. Still, I look forward to getting to the point in which he elaborates on his idea that not merely space is expanding, but time is also doing so, and this is the source of time’s arrow and the nature of “now” and so on. It’s intriguing, and it’s far from nonsensical, considering that Einstein/Minkowsky showed that space and time are one entity.
I’m sort of on hiatus from Nate Silver’s On the Edge, which is a good book, but is quite long and in-depth, and some things he discusses are more interesting than others, to me.
Other than that, I continue to feel discordant, or hazy or separate, like everything, including me, is “a copy of a copy of a copy of itself”. Last night, the feeling of being disconnected, rootless, and that I am in the process of disintegrating felt highly distressing***. I wished I could find a way to feel connected with the daily, normal processes of my life, instead of feeling as though I am, for instance, one of the people exploring Area X and trying to understand it without much chance or hope of success. Or perhaps it felt more that I am the analogy of Area X, I am the alien thing/environment in the more “ordinary” world, dropped here perhaps by accident, with no idea where I really belong or whence I really came.
Now, this morning, those notions are not gone, but the alarm associated with them is not as intense, replaced more and more by fatigue, a kind of learned helplessness. As time goes by, I tend more and more toward apathy‒not acceptance but merely giving up, just not having the energy to continue to care. I would like to connect in some way, to feel as though I belonged somewhere, but I am a Nexus 13 in a world of humans‒a world where, inexplicably, nobody seems ever to have manufactured such replicants, and yet here I am, making everything ever more drearily baffling.
Oh, well. Maybe as the disjunction progresses, I will reach some turning point, and I will melt, thaw, and resolve myself into a dew. Or maybe I’ll have to try Hamlet’s next mentioned option and make my own quietus as I intended to do on the 22nd‒I don’t believe in any “Everlasting” being, fixed canons or otherwise, that could prohibit “self-slaughter”.
Or maybe I will find some answers; or if answers don’t already exist, maybe I’ll create some answers. It seems unlikely, given my personal experience and understanding, but the odds are not zero. Though they may well be close enough for all practical purposes.
TTFN

*To borrow a lovely expression from The Matrix.
**Ignore Relativity’s problems with simultaneity for…well, for now.
***So many “dis” words.
An impromptu post I wrote but did not edit
It’s Tuesday, and I’m on my way in to the office, and since I’m not writing any fiction right now, I figured I’d see if I can write a brief blog post. This is my only real interaction with the outside world, and apart from my sister, this is the only form of conversation I actually have with anyone in any depth.
As you know‒well, maybe not‒I’ve tried using my YouTube channel to express thoughts and ideas, but I get no real feedback or engagement there. I even posted a little video recently on my hitherto fallow Instagram account, but though I got about two “hearts” on that, I don’t expect much more. It’s a peculiar venue, anyway. I enjoy the videos of the guy reading silly signs in a silly fashion‒he’s surprisingly funny‒and the people doing skits and especially the woman who does skits acting as everything from planets to fonts to the brothers Romulus and Remus deciding what to name the city they’re founding. I also enjoy seeing some of the cosplayers, though the music they tend to put in the background is often terribly irritating. I guess a lot of that is influenced by TikTok.
It’s the first of October, of course. The month of the Autumn People (of which I suppose I am one, certainly by birth date). “We are the hungry ones. Your torments call us like dogs in the night. And we do feed, and feed well.” “You stuff yourselves on other people’s nightmares.” “And butter our plain bread with delicious pain.”
Of course, none of that sadistic nonsense really appeals to me. I’m not a tormentor by nature; I’m a destroyer. If something (or someone) irritates me, I want to obliterate it, not “punish it” or “hurt it”. I don’t want my enemies to suffer, I just want them to die. So I am more sympathetic to Melkor than to Sauron*.
And, of course, my greatest, most enduring‒possibly my only‒enemy is myself, and so…
I think what triggered me to want to write a post today was the fact that yesterday, on Why Evolution is True, Professor Coyne wrote a post about his previous night’s insomnia and his unpleasant dream and experience. He has intermittent insomnia, it seems, and it causes him real discomfort. I was one of the oodles of people who shared our own experiences in the comments, noting how I almost never remember my dreams, but haven’t slept well in almost 30 years, and that when I sleep I feel like a soldier in a battle zone, never willing to sleep deeply and always alert as if potentially under attack. I don’t know exactly what’s behind it. Maybe it’s just that I don’t ever feel safe, anywhere, at any time. Which is an accurate feeling, of course. Safety is an illusion and a delusion, and it always has been. It’s not safe in the world, and no one here gets out alive.
Anyway, I guess I was perhaps hoping that maybe the erudite readers of PCC(E)’s website might have some new ideas about things that might help my problem, but alas. Nothing so far. I think I’ll quote the whole thing here, though:
“I almost never have any dreams that I can remember, because I almost never seem to sleep deeply enough (though that’s probably an illusion). In any case, I can remember (roughly) the last time I had a good night’s sleep: It was in the mid-1990’s. My sleep has never been great, even when I was a child, and it has gotten worse over time.
Even taking Benadryl (or similar medications, OTC or prescription) only gets me about four hours, and then I am groggy–but not SLEEPY–for the rest of the day. Alcohol only makes my sleep and chronic pain worse. Mostly what happens when I wake up–several times a night, usually starting about 1 am–is that I long for something like a V-fib arrest in the middle of the night. I feel like a soldier trying to sleep in a battlefield, always watchful lest some emergency happen. That was useful when on call during residency. It’s not so useful now.
I don’t remember the last time I woke up to my alarm. But I do remember that it used to make me rapidly hyper-alert, as if someone had just called General Quarters, and I would tend to sit up instantly and shut it off as quickly as possible. Nowadays I usually just give up on sleep by about 3:30 in the morning.
I SINCERELY hope that PCC(E)’s insomnia resolves or at least improves. This is no way to live.”
I received one comment reply suggesting Remeron, but I’ve tried that, along with various other antidepressants and sleep medications, prescription and otherwise. I’m not sure what the issue is with me, but I really do wish I could get a good night’s sleep even just, say, once a month or something. If I could get one regularly, I’m not even sure what would happen, but I feel that I would be so much better in every way. I suppose I have a sort of gift of extra time because of the fact that I don’t sleep as long as normal people, but the time I have is miserable. It’s a bit reminiscent of one version of the “Repugnant Conclusion” regarding utilitarianism. One gains for or more hours per day of extra time awake, but that leads to all time awake being only barely tolerable‒and sometimes not truly tolerable except through the hope that perhaps the next day might be better, and the brutal biological drives to stay alive, even when life is miserable**.
It’s not clear to me that this is the proper or best or even a good choice, but there are so many pressures upon one to stay alive, even without purpose, without meaning, and without any real hope. Of course, hope is insidious; even those who would seek ruthlessly to expunge illusion and delusion, at least from myself, cannot seem to embrace the freedom of despair (so to speak). Again, I attribute this to “pre-programmed” biological drives, ruthlessly honed into us by natural selection.
Anyway, that’s enough. Including my quote, I’ve given you all more than enough dreariness to imbibe on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s bad enough that Tuesday afternoon is never-ending***.
Try to have a good day.
*When I began writing that, it autocorrected to “Sharon”, which seems a bit unfair to whomever Sharon is.
**And the desire not to cause pain to those one loves.
***If that were literally true, of course, then once the first Tuesday afternoon arrived, there would never be another day, and we would all, always be living in Tuesday afternoon. That is, unless perhaps each Tuesday afternoon bifurcates in time, with the initial Tuesday afternoon going off on a higher-dimensional tangent and continuing in its course without end, while the other branch continues to cycle through “normal” time, but every week shooting off new, eternal branches of Tuesday afternoons. That’s a weird thought. Sorry.
O madam, my old blog is cracked, it’s cracked!
“Hello and good morning,” he said with a sigh.
Here I am, doing this again, or still doing it, or however you want to characterize it. Words cannot give an absolutely complete picture of things that happen, not without being as dense in information as the literal reality itself, and if one is going to do that, one is going to have to double the information density of every real thing in order fully to describe it, which cannot be done at scale. As I’ve said before, the only thing with computing power adequate to completely simulate the universe IS the universe, at least as far as I can tell.
I had meant to be done with all of this, or at least on my way to being done with all of this, or on my way toward something better or at least different starting on Sunday, the first day of Autumn, Bilbo and Frodo’s birthday. Unfortunately, I had rather severe problems with my feet‒my left heel/plantar fascia and my right Achilles tendon‒that made it unworkable to carry things out the way I had intended.
I’ve been doing my best to calm these foot problems down, and they both are improving‒being a trained MD with 15 years of clinical experience is good for something* it seems‒but it may just be necessary to choose some other path to my destination. There are many from which to choose, and I am prepared for several of them. This is not a new or frivolous idea of which I speak, and I have put thought and preparation into it for a long time, all while foolishly hoping for some answer, some rescue, some epiphany, but ultimately finding such hopes to be chimeras or will-o-the-wisps**…or maybe even balrogs.
Anyway, as you probably already know, I posted all of Extra Body here last week over the course of four days. If you read and enjoyed it, please take a look at my books on Amazon and consider buying and reading one or more of them. Though I should warn you, most of my stories are much darker than Extra Body.
If you’re not good with dark stories, may I suggest The Chasm and the Collision? My sister has rightly pointed out that it’s my only story with as upbeat an ending as Extra Body. I would say Son of Man and Mark Red are somewhere in between, and a few of my stories, like If the Spirit Moves You (found in Welcome to Paradox City) and, to a lesser extent, “I for one welcome our new computer overlords” have some lightness to them. The former could even be called a comedy of sorts. But both stories center around fairly dark concepts or situations. Many of my other stories are horror stories…though there’s not a single “supernatural” thing in my darkest ever story, Solitaire, which is available solo and also appears in Dr. Elessar’s Cabinet of Curiosities.
Anyway, I doubt very many people will ever read any of my stories, which I think is too bad, but I certainly have no right to have my stories read. I think there might be a lot of people who might get at least some joy out of some of them, though. I think it would also be very satisfying to know that many people read my stories and some fraction of them enjoyed them. Even if they read them without knowing who the author was, I might not mind. But maybe I would. I’m not quite so egoless as all that.
Despite that aside, I have not started writing anything new since publishing Extra Body. I did open up and look at Outlaw’s Mind and I remade a version of it with the whole first in media res scene taken out, since the story ended up going in directions that I think were better than that original idea. But I have no will to work more on it. Likewise, when I even contemplate working on HELIOS, I feel an almost visceral revulsion or intimidation. And roughly the same thing applies for DFandD, or any of my other potential stories, like Changeling in a Shadow World and Orion Rising and so on.
The various drawing materials I bought upon being briefly inspired by Facebook “reels” of people drawing have laid fallow since I got them. I can’t imagine drawing something now. Nor can I really focus enough to read books or watch lectures on serious treatments of General Relativity or Quantum Mechanics, though I dabble here and there throughout most days.
I did read a new book: Annihilation. I had seen the movie, starring (a thoroughly misused) Natalie Portman, and wasn’t very impressed. But then I stumbled across a video page by a young woman who is a Star Wars fan and an author and who said she had loved the book but then had seen and hated the movie, so I got the book (for Kindle). It was hypnotic and disturbing and bizarre, and definitely far better than the movie.
Unfortunately, it’s told in first person, and when I read first person books I tend to lose a bit of my own sense of self and start thinking with the narrator’s thoughts, even about my real life, at least for a time. It’s the closest I come, in a way, to having a real “theory of mind” in the ordinary sense. Otherwise, I don’t tend to have a concept in my mind of what other people might be thinking or doing or feeling when I’m not in their presence. I think reading fiction from a young age helped save me from being utterly confused by humans in general.
People are observable phenomena, and can be fascinating and fun and engaging, and I like less than half of them half as well as they deserve. But other than through their own words, or through fiction, I don’t really have an “image”*** of other people’s thoughts or minds. I’ve never even for a moment wanted to be someone else (though pretending to be‒i.e., acting‒can be enjoyable), because I can’t really imagine what it would be like to be someone else‒not from a subjective point of view, anyway.
I have been playing guitar and singing a bit in the mornings at the office some days, when I know I am by myself and can feel relatively uninhibited. That’s sometimes enjoyable and sometimes painful (though in a strangely addictive way), and I occasionally think about making a video like some I’ve made previously, of me playing and singing Nothing Compares 2U, or Fake Plastic Trees, or Lucky, or The Man Who Sold the World, or even Karma Police or Ashes to Ashes or Weird Fishes (though I can’t so far do the “arpeggi” part of that latter song), all of which I can play and sing reasonably well. But the thought of doing the work is too intimidating, and anyway, I can’t really bear the notion of putting my disgusting face out there for people to see.
Okay, well, that was a meandering bit of nonsense. Unfortunately, here I am, still here, alive and writing this blog‒if nothing else for the moment. I hope something will change about all that, and soon. I cannot continue as I am, but I cannot see any better path other then no path at all. Still, of all things, writing this blog is probably the most ego-syntonic thing I do, and I greatly appreciate everyone who reads and likes and “likes” it, even if I cannot comprehend why you do. Just, thank you. I surely cannot thank you as much as you deserve.
TTFN
*Though, like everything else about me, it turned out not to be good for very much for very long.
**Or should that be “wills-o-the-wisp”?
***Not really the right term. Perhaps “model” might be better?
Extra Body: Chapter 12
As Albert began the luxurious climb back to consciousness, he became aware that, during his sleep—a duration he didn’t yet know—Walter had indeed not finished unlocking the first lock on his door. In fact, just after Albert had drifted off, Walter had found that his tension, his anger, his jealousy, and his hostility had all started to wane. His nervous system quickly went from reckless agitation to a state of real calm, of equanimity.
Walter looked down at himself, kneeling before Albert’s door, holding and attempting to use a set of lockpicking tools he had once ordered from Amazon out of curiosity, but which he had never been able to master. He pulled the torsion bar and the pick out of the lower lock, looked at them, and thought, “What am I even doing?” Continue reading
Extra Body: Chapter 11
Roughly an hour had passed since Albert had last left the bathroom. He had eaten, and he had drunk his cup of coffee, and he was quietly scrolling through some of the stories on the Google news page, when a feeling of strange disquiet rather suddenly grew upon him.
He lifted his head from his contemplation of his home computer screen and looked around. His small living space was fairly well circumscribed, and almost all of it was in view from any other point within it. There really was no place for anyone or anything to hide—at least, nothing much larger than a spider or an occasional roach.
Nevertheless, he felt a sense of unseen threat, or at least some worry, developing. He looked down at his forearms and was mildly surprised to see them riddled with goosebumps. Continue reading
Extra Body: Chapter 10
Albert awakened quite early the next morning, which wasn’t much of a surprise, considering that—as he now realized—he had gone to bed barely an hour after getting home from work and had fallen asleep not long after that. At some point it seemed he had laid the book he’d been reading on his bedside table, though he didn’t recall doing so.
He looked at his bedside clock—a relic of sorts that he kept despite the fact that he could use his cell phone or computer for the same purposes it served. It was just before six in the morning. It was good that he hadn’t actually needed to get up in the middle of the night to check on the response to the question he was supposedly going to ask, based on what he had told Walter. He had certainly not set any alarm. Continue reading
Extra Body: Chapter 9
Though he slept well—a fact that he relished, since he’d not always been a good sleeper, especially since his divorce—when Albert awakened, he didn’t have any new ideas about how to approach his situation. He felt the pressure of being perched in the middle of a three-way conversation that was going at cross-purposes and at different speeds and that wasn’t easy to keep clear in his head.
He got up and took his shower pretty much as usual, deciding to use a bit of the shampoo from the newer, larger cup to wash. He didn’t want to use too much, since he didn’t want to limit the surface on which the V-42 could write, but he felt it was good to test it, in a sense. He didn’t really doubt that the reproduced—or new, or whatever you wanted to call it—shampoo was just as effective as the original, and that it would do the same good for him, but having the personal experience, he thought, would help him feel, rather than merely believe, that fact. Continue reading
Extra Body: Chapter 8
Albert was silent for the rest of the drive home, which was not terribly long. He didn’t think anything clear or precise, just felt a vague sense of contemplation, something that he supposed was almost a Zen-like state. He was a bit surprised that he was not more nervous than he was, but then again, he felt stronger, more confident, younger—those things had to affect his mental state and acuity, and not just in helping him remember JFK’s youthful medical issues.
Even if the shampoo didn’t directly influence his nervous system—and he didn’t see how it could affect it—just being healthier, feeling healthier, had to have knock-on effects that would improve other aspects of his health. He thought that he recalled that he had been better at getting “into the zone” when he was younger, such as when he was studying in college. Continue reading
