Author: Robert Elessar

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2 kinds of ASDs and an NTD called SBO all considered by a pitiful SOB

It’s Friday, and this weekend I am not working, which right now seems like a highly positive thing, because starting yesterday in the middle of the day, I suddenly had a huge flare-up of my back/hip/leg pain.  I’m not sure what triggered it.  I’m always trying to see if I can tease out (and test) the causality of such occurrences, but of course, it’s a tricky business, with so many possible variables.  I wondered if it was something I ate‒I had a specific type of food in mind, that I had not eaten for a while‒or was it partly because of my severely poor sleep the night before?  What was it?

It was frustrating in more than the usual sense because, after having walked to the train that morning and not having any problems from it or the previous few days’ longish walks, I was planning to walk in the evening again.  Unfortunately, I did not feel up to such a thing when the time came, so I took an Uber to the house‒after getting some comfort-oriented ice cream at the Cold Stone Creamery*, a place I’ve not visited in over a decade‒and then another one to the train this morning, since I still feel rotten.

It’s noteworthy that, when I am in more severe pain than usual, my willpower to resist indulgences that I want to resist gets quite a lot weaker.  I suppose that trying to compensate for and deal with the pain diverts mental resources that would otherwise be pointed toward self-discipline.  I had a big hot pastrami sandwich for lunch yesterday and then that ice cream, but they were both far less satisfying and pleasant than I would have expected.  I don’t think I’ll ever get either one again.

I’m always trying to think about my back pain and the things that trigger and assuage it and so on, and occasionally‒though for the most part it’s all well-trodden ground‒I come upon some possible connection that I hadn’t seen before.  Yesterday, while thinking about my then-present back pain, I thought back to my childhood leg pains, which I think I’ve mentioned here before.  When I began having my current problems (about 20+ years ago), they first presented as a recurrence of the kinds of pains that I had as a child, quite similar in character.  This led to various investigations to look for neuromuscular or myopathic processes, but I had no myopathy**.

Having more recently researched connections between autism spectrum disorders (which I might have) and congenital heart disease (which I certainly did have‒Atrial Septal Defect, secundum type‒because I had open heart surgery for it when I was 18), it yesterday occurred to me that there might be other associated anomalies.

I think it was while I was browsing biomedical news related to neurodevelopmental stuff on a site that’s linked with phys.org (which is a science news site that I enjoy and recommend) that I saw something about neural tube defects related to autism spectrum disorders.

Neural tube defects (NTDs) occur when the neural tube‒the embryonic infolding that creates the cavity that becomes the sort of scaffold and center of the spinal cord and central nervous system and its supporting structures‒fails to close completely on one or both ends.  It’s mainly to prevent these that potentially pregnant women in the modern world are encouraged to take daily folate supplements.  NTDs can be utterly catastrophic, producing forms of anencephaly and various types of severe and lifelong neurological impairment, or they can be comparatively mild, all the way down to spina bifida occulta.

neural tubeadjusted

That latter term describes the situation when, at the very lower end, the spinal bones and what not are not completely closed at the rear.  The “occulta” part refers to the fact that there are no noticeable external findings that show the presence of the incomplete closure.  The most commonly affected portion of the spine is in the L5 and S1 vertebral bodies (lumbar and sacral, that is) with somewhat incomplete rear closure.  These findings are, according to what I have read, not always noted on MRI unless it is looking for them specifically.

diagrams of sacral spina bifidaadjusted

It is noteworthy (to me) that when my back was investigated, including “provocative discography”, I had not just a bulging disc but a full thickness tear in the L5-S1 intervertebral disc, going all the way from the outer edge to the nucleus pulposus.  Imagine one of the pieces of Freshen Up gum, with the goo in the middle of each stick up gum, but torn inward from the edge so that the central liquid leaks out.  That’s the sort of thing I had.

annular-tearadjusted

And it was in the rear of the intervertebral disc, just where any SBO might have left poor structural support.  No one noticed SBO in my back when they were working me up, but they weren’t looking for it, nor even looking at the bones in particular.  No one (including me) suspected any skeletal issue.  And SBO can be very occult, and may present, conceivably, with only very minor, hard to notice changes.

I haven’t yet mentioned that one of the findings that can be associated with SBO is bed-wetting.  I had trouble with that, in addition to my frequent and rather severe childhood leg aches, far later than my siblings…in fact, I never heard of either of them having that trouble at all.

It turns out that the correlation between congenital heart disease and SBO is quite high as such things go, more so than either condition’s correlation with autism spectrum disorders.  Of course, most people with congenital heart problems do not have neural tube defects, and vice versa, but the existence of one involves a prevalence of the other that is quite a lot higher than in the general population.

So, though I cannot arrive at any firm conclusions, I know that I had congenital heart disease, I have lifelong neurological and psychological attributes that seem (to me) to be consistent with what would have been called Asperger’s Syndrome before about 2013, and I had symptoms (and signs) that could very well correlate with the presence of a minor form of Spina Bifida Occulta***.

Also, of course, my physical findings when my back was investigated for a resurgence of leg pain in mid-adulthood are consistent with a structural weakness in the posterior region of L5-S1, such that my disc damage or injury was markedly worse than most I’ve seen in patients with whom I’ve been associated, or in descriptions of disc disease.

Alas, I no longer have, nor have access to, my former radiographs of any kind, nor medical notes or surgical notes.  I could be incorrect in this assessment of possibility, and I certainly don’t put my credence very close to 100%.  But I think I’ve nudged myself at least past the 50% point.

Whatever the case, I have chronic pain now, and I’ve had surgery in my back and implanted matrix with bone growth factor there and a titanium cage, so it’s probably all too messy ever to discern if there used to be a very minor case of SBO in the past.  Until and unless someone develops a means of scanning the past such as the Father invented in my book Son of Man, which uses complex time (and a phenomenon I made up) to be able to scan the past of quantum fields without running afoul of the uncertainty principle, I’m unlikely ever to know with anything close to certainty.

I’m convinced that our firm credences of any of the facts of reality can never actually be 100%‒I personally don’t even consider “I think therefore I am” to be completely valid, since even my consciousness might be part of some much greater mind’s imagination…though I suppose in that case, it would still be valid to say that “I am”, just that what I am would be different than what I seem to myself to be.

But for all practical purposes, it’s reasonable to go with Descartes, though.  Most other aspects of reality are, as he pointed out, less certain than we often suspect them to be‒except when they are more certain than we expect them to be.  

I hope I haven’t bored you too much with these thoughts.  They seem interesting to me, of course, but I recognize that’s no guarantee that anyone else will find them anything but mind-numbing.

It would be nice if I could find a way to get better answers than I have on questions of personal neural tube defects or neurodevelopmental disorders, but even textbook findings of such disorders are somewhat misleading, because we don’t have MRIs (or similar) of everyone in a population and symptoms or signs to correlate with findings.  Indeed, almost by definition, the MRIs and CTs and X-rays of people with such issues are going to be those with the most obvious and glaring findings.

Oh, well.  Reality is often disappointing.  But at least thinking about these things is momentarily engaging.

I won’t be writing a blog post tomorrow, barring the unforeseen, so I hope you all have as good a weekend as you can have‒which you will, since whatever happens will be what has happened, and will not be subject to change once it has (It’s always the best, and the worst, of all possible worlds, in a sense).  So, I guess it might be worth it not to worry about it too much.  But, of course, you also don’t have any choice about whether you worry about it or not, once you’re worrying about it****.

Even if there are “many words” a la Hugh Everett, you still only will experience one version of your life.  The fact that another of you might have it better (or worse) has no bearing on your experience in any given Everettian branch, unless it’s possible for the wave function branches to interfere again after decoherence, which is, in principle, possible, but so vanishingly unlikely that it seems not worth considering.

Enough!  Please have a good weekend.

*It was disappointing.  My tastes seem to have changed over time, perhaps due to Covid or perhaps to other matters, but some things I used to like don’t seem to please me anymore.  In this case, that’s probably just as well.

**Myo- for muscle and -pathy for “something wrong with”.  It’s a fairly basic term that reveals almost nothing beyond its prima facie meaning, but it sounds impressive because of the Latin.

***I should note that leg pain is not part of the traditional symptom list of SBO, but intermittent leg weakness is definitely a part of it‒and my leg aches were associated with some radicular type symptoms, such as apparently being associated with notable temperature change in the affected extremities.  At least, it was notable by our family dog, Ernie, who would often unerringly come and lie on my affected leg when I was in pain, just in the right place, as if to provide warmth and comfort.  He was a good dog!  Anyway, disorders rarely exactly follow the textbook descriptions.  As I’ve often said, diseases don’t read the literature.

****Rush were simply wrong; you cannot choose free will.  It either is or it isn’t, but that’s not up to you.

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I’ll give my jewels for a set of blogs, my gorgeous palace for a hermitage

Hello and good morning.  What follows is a very brief experimental attempt to see how well I can do voice to text while walking on my way toward the train station.  I don’t expect it to be a major way for me to produce this blog post, but maybe it’ll be entertaining, and if it turns out to be pretty good then I may actually go along with it further at some point.

I’m not sure how well to do things like line breaks and paragraph starts and so forth.  I may have to add all those after the fact by hand.  I don’t even know how it’s coming out right now so far, because I can’t really watch it while I’m walking as I speak/write.  I’ll have to learn at the end how well the voice to text process has worked.

In any case it is what it is, and I guess I’ll just have to see how it turns out.  It’s not that difficult in principle to add paragraph breaks after the fact.  I usually break up my paragraphs after my initial draft anyway.  But I’m not going to be doing this portion of this blog post much longer than to the end of the block.  It’s an interesting experiment and question, but until I find out how well it’s gone, and how well the computer has actually understood my spoken words to turn them into typewritten words, I don’t want to put too many eggs in that basket.

If that cliché is not your liking, please feel free to insert another.

It’s also a little bit awkward to speak too much when one is walking at a decent pace.  Okay, now I’m getting close to the end of the block and so I think I will draw this experimental portion of the blog post this close, and I will then finish it up by hand starting after I get to the train station.  Thank you for indulging me in this experiment.

***

Okay, that was the experimental section, which the smartphone says consists of 342 words.  That’s a fair few words to have spoken (to text) by the time I reached the end of my block, but then again, I live quite near one end of a long block, more akin to the space between avenues in Manhattan* than the space between “streets” in Manhattan.

I also tend to be rather garrulous when I get to talking, and I probably say less than the number of words used would imply.  In between such floods of verbiage, I am often at least somewhat taciturn, especially in the morning, and especially relating to “small talk”.  I really don’t like idle conversation at any time, but especially in the morning.  In fact, people who ask me “how I’m doing” or “how I’m feeling” in the morning can only be thankful‒though they know it not‒that I am not strong with the Force, because otherwise I would litter the morning floor with so many choked out bodies that Darth Vader would probably be moved to say, “Hey…dude…come on, man, you need to try to lighten up.  They didn’t do anything to deserve getting killed.”

Touché, Lord Vader.  Touché.  Actually, come to think of it, if you’re fencing with lightsabers, a touché is a pretty serious situation.

I’m sorry if I’m a bit bizarre today; I hardly slept at all last night, well under two hours.  I suspected this might happen.  As I stopped the melatonin, my daytime energy went up because I’m no longer groggy from the persistent hangover effect.  Then, yesterday, I walked 5 miles in the evening and got back to the house around 9, then showered and ate something and so on.  I was perhaps too physically wound up to easily get to sleep, and then staying asleep has never really been my strong point.  So…that happened, as they say, and it will probably affect my mood (affect my affect, if you will) today.

This is a deliberate and calculated thing I’m doing.  Quite apart from the fact that it didn’t seem to help my sleep much‒perhaps a slight amount‒the melatonin left me with less mental energy during the day.  Anyway, I’m trying to divest myself of most of the things I have and do that might make me meta-stable, that might hold back my depression, but not enough actually to treat it, only enough to keep it from completely destroying me.

I want to say to it, “Come on then, depression.  Here I am.  Do your worst.  No one’s coming to help, and I’m tired of trying to help myself.  If you’re capable of destroying me, then come on and do it, you piece of shit.”

It’s sort of a King Lear, “Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks…” moment:  An old man stands in the storm and invites it, or dares it, to destroy him.

I think I’ve already used part of that moment as a title of a previous Thursday blog, which is a shame.  It’s a lovely metaphor for many aspects of my life, perhaps much more than, say, Hamlet, which I quote more often.

Even Shakespeare, though, doesn’t have an infinite supply of potential quotes.  An infinite room full of monkeys and typewriters would, in principle, have a bigger body of work, but finding the good stuff would be a hell of a chore.  That’s probably a bit like reading my blog.  To those of you who do, thank you.  I appreciate your patience and kindness.

TTFN

palace in saint petersburgdarker

*I’m referring here to Manhattan Island in New York City.  There is also a Manhattan in Kansas, and there may be many more places named after the heart of New York City.  I don’t know much (if anything) about the street layout in such far flung places, but I would guess that their subway systems are less elaborate than that of the original.

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Perambulating meta-cycles of pointless (but pretentious) contemplation

Well, here we are again.  The cycle continues.  It’s not a motorcycle or a bicycle, of course; that would be silly.  And I’m not referring to something as fundamental as the Krebs Cycle, though of course, as long as I’m alive, that is constantly whirring in pretty much every cell of my body.

No, I’m referring to the cycle of days and weeks of my pseudo-life.  I’m back at the train station this morning, writing this on my “smart”* phone, having taken what I hope will be pretty close to my final Uber here.  I say that because, yesterday, I walked both to and from the train station, totaling over 12 miles for the day, and the ill-effects on my joints and back and so on are minimal.  I have no new blistering, no worsening of or new pains in my back or sides or hips or anything**.  I had a minor threatening back spasm yesterday evening, probably from fluid status changes.  That’s all right.  I drank a lot of fluids during the day and in the evening, and I think that took care of that.  It’s just a bit sore there now, and it’s certainly not more than a standard deviation worse than my average*** level of pain.

I plan to walk back to the house from the train this evening‒I have nothing better to do with my time, and I can listen to audiobooks and/or podcasts as I do it.  Then for the rest of the week, and hopefully for the rest of the time I’m here, I’ll walk to and from the train station every day.  The shoes I’ve chosen seem to be good; I may even get another pair or two, just so I can spread the wear and tear out.

[That was three words that rhyme in that one last sentence:  pair, wear, and tear.  So, there.]

I had a nice conversation with my sister on the phone last night as I walked back, and it even continued once I got to the house, at least for a while.  She’s the only one I talk to at all, really, except in passing to people at work.  It’s no surprise that I can talk to her even when I can’t tolerate talking to anyone else.   After all, I’ve literally known her all my life.  And she’s known me all my life (though not all of her life, since she is older than I am).

I used to call my Mom once or twice a week, usually twice, and we would talk for a while, but obviously that doesn’t happen anymore.  I mean, I could talk to my Mom, so to speak, but it would hardly be a conversation, since she cannot reply.  I don’t expect to be able to speak to her once I’m in the state she’s currently in, alas, though I suppose I could be wrong about that.  I don’t think I am (obviously) but I am not convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt.

I’m convinced beyond what I consider any reasonable doubt, but that’s not an insurmountable standard, as any unjustly convicted victim of the criminal justice system would surely agree (and there are almost certainly many of these poor souls languishing in prison, since we only ever directly learn about the ones who are eventually exonerated).

I’m on the train now, by the way, on my way to the office, ready to face another day at work.  At least, I’m as ready as I’m going to be.  I certainly am capable of doing what I do at the office, such as it is, even on payroll day.  But it’s not as though I’m excited or enthused about it.

Still, I don’t expect to be enthusiastic about work.  It’s work.  They pay you to do it.  Even when I was writing fiction every day, I didn’t feel enthusiastic about it when I did it in the mornings.  I felt a general positive sense about the stories, and about the characters and whatnot, but it wasn’t enthusiasm or “motivation” in the business-speak, life-coach type way the word seems often to be expressed.  Certainly there was never any “ooh-rah” feeling.  It was personal discipline to carry through on a commitment (self made and self directed) that also became a habit.

I think writing fiction did stave off my depression for a while, or at least it kept it more in check.  Those days are gone, though, likely never to return.  I mean, I really like Outlaw’s Mind so far, and The Dark Fairy and the Desperado was fun as far it’s gone (for me), and I think Neko/Neneko and Changeling in a Shadow World would be good, and it might even be worthwhile, someday, to try to recreate my first novel Ends of the Maelstrom or write the sequels of Mark Red or the prequel to Son of Man.  But I don’t think writing and/or finishing any of those is likely to happen.

Maybe if some wealthy benefactor/patron were willing to keep me alive and in a reasonably safe and tolerably comfortable situation, I might be convinced to start writing fiction again.  I know that I can write a lot when I choose to do it.  Just look how much gobbledygook I put out every day here on this blog.

I used to write over 2000 words a day on my fiction in the mornings before work (even when I was “up the road”) and sometimes I got quite carried away.  Unanimity had to be split into 2 parts because it was over half a million words long before I finished.  That’s slightly longer than It and around the length of the unabridged version of The Stand.  And I was not writing “full time”.

But I have no will to write fiction now.  There’s only so much one can do such a thing “into the void”, at least when one has nothing else of value in one’s life, before it feels like a thoroughgoing waste of effort.  Even this blog tends to feel utterly pointless‒it is utterly pointless, like most things I do, but it doesn’t always feel that way‒and I know there are people who read it.

I don’t know what point I’m trying to make.  Oh, wait, I just mentioned that it’s pointless, so I shouldn’t expect to have a point or to make one.  Maybe that is the point.  That would be rather circular and paradoxical and “meta” as they used to say before Zuckerberg pissed all over the word, and even stole the term “metaverse” which I had long planned to use in things like DFandD and CiaSW.  I know he didn’t know I meant to do that, and he surely had no malice toward me.  But, though I do not consider him to have willfully (or even willingly) done me wrong, I still am sorely miffed by his (quite lame) arrogation of the term.

All right, that’s enough for this day, and I’m almost at my stop.  Have a good day…please.  Someone ought to do it, and I’m neither talented nor skilled at such things, so I’m leaving that task to you readers.

*I suppose, to be fair, that it really is smart, depending on how you define the term.  That’s almost tautological, though, now that I think about it.  Depending on how one defines the term, my phone could honestly be called a dleefigle phone.

**My goal is to be able to walk as long as I might choose, indefinitely, without being stopped by any acute occurrence such as new onset of pain, blistering, etc.

***I avoided the more precise mathematical term “mean” level of pain because in the context of pain, “mean” can have multiple and misleading meanings…ha ha.

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Minor meandering, major depression, and a locrian outlook

It’s Tuesday morning now, and if the Beatles are to be believed, we will never see Wednesday morning, because “Tuesday afternoon is never ending.”  We’ll know by tomorrow if they are correct, but experience suggests they are not.

I walked to the train station this morning, and I must say, though the temperature and humidity are no better than before, at least now there is some wind.  It makes a world of difference, at least in the amount of sweat one accumulates.  I’m wearing one of those tee shirts that’s made of material that supposedly “wicks away” perspiration‒presumably while still allowing it to achieve its primary function of carrying away heat‒but when there’s no wind, the things just get saturated.

As I’ve said before (I have been told it; I did not arrive at the conclusion on my own), my sweat apparently doesn’t have much of an odor, at least in the short term.  I also spritzed myself with a bit of “scent bomb” before starting this post and prior to getting on the train.  It’s a mango scented one that everyone I’ve known to have smelled it finds pleasant.  Hopefully that all helps me avoid being too disgusting.  There’s not too much I can do about my face; I guess I could just wear a mask.  It works for Batman and Doctor Doom and Erik, the Phantom of the Opera.  We’ll have to see.

I decided to stop taking melatonin, so I didn’t take any last night.  I’ve been using it for roughly a month, but it doesn’t seem to be helping my sleep, and it’s certainly not improving my mood or my mental acuity, so f*ck it.  If I never have another full night’s restful sleep for the rest of my life, well…what else is new?  I’ll just stick with my multivitamin and stuff like that (and OTC pain medicine) and try just to get more into walking now that I’ve got the shoe situation more or less sorted.

I remain very sad about the fact that the hiking boots seem to cause me more pain when I wear them for long.  Still, heartbreak is the normal, usual state of my life, on scales from the trivial to the profound, so I guess I should just shrug it off as best I can.  The boot debacle is very, very far from my worst disappointment.  It is recent, though, so it still stings a bit; I guess I haven’t cauterized my metaphorical nerve endings well enough.

I listened to a few decent podcasts while walking, and that was beneficial, because they are the sorts of podcasts that deal with ideas in non-simplistic ways, and that approach such ideas as matters for discussion and thought, not for debate and spectacle.  A debate is just a kind of sporting match‒it can be entertaining, and the displays of skill can be exciting.  But the way to come ever closer to ever greater amounts of truth about reality is not via rhetoric and engaging personality (which are mere superficialities that titillate social monkeys such as humans) but by using actual ideas, exchanging information, testing it, and trying to minimize noise and entropy and error.

Truth is not an “Us versus Them”, zero sum game of scoring points and humiliating an opponent.  That which is actually true, in reality, is true for everyone, whether they perceive it or not, whether they know it or not, and whether they believe it or not.

Anyway, that’s a bit of minor meandering.  Today again appears to be one of those days in which I spin from idea to tangent idea here in my blog, for no specific discernable reasons.  At least I don’t discern them.  Maybe some astute and skilled reader can do better.

Oh, if I haven’t already said, I’ve been writing this on my smartphone.  Actually, even if I have already said, I’ve nevertheless been writing this on my smartphone.  That’s one of those truths about reality I mentioned, though it’s not a very big one.

Yesterday at the end of the work day, I just didn’t want to carry the extra weight of the laptop with me.  I was in a horrible, horrible, angrily depressed mood, and was barely able to contain myself, though I think very few people in the office‒perhaps none‒noticed it.  I tend to turn my fury inward, since I know I have the right to harm myself, whereas it’s a much dicier moral proposition to hurt someone else.  So, I quietly burned myself twice yesterday (not severely), and I have a small new blister on my left forearm and a linear welt from a heated paperclip on my right anterior upper arm.

I told you, I’m not doing well.  I don’t just hate my life and myself; I don’t think I can stand it much longer, and I don’t mean that metaphorically, and I don’t think I’m exaggerating.

It’s a month from today until Bilbo’s and Frodo’s birthday, which is also a day before the start of autumn, at the autumnal equinox.  It’s a very good day, I think, for someone to begin an epic journey.  The biggest question, for me, is whether I can wait that long.  I’m not sure that I can.

I guess, yet again, we’ll have to wait and see.  Obviously I’ve been able to endure long enough to write this morning’s blog post, and on my phone, what’s more.  I make no promises about tomorrow.  I don’t even know how good the odds are, honestly.  I’m not doing well, I’m not getting better, and I hate my life a little bit more with every passing day.  I’m also growing less and less fond of the world and of all the people and creatures in it with each passing hour, it seems.

Oh, well.  The world will little note, nor long remember…well, honestly, anything at all.  Everything is effaced by time and entropy, and nothing really has any point outside and beyond itself.  That latter conclusion actually presents a kind of brilliant freedom, really; meaning is not imposed, it is created.  But that can be a heavy burden, and our culture is poorly organized to bring such facts to the clear attention of those within it.

Still, culture has no more extrinsic meaning than does an individual life, nor is it any more planned and finely tuned.  As with all else, it just happens‒or happened I guess, and now merely continues.

Jeez Louise, it’s all both nauseating and boring, and that’s a truly repellent combination.  I have a harder and harder time every day just metaphorically holding my nose and continuing to walk through the sewer of the world.

Ah, well, I’m not getting anywhere with this.  Let’s stop for now.  Please try to have a good day.

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No bootlaces to be tied by this Monday’s child

Well, it’s Monday again—the 21st of August—and today I am writing this on my mini-laptop computer, as I said in my Saturday post that I would try to do.  So, at least some of my intentions do end up happening in the world, if they are minor and mainly inconsequential.

Of course, most of what anyone ever intends, or does, or does not do, is from any kind of serious perspective inconsequential.  One can also make the argument that, since pretty much everything is inconsequential, then everything is consequential, from the corollary or converse or obverse or whatever the term is of Dash’s point in The Incredibles*.  And, to stick with Sci-Fi/Fantasy worlds, the 11th Doctor more than once made the point that, in all his travels through time and space, he’d never met anyone unimportant.

So, congratulations, your decision about what to have for breakfast—and whether or not to have anything at all—is just as important to the cosmos at large as any decision that might be made today by any head of state in the world.

Does that make you feel important?  In what way?  Or if not, why do you think it doesn’t?

[Sorry, somehow that felt like the proper moment to pretend to be a cartoon-style psychotherapist.]

Speaking of psychotherapy and its targeted problems, I missed yet another potential stop-code among the recording numbers in the verification system on Saturday.  As the day started, with the first deal, we were coming close to a potential palindromic sequence, and we had two deals in quick succession, so it seemed we might just land on it this time (although there was never very much of a chance).

Anyway, there was then a long gap between deals, and we blew right past the next potential one by well over a hundred by the time we made our next deal for the day.  There won’t be many more opportunities between now and my semi-planned final takeoff date.

Even if a palindromic number sequence were to come up, I’m not sure what I would do about it.  I don’t truly believe in any kind of mystic notion relating to numbers, I just find them mildly amusing to play with, and so gave myself this notion of an “abort code”**.  But if such a number came up now, I don’t know that its occurrence would sway me one way or another.

In any case, I’m the only one who would know, since no one at work seems to have even the slightest clue that I feel self-destructive in the first place, let alone that I set myself little escape hatches or potential self-messages to give up on ending things.  It’s not for want of wanting to get the idea across to people—without being unnecessarily melodramatic or intrusive, anyway—but I don’t seem to be very good at crying for help.  I guess that’s a pretty big weakness.

Still, if a palindromic number sequence were to come up sometime between now and, say, Bilbo and Frodo’s birthday, I think I would just find it a curiosity.

I think I’m going to start to phase out even the few little things I’ve been doing to try to improve my mental health to whatever limited degree I am able to do it.  As regular readers will know, I stopped taking any form of anti-depressant, since it wasn’t working for me at all, and the side-effects were annoying.  I think I’m going to stop even trying to improve my sleep anymore.  Talk about tilting at windmills; I haven’t been sleeping any better than I used to, and I certainly don’t think my mood has improved.

But if it has, it’s done so in a tiny, miserable little way, which in some ways could be a curse.  It’s a bit like taking a disease someone has that’s killing them and pulling back its intensity just enough so that they can stay alive indefinitely, but not enough to make them feel any better or be any healthier.

Come to think of it, it’s not a bit like that at all; it’s exactly and literally that.

[Brief side note:  I’ve noticing that my laptop is very laggy—at least, my laptop computer is—as I’ve been using it today, especially once I activated the auto-save.  I don’t know why it’s especially slow at this point.  I haven’t upgraded it to Windows 11, since I worry that it wouldn’t handle the change that well, and I don’t like unneeded change myself if I can help it.  Also, I don’t really think that’s the problem.  It was never meant to be a speedy and powerful computer, since I got it just to write stories and blog posts.  Oh, well, maybe it’s just that I haven’t used it in a while.]

So far I’ve resisted the urge to get an Uber to the train station; my plan is to try to force myself to take the bus to the train, and then on the way back this evening I intend to try to walk back to the house from the station.  The only real impediment to the walking is the heat; the exertion itself doesn’t intimidate me.  The potential for added pain is sometimes a concern, but I think I’ve adjusted myself, shoe and knee-brace wise, in ways that keep that stable, so the walking doesn’t make things worse.  Knock on wood, if you do that sort of thing.

Soon it will be time to close out the first draft of this post and head for the bus stop.  I guess I’ll try to listen to some podcast or other on the way.  I don’t have any real interest in listening to any of the audio books I have.  I don’t have much, if any, interest in reading any book books, frankly, digital or paper.  Even non-fiction is getting unworkable, and I’ve long since lost my ability to engage in fiction almost entirely.

I’m also getting bored with the Euchre app game that I play, and with the Sudoku app that I play, and frankly, with everything else.  YouTube is getting boring, the various news sites and blogs I try to read can’t seem to catch my attention or lift my spirits.  Nothing seems to be working, and the days are getting shorter now, so to speak, so the seasonality to my mood is heading into worse territory.  This whole game is getting more uninteresting by the moment.  In the words of the WOPR from the movie War Games, it seems that the only winning move is not to play.

But of course, once you can choose your move, you’ve already been forced to start playing.  It’s all rather unfair and unkind, but that’s reality for you.  You get squeezed into the game without being consulted (since you cannot be consulted until you’re already in the game) by people who were themselves squeezed into the game without being consulted, all the way back to the beginning of the whole thing.  So, I guess none of us should feel too bad if we fail to live up to some expectations or ideals or something along those lines.

That’s enough half-assed philosophy for today.  I hope you all are starting what is going to be a good week, and that you have reasonably good weeks from now until the end of your days.  Why not?  I might as well hope for that for you.  You deserve it as much as anyone does, and probably more than most (from my point of view) since you are people who read.

*When his mother told him, “Everyone’s special, Dash,” he replied with, “Which is another way of saying no one is.”

**Though, in sense, it should be considered an anti-abort code, like the process needed to turn off an auto-destruct sequence for a spaceship.  Why would so many imagined futuristic civilizations make spaceships with self-destruct systems, anyway?  Are they all carrying state secrets of some kind?  We don’t put autodestruct systems into cars or trucks or trains or planes or even warships, tanks, and fighter jets.  It’s a weird thing to do.  I suspect it’s usually just a rather ham handed plot device, and once it happened prominently in one story, other stories mimicked it.

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The sobering fact of a drunkard’s walk of a blog post

It’s Saturday morning now, for future reference, for people who aren’t reading this entry when it is first posted, but at some later date.  I’m sitting at the train station as I write this.  I may finish it before the train arrives; on Saturdays, the trains come only once an hour, much less frequently than during the week, so there’s more idle time to wait at the station, and I write pretty quickly.

I’ve been writing all my posts on my smartphone lately, but I think I’m going to try to remember to bring the laptop back with me from work today.  It’s getting to be too much of a pain to write on the phone, and I write so much more smoothly on the computer.

I just realized that I still have my walking clothes from yesterday in my backpack.  When I got back to the house, I was pretty beat, and I didn’t even think to unpack them.  It’s okay, I spray them and dry them in front of a little fan during the day, so they don’t really smell, but it’s very annoying.  At least they don’t weigh much.  I vaguely thought about unpacking them during the middle of the night, during one of my oodles of nocturnal awakenings, but the thought obviously didn’t stay in my head.

I really didn’t feel well yesterday.  The whole day, I had full body aches and soreness, as if I were fighting a systemic infection of some kind, and I even developed a very slight fever‒only about half a degree Fahrenheit over my usual temperature (yes, I did check my temperature, since I felt as if I were getting sick).  Of course, I was going to come to work today even if I were truly ill, unless it was bad enough for me to be hospitalized.  If I missed one weekend, I would have to make it up by working two Saturdays in a row, and I cannot tolerate that possibility.

I can barely tolerate going to work at all, but then again, I can barely tolerate being at the house, either.  I can barely get through anything at all, and only the force of habit‒and the terrible stress and tension that goes with deviating from habits and expectation‒keeps me functioning.

I guess that’s what the gods did to Sisyphus to keep him rolling that stupid boulder; every time he started to falter and think it was futile, which it was, he probably felt terrible stress and anxiety, and the only way to assuage it even slightly was to keep pushing the stupid thing.  So, it’s either steadily elevating anxiety or perpetual futile behavior‒or death or some other kind of breakdown, I guess, though those were not an option for Sisyphus.

I may have mentioned it before, but I sometimes think that Prometheus had it better than Sisyphus.  He felt more pain (probably) but at least he didn’t have to be an active participant in his own punishment.

Speaking of anxiety and repetitive tasks, I occasionally wonder how often on any given day I feel the need to check and make sure that I still have my phone, my keys, my wallet and everything in my pockets.  Dozens at least.  Perhaps, occasionally, hundreds.  I also can’t stand still without either flipping a pen in the air (four turns per flip) and catching it or rolling dollar coins on the backs of my fingers.

Oh, by the way, I just got on the train.  I didn’t have quite enough time to write the whole post before it arrived, though maybe I would have been able to do so with my laptop.  I definitely need to try to remember to bring it with me today.

It’s all rather pointless, of course, but then again, so is everything.  Even our sense of law and order is weird, when you get right down to it.  I mean, why should I feel obligated to follow local, state, federal, and Constitutional law, let alone international law?  I do feel like I should follow them (see above about anxiety-driven behavior), but from an ethical point of view it’s very hard to see that I should have any obligation to follow those codes and rules that predated me, and in which I had no say, which were enacted by people who may as well be another species from me.

Some of the people who made the laws probably meant well and were doing the best they could to try to keep their society functioning, while others were probably merely self-serving, responding to lobbyists (or the equivalent) and fads and whims.  They would not have been thinking deeply about moral and ethical concerns for their present and future, but rather were engaged in the usual primate dominance maneuverings of the naked house ape (genus Homo species, possibly misnamed, sapiens), which are so similar to those of the baboon and the chimpanzee.

The notion of a social contract has always been a bit of a farce, from my point of view.  To have an actual contract, both (or all) parties have to have agreed to it, and for it to be morally, if not merely legally, binding then they have to have entered into it without duress.  One cannot, ethically, be born into a contract, any more than anyone can sensibly be born carrying the guilt of the deeds of their ancestors or antecedents‒thus the absurdity of the notion of original sin.  The famous teenage statement, “I didn’t ask to be born” is an entirely legitimate point.

I don’t know how I got into this tangent path.  I guess it’s a sort of free-association thing, or perhaps a proverbial drunkard’s walk.  I wish it were more therapeutic for me, but hopefully it’s at least sometimes interesting for you readers.

Speaking of that, I noticed that WordPress is apparently offering the option of creating a paid newsletter‒I guess it’s meant to be a bit analogous to what some people are doing on Substack and the like‒as a way for people to make some money with their blogging.  Presumably, WordPress would take a small cut, which seems only fair.  I think it’s all a nice idea, and paid services are often more pleasant than those that use advertising, at least if the advertising is intrusive.  I don’t mind banner ads and sidebar ads, but ones that pop up and block the screen make me never want to go back to a site again.

Still, there are only so many subscriptions a single person can have‒although, when paper magazines were still the thing, I sometimes felt that my parents wanted to test the upper limits of that claim.  They loved reading those magazines, and my father would accumulate vast piles of them near the foot of his chair.  I think they would have been avid consumers of online media‒actually, my father probably was.  He was a computer guy by profession, and was always ahead of me on that front.

It’s rather funny to imagine anyone paying to read my blog.  It’s a lovely fantasy‒hey, maybe more people would read it if they had to pay to read it‒but it seems unlikely.  Very few people pay even to read my books or stories, though on Kindle they are cheaper than a cup of Starbucks “coffee”, and they are more convenient.

Well, anyway, we’re getting close to my stop, and this has really been a wandering, meandering post.  I don’t even know what I’ve been writing about.  But, hey, if you want to support me monetarily, since I don’t have a Patreon or a Ko-Fi account or a WordPress paid newsletter thing, just buy one of my books.  Or buy one of my short stories, even‒they’re just 99 cents.

Enough self-serving tripe.  I’m no good at that kind of thing.  Have a good weekend if you can, everyone.  I will try (and almost certainly fail) to do so as well.

arthur drunk

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Walking and thinking of the ups and downs of knowing what is or isn’t true

It’s Friday, but that’s not really a big deal for me, since I’m working tomorrow.  Honestly, though, the difference between leisure time and work time for me anymore is mainly just where I happen to be, since I don’t find any significant joy in either situation.  There’s not much I can do about that, other than just lay down and die, which has its appeal.

I walked to the train station this morning, having walked very little yesterday.  I made good time, and my ankles seem to be okay, more or less, which is nice.  I listened to parts of a couple of old podcasts while walking, one by Sean Carroll, the other by Sam Harris, and each one led me briefly to make a voice recording of a thought that came to me at the time.

First, the Sean Carroll one led me to make a rather bad play on words:  “It’s no exaggeration that to say that y equals one over x is to be speaking hyperbolically.”  It’s a silly play on the fact that “hyperbolic” can refer to an exaggeration or to the mathematical shape, a hyperbola.

Hey, I’m be here all week.  Make sure to tip your servers.

(Should you tip your local area network, though?  That’s a trickier question.)

So, that was the silly thought.  The more serious one came as I listened to Sam Harris’s podcast with Nina Schick, the author of Deepfakes: The Coming Infocalypse, in which they discussed the advent and potential impacts of the increasing ability to make (and the decreasing cost of) convincing simulated representations of real people’s voices and appearances.  Of course, among the potential issues being presented was that this will actually increase the deniability of inconvenient events for political and other public figures, but at root, to me, it brings to mind something I wrote some time ago in a blog post on the problem of attribution.

When one quotes a person who said something one thinks is worth repeating, it’s generally considered appropriate to give an attribution, to credit the quote.  But even before the advent of possible deep fakery, the tendency to attribute quotes is a problem because humans are so idiotically tribal.  If you say a quote comes from Karl Marx or from Ayn Rand, you will automatically gain free credit and presumptive agreement from one group and automatic dismissal, disdain, and even hatred from another.

That’s stupid.  It’s not who says something that makes it true or valuable or worthy of note; it’s the actual thing being said.  This is one of the reasons I dislike formal debates, and the techniques of rhetoric in general.  They all boil down to primate dominance displays‒manipulations rather than actual, useful reasoning and sharing of the best available information.

I remember back in the late 90s, when people were getting all excited about the burgeoning web and internet, and about how they were going to make information so much cheaper and more readily available.  I agreed that would be the case, but I also had real misgivings, because I knew that also meant that misinformation, disinformation, and noise would become ever easier to disseminate.  And now, of course, people can “see” things online that never took place, and which nevertheless will influence their sense of what is real.  But reality does exist, outside of any perceptions or biases, though we may always only imperfectly apprehend it.

I think people shouldn’t worry nearly as much about who said something as about what exactly was said and whether or not it was true or plausible or reasonable or rational.  I suppose that being aware of a source’s credentials and track record can make one better able to decide whether to pay any attention whatsoever to what they say or write‒we all have only finite time and attention‒but even so, you should think rigorously about what someone says, no matter who says it.  Your favorite person can be (and is) wrong about many things, and your most hated enemy can say things that are correct (sometimes about you).

Hitler and Stalin were both quite aware that 2 + 2 = 4 and that the sun comes up in the east (so to speak), but the fact that these odious figures accepted such truths doesn’t make the facts any less true.  And the fact that the son and nephew of beloved historical political figures claims (miserabile* dictu) that vaccines cause autism and Wi-Fi causes cancer does not for a moment gainsay all the research that has demonstrated that they do not and that it does not.

Maybe people should just stick to print media and perhaps even only to printed print media.  At least there’s some cost to its production and that might weed out some of the riff-raff.  Though, come to think of it, maybe it wouldn’t.  It’s not as though there haven’t long been whole bookstores full of psychic and supernatural bullshit, and large sections of such material selling quite well even in reputable emporia.

Maybe people should just use online media of various kinds as entertainment but not as sources of information and evidence for too many things.  Then again, there are very good science programs and other kinds of information online that are wonderful to behold, and that can be informative and thought-provoking.  Even some blogs are quite good (this is probably not one of them).

I guess, maybe people should just try to think carefully and rigorously, and to recognize their own fallibility and that of their idols, as well as the potential for their “enemies” to be right sometimes and to be often other than pure incarnations of evil.

Maybe pigs should grow wings and take a skiing trip to Hell.

I’m not optimistic.  But hopefully I’ll be dead before everything goes to shit.  Unless that’s already happened, and this is the dystopia.  After all, how does one know one is in a failed society from the inside?  I suppose there are objective facts to be noticed in such a case, but that’s the heart of the problem.

Heavy sigh.

1 over x adapted

*That was deliberate, not a typo.

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If I have veil’d my blog, I turn the trouble of my countenance merely upon myself

Hello.  Good morning.

I really wished that this would be the Thursday blog post that I would title with the unaltered Shakespeare quote, “The rest is silence”, which is Prince Hamlet’s last line before he dies.  Then maybe I would share a brief clip from the video for the Radiohead song No Surprises, the part where Thom Yorke sings, “I’ll take a quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide, and no alarms and no surprises.  No alarms and no surprises.  No alarms and no surprises.  Silent.  Silent.”

Unfortunately, this will probably not be my final fit nor my final bellyache.  I certainly still feel compelled to write this today.  I woke up quite early, as usual, and lay in my room just staring about, wondering if there was any excuse I could give for not going to the office, and whether staying at the house would be in any way better than just going in.  Neither seemed to be the case.  So, finally, I got up, showered, and decided to take an Uber to the train very early.  In fact, I arrived just as the first train of the day was pulling into the station, though I made no attempt to catch that one, since it was functionally impossible.

And now, here I am, sitting and sweating and writing.

A weird thing did happen as I was getting ready to go this morning.  I put in my earphones and pulled up YouTube Music and chose my playlist “Favorite Songs”, with YouTube doing its little self-promotion about some new, unrequested service it now provides or something, in which I had no interest.  Anyway, I tapped the “shuffle playlist” option, and the song/video that came up first was my own song, Schrodinger’s Head.  But the song that began playing was none other than the aforementioned No Surprises.  It continued to play, overtop of my own song’s logo and screen, even when I backed up to the beginning of the song.  It didn’t correct itself until I’d skipped to the next song and then came back, at which point it was my own song that started playing.

That’s a strange glitch.  Does it mean that the program loads “video” and “sound”, at least in YouTube Music, as two separate processes?  I usually just go for the song rather than the video option (when that’s available), but I have always guessed that doing so simply involved the suppression of the video portion of the file in some sense.  But I’ve not ever seen a mixed song and video from different sources.

Not that I’m bothered.  It’s far from insulting if a Radiohead song presents as if it were my own.  Well, it might be insulting to Radiohead, but not to me.

Anyway, I didn’t actually listen to either song at the time.  I realized that what I really wanted was actual silence, and just leaving the earphones in but not playing anything is the closest I can come to that.  Of course, tinnitus means I haven’t experienced full silence for about 15 years, at least not in my right ear, but I can try to come as close as possible.

My pain wasn’t as bad yesterday during the day as it had been on the previous two days, and that’s definitely a good thing, though now it’s acting up more severely again.  That’s not really anything new.

As I stood outside waiting for the Uber, the air was as usual in the morning lately:  stagnant and still in addition to being hot and humid.  But far up and away to the east and south were high clouds, and there was rather frequent lightning to be seen, then and when I was riding to the train.

We used to call that “heat lightning” and I think people imagined it was something different than usual lightning, but my current understanding is that it is the same electrostatic phenomenon, merely much higher in the air (where I suspect the resistivity is lower, though I may be wrong about that…in any case, there would be more cosmic ray bombardment to seed ionization paths for lightning to follow).

Of course, one never hears thunder from heat lightning.  Maybe that’s because it’s so high and far that the sound is thin even to begin with, since sound travels more slowly and less effectively through less dense media.  And then, of course, as it hits the lower atmosphere, trying to enter a denser medium (with faster propagation speeds) it might be unable to penetrate.  Indeed, there might* be a phenomenon analogous to total internal reflection, the process that, among other things, allows fiber optic cables to work with essentially no signal loss.

When light is traveling through a dense medium, like glass or diamond, in which it moves much more slowly relative to its speed through air or vacuum, and it comes to an interface where it would pass out into a much less dense medium‒where it would travel much more quickly‒if it strikes at too shallow an angle, it will not exit its current medium at all, but will instead fully reflect, effectively without any loss.

My first thought was that it was the opposite situation for sound traveling from high, thin air to lower, much denser air.  But then it occurred to me that it’s not the density of the medium that directly causes total internal reflection, or any refraction, really.  It’s the differential speed of propagation that causes refraction and total internal reflection**.  And sound travels more quickly through a denser medium, not less quickly, whereas light does the opposite.  So, comparatively slow sound in thinner, upper air, coming to denser, lower air, might reflect if it arrives at a shallow enough angle.

It’s somewhat like being below the surface of a pool.  We know that sound travels much better and farther in water than air, but if your head is underwater, you may not be able at all to hear people talking who are standing near the pool, and you might not even be able to hear loud ambient music (unless a subwoofer is in contact with the ground/floor and thence to the pool).

I think I’m more or less on track with this as at least part of the explanation for the fact that one never hears the thunder that accompanies very, very high lightning.  Of course, some of it could simply be ordinary attenuation, since the intensity of sound falls off as the square of the distance (as with light, also…this is one of those physical facts of reality that is directly caused by the geometry of three-dimensional space, nothing more esoteric and nothing less profound).  But that doesn’t seem to me to be an adequate explanation for why one never hears the sound of “heat lightning”.

Well, that’s enough ado about nothing for today.  It’s more than I expected or wanted to write.  I mostly just wanted to write some form of goodbye.  But the horrible, terrible, inexorable pressure of habit and routine in someone with a particular type of nervous system can be nearly as potent and irresistible as the laws of reflection and refraction and geometry.  I can only seem to escape such habits when I am forced by external circumstances to do so, but then new habits and routines‒compulsions, really‒take the place of the old ones.  I try to procure useful habits when I can, but one cannot entirely pick and choose such things.

I fear my only escape will happen when I actually die.  Of course, if time and space are fixed and super-deterministic, then even that might not actually be an escape.  As far as my experience goes, it might just lead to me starting over at the beginning, like a video being played on a loop.

Nietzsche actually used that notion (obviously not based in Einsteinian concepts, but it doesn’t have to be) as the basis for a thought-provoking question:  if you knew for certain that, once you die, you would then live your life over and over again exactly as it happened this time around, how would you change your current and future behavior?  Is your life now one that would horrify you to repeat infinitely, or would it be okay?

Inquiring minds want to know, I guess.  Or maybe not.

TTFN

no surprise

*This is just me speculating in real time.  If anyone knows the correct answer, please let me know.

**Thus the frequent demonstrative analogy used to teach about refraction:  a row of soldiers marching side by side coming at an angle to a place where they leave hard, firm ground and enter deep mud, which will tend to change the angle of their movement.  Alternately, one often encounters the story of a lifeguard running across the beach to save someone drowning, needing to judge the best place to enter the ocean to minimize the overall time taken to reach the swimmer.  Too much time in the water slows the lifeguard too much, too much time on land makes the path longer, and thus also slows the lifeguard.  The lifeguard’s path of least time turns out to be exactly analogous to what light does when refracting through differing media.  A brilliant, “for-the-layperson” account of the quantum mechanics behind this is given in Feynman’s QED: The Strange Theory of Light and Matter.

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Aqua sea foam shame and be all a pile of cheese

Okay, well, today I’m writing this blog post‒or at least I’m beginning it‒at the train station, having walked here, since I hadn’t done that walk yet this week.  Of course, I’m soaked with sweat and I will probably be in a lot of pain today, but I’ve been in a lot of pain anyway, so I might as well get some exercise.

I’ve had a terrible time with respect to pain, even worse than usual, lately.  Yesterday, after taking three aspirin and two Tylenol at once, about half an hour later‒and for all of less than twenty minutes‒my pain faded briefly away, and it was ecstasy.  It was better than a holiday and a great book and a good movie with one’s favorite person.  Then that effect went away and the pain resurged back to prior levels.  It’s quite frustrating, almost a tease, though I don’t think anyone or anything is actually, deliberately doing any teasing.

And of course, though my coworker was back yesterday, he did that same thing where, even if I just say that I feel tired and worn out, he says that he knows how I feel.  I want to say, “No.  You don’t.  Even assuming your current pain is as bad as mine, try having that for more than twenty years, try losing practically everything that was ever important to you partly because of that pain.”

I of course really don’t want him to do any of that.  I hope his pain steadily decreases and his life improves and his family prospers and so on.  I don’t think I would wish my subjective experience on anyone else, though I know to a near mathematical certainty that there are many people whose lives are far more unpleasant than mine.  Still, mine is unpleasant enough, and I don’t recommend it.

I keep wanting to warn people at the office that I really don’t feel that I’m going to survive for much longer.  That’s what I’ve been feeling particularly strongly over the past few days.  I also feel grumpy and angry and hateful and spiteful, so I dislike my own self more than usual, which is saying something indeed.  But if I say to others that I don’t think I will survive much longer, the few people who take it seriously‒locally, anyway‒are the people with whom I don’t really feel a connection at all, and indeed, are the people I find most irritating (which is unfair to them, but I can’t seem to do much about it).

It’s a bit analogous to this blog, though the analogy is very weak.  I air my depression and pain and despair here, hoping either to be told some new information and ideas or to receive some form of help, either from without or from within, but after a while, if you keep writing about the fact that you feel miserable and your pain is worsening and you have thoughts of killing yourself‒but you haven’t actually killed yourself or tried to kill yourself yet‒people stop taking it very seriously.  I suppose that’s not completely irrational or at all unfair, but it is rather frustrating.  It really makes everything one does feel even more futile than it would have felt otherwise.

That’s part of what makes me think I should just give up on blogging, and on anything and everything else.  I should stop blogging, and I should also just recognize that I am not going to do any more music, nor will I write any more fiction, nor will I do any more drawing or singing or anything else creative.  I will not master General Relativity or Quantum Field Theory to the degree I would like to, which is to a near-professional level.

And I will certainly not make any new friends or develop any new romantic relationships; I will not have any form of new life or family.  I won’t achieve anything else of value in my life, I won’t ever see or rekindle my closeness with any of my old friends, and they are surely all quite happy about that.

I should just stop trying.  I should stop blogging, I should put away, give away, burn or otherwise eliminate all the hallmarks of foolish pipe dreams, I should stop getting new books or manga, cancel my cable and internet and streaming services and Amazon and all that and just let go.  I’m hanging on by my fingernails, anyway, and it’s damned uncomfortable.

Sorry this post isn’t much fun.  I don’t recall the last time I did a post that I thought was probably fun for anyone to read.  I’m even sort of dozing off while writing this, even though I’m now on the train.  I can only imagine how boring it must be to read.

Anyway, this is all almost certainly a waste of my time and of yours.  Sorry.  I hope it hasn’t been too dreary.  Thank you for reading it, in any case.  I really appreciate your kindness and patience.  I wish I could be more worthy of them.

All apologies

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Boy, do I wish I didn’t have to go to work today.

I had a truly horrible night, pain-wise, starting more on my right side, where it had been all day, then moving to the left, which is rather annoying.  It’s a bit like when you’ve got a slight cold and one nostril is stuffed up, then you lay with the other side down, and gradually, the upper side clears…but then the lower side gets stuffed up.  I suppose it’s better than both sides hurting equally, at least in some ways, but in other ways, it feels like being turned over so that both of your sides can be pan seared from the inside out.

I’ve said it before, but in any truly civilized world, one would not need to go to work in such a state.  However, yesterday, my coworker did not come in because he had trouble with his own, relatively recent onset back trouble, and I can’t be sure he won’t also be out today.  He has a lot less distance to travel than I do, and he has a car, but he also has an infant daughter.  Anyway, it would be hypocritical of me just to tell him to suck it up and come to work.  But man, it makes a day really feel bad from the start, and I was already pretty glum.

I did at least use the bus(es) to get back to the house from the train last night, and I ended up walking a total of slightly over three miles yesterday without even trying.  I guess that’s good.

This morning, I entertained the notion of taking the buses all the way in to the office, instead of taking the bus to the train and so on.  It’s not an unpleasant trip, though it’s a bit long, but unfortunately, buses don’t have restrooms, while the trains do, and even in the humid heat of summer, I have a hard time going very long without using the restroom.

I’ve always been like that.  It’s very annoying.

Anyway, I started off the morning thinking of just going to the bus and thence to the train, as “usual”, but my back and hips and legs hurt so much‒and I’m so tired from having had so much pain all night‒that I may in fact take an Uber again, to the train or perhaps all the way to the office.  I just hate this all so much.

It just now occurred to me that I want to give a bit of unsolicited advice:  If someone is in pain (or having some similarly unpleasant state) and they tell you about it, don’t tell them you know how they feel, even if you’re just trying to empathize.  Most particularly, don’t tell them about your own relatively recent onset of back pain when they’ve been living with back pain for more than 20 years, and it’s been a large part of causing them to lose everything they ever had.  I say this to you because that coworker does that to me sometimes, and it kind of pisses me off.

I want to say to him, “Look, if your pain is as bad as mine and you think it has a good chance of lasting as long as mine has (so far) then you need to get yourself a life insurance policy, wait until its requisite time period has passed*, and then kill yourself as soon as you can arrange to do it without causing your wife and daughter too much distress.  Because this is no way to live.”

Of course, that’s terrible advice, and much of it is a sort of projection on my part.  I still often wish I had died when I played Russian Roulette, way back before I was ever arrested or anything.  But, of course, that would have been more traumatic for my kids, I think, so it’s probably good that I didn’t win that round.  Now, though, if I die, it will have almost no effect on my kids whatsoever.

That is, except for the fact that I know that my ex-wife has very shrewdly maintained the old life insurance policy she had on me, so if I die before I’m 65, the kids will get a significant payout.  It’s definitely a George Bailey kind of situation, but I don’t think there will be any Clarence the angel-in-training to come save me.  Besides, with the exception of my kids, if I were shown the way the world would have been if I had never existed, I don’t imagine it would be any worse, and probably it would be better.

Of course, as I often say, I would never want to change anything that would make my children not have existed, no matter what.  But once they were alive and well and doing fine‒say, if I had died in 2012, but perhaps by natural causes, instead of, say, blowing my brains out‒it might have been a better world and a better life, certainly from my point of view.

It’s too late to change the past, of course.  That’s more or less true by definition.  But I can try to work my way to following my own advice about the future.  I absolutely don’t want twenty more years of my life as it is now.  I don’t want even one more year of my life as it is now.

I don’t really want one more day of my life as it is now.  But it’s very hard to fight biological programming that has hardwired in a fear of death (or of the pain thereof, anyway) and a drive to stay alive even when there is no prospect for self or offspring benefiting from it.  It’s just a fact that creatures without a drive to survive don’t tend to leave behind as many offspring as those with a strong one, and we are all descended from the latter organisms.

Fuck you, Biology!

All right, that’s enough for now.  Maybe I will just get an Uber in to work, and to hell with dealing with the train.  At least that way I won’t be standing and sweating on the train platform.  And, though I don’t want to wish ill luck on an Uber driver who is trying to make a living, one is far more likely to get in a fatal accident on a car trip than on a train or even a bus.  I honestly consider that a silver lining; that’s how much my life hurts.  Even if I got in a non-fatal crash, even if I were severely injured, at least then I would get some degree of medical help and pain help and I wouldn’t need to work while in the hospital.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it, to think that way?  Sorry.  I’m no fucking good, and I haven’t been for a long time.

Try to have a better day, readers.  Try to make the most of things, and try to help out the people in your life who are suffering, and try to show compassion and to be worthy of compassion and respect.  Try not to get in a position where you have chronic pain and/or depression and are a burden to other people.  Try to be a support.

And try the spinach and artichoke dip while you’re at it.  It’s delicious.

*Most of them won’t pay off for suicide in too short a time frame, for what are probably obvious reasons.  Yes, I have looked into this.