writing

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Random thoughts on Saturday morning

I’m on my way to the office this morning, so I figured I would write some reasonable facsimile of a blog post, since I might as well do something that’s vaguely creative and/or productive.

On Thursday, I wrote with my little mini laptop computer, but today I am writing on my smartphone, since I didn’t feel like carrying the laptop.  I think, unless I start writing fiction again*, I’m going to pretty much avoid using the mini computer, and instead use this even-more-mini one.

As for subject matter about which to write, well, there’s really not much that comes to mind.  I do sometimes wonder if I would ever write an entire book on Google Docs on my phone.  It feels almost appropriate, since my “nickname” is Doc.

Even the very young daughter of two coworkers knows me as Doc.

I seem to get along better with small children than I do with so-called adult humans.  Maybe it’s because their thought processes are more like mine, or maybe it’s just that they have potential to be wonderful and brilliant and creative, if only they can avoid being damaged in the wrong ways.

Unfortunately, it seems almost no one avoids that damage.  Weirdly enough, though almost everyone recognizes that children are (literally) the hope for the future of humanity, after paying lip service to that notion, everyone then just lets children grow and develop haphazardly, catch-as-catch-can, putting terribly few resources into education, let alone into research about how best to do education.  There should be as much rigor in the study of education as there is in the study of diseases and medicine in general, or even as much as there is in fundamental physics.

All these hugely successful billionaires ought to put their considerable resources into this area instead of making government “more efficient” or whatever, as if the most “efficient” government were demonstrably the best one.  But they seem to have no thoughts about education, that tremendous public good that can provide potentially unlimited returns for the future.

Imagine these entrepreneurs who consider themselves to be brilliant planners and producers** starting businesses or other projects with no plan, with no research, just old, hackneyed notions mixed with fashionable but untried and highly nebulous ideas, and with limited supervision or moment-to-moment adjustment, feedback, or attempt to improve.  If one in a million such businesses turned out to be successes, one would have achieved more than one deserved.

And yet we approach education with almost no more insight than existed a hundred or even two-hundred years ago.  And our societal attitude toward education (certainly in the US) is frankly unconscionable.  If there were appropriate punishment for people who don’t seem to care about the specific development of the minds of the next generation of humans, it would be hellishly severe and enduring, because such are the consequences of such attitudes toward education.

Oh, well.  Humans are demonstrably stupid, even more so than one might think from following the news, and the government officials and successful business people are by no means any exception to that tendency.  I suspect that large-scale intelligence would have been better coming from descendants of the dinosaurs (i.e., birds), since their brains often seem much more tightly woven.  Probably, though, I would be as disappointed by them as I am by all the fucking humans.

Well, I doubt they’ll change or improve.  And like unsupervised children playing with matches, eventually someone is going to burn the house down, and a lot of them are going to die in the fire.  Maybe all of them will die.  At this point, that wouldn’t break my heart, but then, my heart’s sort of like a scrambled egg already‒if you were going to make it even more shredded than it is, you would first have to unscramble it some.

Anyway, that’s enough of that.  As the YouTubers say so often, if you like my content, please give it a “thumbs up” (i.e., a “like”), subscribe, and share it on your own social media.  Seriously.

And have a good day, if you can. 

*It seems vanishingly unlikely‒more so every day‒which ought to be very sad to me.  Intellectually, it still is, I suppose.  But as for emotions, when I think of ever writing any more fiction, I just feel empty and dead and rotten inside.  Likewise with music.

**I suspect, for the most part, their huge success is largely, if not entirely, stochastic.  In other words, some very lucky things happened early on and they kept benefitting from that afterwards, but not because of any particular brilliance of their own.  It just seems that they must be brilliant because we only hear about those who lucked out and made it to the top, not the countless ones who failed using the same methods.  It’s a bit like imagining you could learn something about what makes someone successful by interviewing people who won the lottery, but paying no attention to the millions who lose.

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Oh what a tangled web weaves itself

Good day, everyone.  It’s now the last Saturday before both Christmas and Hanukkah in 2024.  The office is open today, and I am on my way to work (quite early, because, you know, it’s me, and I don’t sleep very well).

Sometimes I wonder if writing this blog, in which I basically share my random thoughts, is somehow narcissistic.  Maybe it’s just because narcissism is in the news so much lately, especially with regard to politics*, but I do worry about it.  After all, when one is as gifted and skilled and brilliant and creative as I am, there’s always a danger of losing one’s truly exceptional humility.

I’m kidding, sort of to make a point and sort of just because I like to screw around with things that way.  Don’t worry, an overabundance of self-love has rarely been an issue for me.  Sometimes I pretend to be egotistical, mostly for amusement, and in my teenage years, it also helped stave off my already developing self-loathing and depression a bit**.

Still, with all the people on Instagram and TikTok and YouTube, etc., to say nothing of podcasts, and blogs such as this one, and so forth, one might think that the modern world is beset by a pandemic of narcissism.  I think this is not correct, however.  Although there are divas out there, I think there are more innocent reasons for a lot of what we see.

Humans‒bless ‘em‒are extremely social critters.  They are by far the most social of primates, and really, given the power of language and shared “fictions”, they are the most social species the planet has seen.  They are highly interdependent, and they must not merely cultivate but tend to and nurture many relationships.

When a creature’s survival is strongly dependent on certain behaviors, those behaviors tend over time to become pleasurable; they can even become part of play, and creatures will engage in them purely for their own enjoyment.  Many predators, for instance, will hunt and kill even when they don’t need to do it.  (That’s right, plenty of other animals in the world kill for pleasure, sorry to break anyone’s illusion that this is a feature (or a bug) solely of humans.)

Of course, with ultra-social creatures who need constantly to reinforce existing interpersonal threads as well as to cultivate new beneficial ones and to prune detrimental ones, the exchange of goods or even favors cannot possibly be enough to satisfy.  There’s just not enough time and only one body each to go around.

But when one can share information (even seemingly pointless or banal information) with multiple others, one can develop and strengthen numerous threads, cultivating them even from afar, and one can make oneself seem a useful potential connection for others who are themselves useful, and with minimal cost.  After all, information shared is not lost from its source, it is merely reproduced.

Take a moment to ponder that last sentence‒that fact is a big part of what makes life possible at all.

Anyway, now people can share thoughts and jokes and amusing pictures and helpful tips and even serious, high-level expertise, with millions and even billions of other people, and they can get rapid feedback as well.  Of course people are going to do it, especially since it can even be “monetized” in an almost baroque/rococo**** arrangement of fictions and networks, real and virtual, all interacting in astonishingly complex ways, each entity operating entirely under “local” pressures, which change from instant to instant depending on all the other forces at work, spontaneously forming into a structure of tremendous complexity, a thing not merely unplanned but probably unplannable.

So, although narcissists can thrive online, I think they are a minority, and they seem often to self-destruct.  I think most of the various personae telarum are just humans (and other somewhat similar creatures, like me) responding to instinctual drives and enjoying the process.  One should not think of them in the same way one does those dangerously insecure narcissists who seek great political power.

*Though politics has always been a great bastion of narcissistic pathology.  Not everyone who wants to try to contribute to governing their community, state, nation, etc., is a flagrant narcissist; some are surely well-meaning and even humble.  Nevertheless, the field of politics attracts narcissists like the priesthood attracts pedophiles.

**I don’t remember how old I was when I first experienced true depression, but I know that I first started having suicidal thoughts no later than my first trip to music camp (which I loved, by the way, but the separation from all my usual settings didn’t help my depression, which makes sense if I truly do have the second version of ASD***).

***The first ASD, which I definitely had, was an Atrial Septal Defect, a congenital heart defect that required surgical correction when I was 18.  The second, rather amusingly to me, is Autism Spectrum Disorder, the criteria of which I very likely meet, though I have no official diagnosis.  This overlapping of acronyms‒because there are far fewer combinations of, say, 3 letters than of 3 words‒is an example of a problem inherent in all forms of data compression.

****Barococo?

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“There is no life in the Void…”

I feel that I ought to write something today, but I don’t really have any idea just what I ought to write.  It seems the only things I have to discuss nowadays are gloomy, depressing, soul-sucking things.  Then again, at least nowadays, gloominess and soul-suckery seem to be the most prominent aspects of who I am.  If I were a character from the Harry Potter books, I would be a dementor.

I know, dementors aren’t really characters, per se.  They’re really just creatures.  We don’t really get the notion of any personalities from them, though they apparently are able to negotiate and make agreements with the Ministry of Magic, or with Voldemort and the Death Eaters*.  We also know that they can reproduce.

Of course, I’ve often compared myself to the Nazgul from The Lord of the Rings, but I think in most cases I’m a bit less malevolent.  Then again, I’m not under the command of any Sauron equivalent, who has malevolent and authoritarian** intentions and is the real proximate cause of the ringwraiths’ bad deeds.

My own stories were much more positive and lighthearted‒such as Mark Red and The Chasm and the Collision‒when I was in prison, oddly enough.  I suspect that’s because, while there, I was able to think that when I got out I would be able to return to some form of life, to be part of my kids’ lives again, maybe to find some new purpose and new friends and so on.  That delusion that didn’t survive long, though; once I learned that my kids didn’t want to go back to seeing me every other week (or even less) and that my son didn’t want to interact with me at all, it became hard to be upbeat.

It sometimes pisses me off when I see people who are less reliable and safe than I am, who care far less about their families and their children, who have various destructive habits that wreak havoc in the lives of their loved ones…and yet who have friends and families, children and loved ones who stick with them, who strive to help them, who actually want their presence, even through catastrophes worse than mine and through harmful deeds that I would never even consider.

I don’t really grok it‒it seems profoundly unjust‒but intellectually I know that it’s only to be expected, and has multivariate causes.  I also know that justice is entirely a human invention, a fiction of you will, like money and the various religions, and that I have no excuse for expecting any reward for the good deeds I’ve done (such as they are) or for the positive character attributes I have tried to embody (however imperfectly).

I don’t expect anything to get better at this point, and my own fiction has trended in that direction ever since I got out of work-release.  Not that it was ever truly lighthearted, mind you‒even CatC presented a universe-destroying threat and put the onus for preventing it on three middle-school students.  But the stories were optimistic in general.

My most recent story, Extra Body, is admittedly rather optimistic and even has a happy ending.  But that was deliberate.  I had to make a conscious effort to write so positively, and you’ll notice I haven’t published the story other than here in this blog.

Oh, well.  Whadaya gonna do?  I’m simply not having a wonderful Christmas time (with apologies to Sir Paul), nor a wonderful Hanukkah time, nor a wonderful week or month or year or decade.  No matter where I go, there I am, and I think you all can at least imagine how unpleasant it is to be around me 24 hours a day, every day, for the rest of my life.  You would want to kill yourself, too, if you had no other means of escape.

*Surely that must be the name of some indie heavy metal or goth or punk band somewhere.  If it’s not, then that’s further proof of the degeneration of the music industry.

**I say authoritarian rather than totalitarian because Sauron does not seem inclined to micromanage the thoughts of those rules.  His orcs certainly don’t seem to worship him exactly, nor be motivated by ideology as such.  They admire and fear his power, of course, and act out of hope for personal gain.  Also, of course, their nature, twisted by Morgoth originally, is such that Sauron, or someone like him, is their only workable authority figure.  You’d think it might be worth the Valar’s time to try to treat and heal the orcs, who are as they are through no fault of their own.  But no, Manwe et al would rather sit in their little paradise, high up on their mountain or in their halls of judgment, all of which isn’t even directly attached to Middle Earth anymore.  Heck, maybe if they had tried to reach out to Melkor in the first place, when he was such an awkward outsider even at the start, things would all have been much less traumatic for all.  But no, Iluvatar wants his entertainment, his ongoing struggle of “good” versus “evil”, all of which is his doing in the first place.  I wonder if he creates his own popcorn to eat while watching.

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But though my blogs be mean, take them in good part.

Hello and good morning.  It’s Thursday again, so I’m writing another edition of my blog post.  It’s not the first nor the second post I’ve done this week, so calling it my “weekly” blog post would seem somewhat inaccurate.

It’s now only two weeks until Boxing Day, so you should get out your gloves and your speed rope and your heavy bag and get yourself back in shape for the ring!

I really didn’t want to go to the office today.  If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have written a post, except perhaps a single line such as “No blog post today”.  That would be borderline self-contradictory, but since my thoughts and words have been dealing with depression and suicidality lately, I thought if I just wrote nothing people might become concerned.

I’m probably being egotistical even to imagine such a thing.

The reason I didn’t want to go to work was because the office holiday dinner takes place tonight, and I really feel tense about it.  We’ll be going to the same restaurant we used last year, and it was overcrowded and had too much sensory overload even back then, such that I had to start drinking (alcohol) as soon as possible to keep from scratching my own skin off.

It would have been one thing if everyone there had been people with whom I felt comfortable.  There are three or so people at the office with whom I get along well enough that, if just that group and I were going somewhere, it would have been okay.  Certainly there have been many times in my life when I’ve gone out to eat (and similar) with family and/or close friends, and I enjoyed myself.  But I was younger then*, and I had more energy for acting normal, and the people who knew me well were nonjudgmental about my weirdnesses, anyway.

Most of the people at the office, though, are people with whom I wouldn’t normally hang out at any stage in my life‒no insult to them intended, there’s just no common framework.  And the two or three people with whom I think I would most have enjoyed spending time seem to have become more distant recently.  Perhaps that’s all my doing; it almost certainly is my fault.  I know I’m becoming ever less fun to be around.  So I don’t really have anyone with whom I feel I could hang out comfortably‒not in the office, probably not in the world.

It’s not that there’s no one out there who might be willing.  There are many kind people about, though sometimes that can be hard to believe.  But I am not good company‒not for anyone, probably not ever again‒and I certainly don’t deserve any kindness.  I am too weird now, and my life is a mutated, Lovecraftian monstrosity compared to what it once was.

Let’s face it, I was always just a weirdo, anyway; I was just better at pretending to be human in the past‒or if not better, I at least had more energy for it.

Now, I barely have the will to get up and get going in the morning**.  Almost everything I do is just to distract myself, to divert my attention from being aware of my own pathetic and worthless existence.  It makes me wish I had a serious drug or alcohol problem.  Then I could both have a powerful distraction and something that would potentially lead to my death in short order.  Instead, I’ve wasted years trudging through my nosferatu pseudo-life.  My books and blog posts notwithstanding, it really would have made more sense if I had died some time in 2013.  Nothing since then has been of any real use, not to anyone else, and not to me.

I’ll try to work up something remotely akin to enthusiasm for the holiday dinner tonight.  But, if I’m too stressed, I just won’t go.  I know the food will be good, though.  I’m trying to watch what I eat, but everything and everyone around me tends to want to sabotage that intention (including me) especially at this time of the year.

Maybe I should just eat and drink until I make myself really sick, and then I won’t want to do it anymore.  It would be quite nice not to be a person who eats as an escape, as his only reliable source of distraction.  I feel much more clear-headed when I don’t eat, and I know I am much sharper.

How nice it would be not to be such a pathetic glutton.  But I do miss my sister’s holiday cookies.  And I mean to eat whatever I feel like eating this evening‒whether I go to the office dinner or not.

Maybe I’ll get botulism, or a bad case of Hepatitis A that turns fulminant or something.  Keep your fingers crossed!

TTFN

*Such is the nature of the past.

**Though I still cannot sleep even close to as much as I would need to be healthy.

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When will the system crash?

Well, it’s another Monday‒the second one in December of 2024*‒and I decided I’d write a little Monday morning blog post.

I’m writing this on my phone today.  I wrote last Thursday’s blog post on my miniature laptop computer, and it got too long and only a few people apparently read it‒or, well, only a few people went to the page.  I can’t tell if they’ve actually read the thing.  The only real way to tell if someone reads something is if they make a comment that clearly responds to the substance of the post.

It’s rather appalling how rarely people read at all anymore.  The odds of someone both liking and actually sharing any of my blog posts are absolutely miniscule.  I suppose I shouldn’t complain too much, since I wrote an actual song called “Like and Share” about some evils of the social media landscape.  But the evils I was decrying really focused around the people who curate their online presence to seem as though they and their lives are “perfect” while having who knows how many skeletons in their closets, and the other people who, through comparing themselves to the false images of people online, come to hate themselves and their own lives.

I would love it if people shared my blogs or even my songs or my books (well…the links to my books), but I guess the way one grows one’s audience and gets spread and “retweeted” and so on is by sharing politically charged content with some particular stance.  The more vituperative and divisive and snide, the more likely a thing is to be noticed and shared.  Of course, that’s not going to guarantee spread, but it seems to be an almost necessary thing.

The fact that my primary medium is writing doesn’t help.  With that in mind, I made a little vertical video yesterday, intended primarily for Instagram because “Why not?”, and I shared it there and on YouTube and Facebook and even Threads and X and Bluesky just because, again, why not?

I’m terribly frustrated.  Maybe I should take some controversial stance.  Maybe I should say outrageous and hateful things.  It wouldn’t be that hard.  I hate nearly everything in the whole stupid world.  The problem is that my hatred is equal opportunity.  I find the left and the right to be equally sub moronic, though the malady presents slightly differently in the two political directions.

Maybe I should start promoting an all-out war between neurodivergent people and the NT’s, sort of like Magneto against the humans.  Humans screw everything up.  Many if not most of the positive advances in civilization came from people who were probably “neurodivergent”.  The normies just take advantage of those advances and drive the world into the abyss.

Maybe I should start brainstorming and propounding the benefits of initiating a planet-destroying catastrophe.  I mean, it would be easy enough (in principle) to arrange for various asteroids to end up hitting the Earth; all one really needs is a space agency‒perhaps even a private one, a la SpaceX.  After that, Newtonian mechanics is enough to do the job, plus a little trial and error.

I don’t think it would be enough just to wipe out the human race or current civilization.  I’m thinking of complete sterilization.  None of the other life forms on this planet are any more benevolent or kind or positive than humans are; they’re just less competent.  Weirdly enough, humans appear to be by far the most compassionate, the kindest, the most “life-affirming” species on the planet.  All those that seem kinder or less damaging are simply less powerful.  Even things like lichen and bacteria and archaea have caused massive, even global, catastrophes in the past.

The fact that humans, of all things, are the kindest species on the planet is surely the strongest argument that can be made that life on this planet‒and perhaps all life in the universe‒is simply a huge mistake, and one that ought to be rectified.

I’m pretty sure my own life is a huge mistake, with the exception of my kids.  Certainly everything since about 2012, and possibly somewhat earlier, has been one giant error message written across the monitor of my existence.  I should just power down everything; not restart it, just shut it off and throw it in the trash.

Any thoughts?  “Like” and “share” if you feel the urge.

*Geez, that means the year is almost over again, and I’m still here, like a bad outbreak of herpes.

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O Caesar! These blogs are beyond all use…

Hello, and yes, good morning.  It’s the 1st Thursday of December in 2024, and so it is time for another edition of my weekly blog post.

I’m writing this on my miniature laptop* on the way in to the office, because I figured it would be a shame to let the device go to waste.  I haven’t used it at all since the last blog post I wrote on it, which would have been…looks like it was November 20, 2024.

Other than the little post I wrote on Monday—which I wrote on my smartphone—I haven’t written anything this week.  I haven’t played any music this week, by which I mean neither have I played it on a device for me to hear, nor have I played the guitar or the keyboard, though I guess I’ve tapped drumbeats on walls and desktops and door jambs and the like from time to time.

I am reading a Japanese light novel series, one that I’ve chosen because the characters are at least reasonably likeable, the story is more or less upbeat and decently written and translated, and there are enough volumes out to keep me busy for a week or two.

I haven’t read any science or math or philosophy in quite a while.  I certainly haven’t written on any books of my own.  I haven’t even watched any science-related videos, to be honest.  The only math I’ve done was when I saw a Facebook post of a sign in Taiwan or China that had an infinite series in sigma form written on it.  I thought I recognized the series, but I wasn’t at all sure, so I worked out the first seven or so terms and summed them up, and it became clear that this was the series that summed to Pi.  It was indicating, apparently, that there were 3.14 kilometers left in what I think was a marathon route.

You wouldn’t see a sign like that in the USA.  Though we have some truly brilliant people in mathematics and science and whatnot, they are a rarefied bunch, and the vast majority of the population is borderline mathematically illiterate, and some of them are stupid enough to be proud of that fact.

I did have one slightly interesting occurrence yesterday—from my point of view.  I was scrolling through “reels” on Facebook and saw one with a woman sitting in a room and giving a sort of strained, tiny smile, and the caption read something like, “I guess the fact that it’s holiday decorations that are hanging now, and not yourself, makes it a successful year.”  That’s not quite right; it was better written, but that was the gist.

I recall thinking, not entirely seriously, “That’s easy for you to say.  I don’t consider it a good result that I’m not the one hanging.  I even have two ropes already prepared for that possibility, but I don’t have any decorations or ornaments, and I have no one with whom to share the holiday season or anything anyway.”

I intended to write that (more or less) as a comment, which required going to the original post on Instagram; I was going to try to be at least a bit jokey about it, so as not to make the poster think was angry at her.  But when I got to the post, I saw that there were people who were complaining about it, saying that jokes about suicide were in bad taste or something, that they had lost relatives or friends or whatever to suicide, and such posts made them feel sad or something.  They had a long string of comments.

A few people wrote in response that such “jokes” or posts, even if seemingly morbid, were often a good way for people to deal with the emotions that overwhelm them, and knowing that other people feel that way and can speak about it was helpful.

But the Puritans were all too stuck in scolding mode.

I wanted to write more, but ended up just saying, “Surely no one has been forced to read this posting.”  The original poster, apparently, replied to my comment, saying that I was wrong, that she was sorry to have been insensitive to people, and wanted to try to be more careful in the future.  I had to bite my figurative tongue to keep from replying, “I was wrong?  You mean people were forced to read the post?”

And then I wanted to add something along the following lines:

“As someone who thinks about suicide daily, ever more so over time, and who feels the urge particularly strongly at this time of year, what with the waning sunlight and the holiday environment, it can be kind of nice to know that other people are thinking similarly, and are even able to be somewhat lighthearted about it–even going so far as to give a slight joke, to try to be positive.  I think all the people who are scolding and berating should be turning their scorn on themselves, if anything.  Maybe if they’d spent less time being so eager to shut other people down when talking about uncomfortable things, they might have encouraged a situation in which their own loved ones might have felt able to talk about their depression and despair.  Maybe these commenters are feeling defensive about the fact that, for all that they’re willing to berate strangers for talking about suicide (in a comparatively light hearted way) what they really need to do is berate themselves for not having done anything of significance to try to help their relatives or friends or acquaintances who were in such pain that they ended their lives.  Maybe if they tried to encourage a climate in which people felt able to talk about the despair that so many people experience—especially people who are “different”, who are, for instance, “neurodivergent” or who just feel weird and alien compared to everyone else on this waste of a planet—then fewer people would feel utterly alone and at a loss and with no apparent answer to their pain and loneliness other than destroying themselves.”

Of course, I didn’t leave that comment.  But it is terribly irritating that people go out of their way to comment negatively about someone who is trying to put out at least a slightly uplifting or relieving thought, but I doubt they went to any trouble at all to support their “loved ones” who were suffering.  Fuck all of them, I say, and in all the most inappropriate and uncomfortable orifices.  They’re making the world worse, not better, with their “Waah, look at how this all affects me, everyone, I don’t like to be reminded about sad things, because I did nothing to prevent or ameliorate the sadness, so now I want to make sure no one else admits that it exists”.

Well, the maker of that reel apologized, but I don’t think she should have, and I am certainly not doing so, though I restrained myself from hurling my ire at those people in the comments section, and only left my original one.  But if I could, I would like to give those people a brief taste of the despair and solitude and emptiness and pain that a person feels when they are severely depressed and suicidal but don’t have anyone they can really talk to about it, no support, since our society still doesn’t deal with mental health issues almost at all.

Even if I could do that, it probably wouldn’t help.  Once that temporary pain went away, those people would almost certainly go back to the way they were before.

That’s enough for now.  I’ve written too much, and the editing process is daunting.  I think I’m only going to give it two go-throughs before posting, instead of three.

I hope most of you—well, all of you—feel better than I do.  If I were convincingly told (by some being who could guarantee it) that by my death I could eliminate depression and despair in the world in everyone else, or even that I could just foster an environment in which people could be open about it and help could be provided at least to the same degree we provide it for heart disease and cancer and infectious disease, then that would be a pretty east decision.

But, of course, reality doesn’t work that way, and there’s no reason to think it ever will.  That still doesn’t mean that there aren’t other, legitimate, valid reasons for a person like me to feel that he and everyone else would be better off—or at least no worse off—if I were dead already.

“Oh well, whatever.  Never mind.”

TTFN

*The miniature laptop is a computer.  The top of my own literal lap, though slightly reduced due to my paunch, in certainly not miniature.

**In English, of course—I’m not partaking of my old ambition to practice reading Japanese until I got truly good at it.  What’s the point?  They would never allow me in the country, anyway, thanks to my “criminal” record***.

***That’s actually kind of funny…what if nations didn’t allow President-elect Trump into their countries because of his felony record?  Of course, that’s not going to happen, it would be a diplomatic disaster.   Once again, the Donald shows that he can successfully be separated from the enforcement of the law, thus sending what ought to be a message to the American people:  Why should you bother obeying any inconvenient laws?  The President doesn’t!  Screw paying taxes or following through on contracts!  It’s every person for itself, in the most short-sighted, opportunistic, petty ways possible.

****Who would ever choose such a thing?  Its very nature is learned helplessness, self-hatred, emotional and physical pain that doesn’t seem to let up, that feels eternal when it’s happening.  It is a metaphorical and sometimes nearly literal version of Hell.

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But can a short blog post be neverending?

It’s Tuesday morning, which is probably not neverending, because if it were, one would never even reach Tuesday afternoon, in which case it couldn’t be neverending, no matter what the Beatles say.

Although…if Tuesday afternoon never begins (because Tuesday morning is neverending) then Tuesday afternoon would also be neverending.  After all, according to the Oracle, everything that has a beginning has an end.  To which I tend to respond, “Yes, at the very least, if one reverses the direction in time in which one is considering a thing, then its beginning is an end.  QED.”

Enough.  I’m writing this post this morning because I have nothing better to do with my time‒or at least nothing better that I am capable of rousing the gumption to do.  I mean, I could always be on brilliant dot org, working on some mathematics or physics or computer science problems, or I could be writing a story‒you know, something productive.  But I don’t think that’s likely to happen.

This Thursday, of course, is Thanksgiving.  You’re welcome.  So, only two more shopping days left.

It used to be that nearly everything was closed on major holidays like Thanksgiving.  And Thanksgiving is still maybe a more “closed for the holiday” holiday than even Christmas and New Year.  But there will always be stores open now‒at least a 7-11, a Wawa, or some other equivalent.  And working at those stores on that holiday will be people who don’t have plans to celebrate with anyone and/or who could really use the extra money so they work.

Anyway, I think it’s still the biggest family holiday in the US.  It’s certainly the time when people travel to visit other regions of the county and exchange viruses from those different regions with the greatest fervor.  This is part of why, in the US at least, there tends to be a big surge of respiratory infections early in December.

I don’t have statistics on that.  I just remember it being the case.  That’s clearly not a rigorous scientific conclusion, it’s my perception of the situation, possibly supported by the experience of other physicians, and possibly by some remembered textbook reference(s).  Anyway, that’s not significant evidence, not if one is trying to make a scientific evaluation.  But I still do think it’s the case, and I think that impression is based on good evidence that I have encountered in the past.

I really don’t have much else to say.  Even this nonsense is too much effort to continue for long.  But who knows, maybe a short blog post will be more popular.  In any case, I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but I plan not to write a post on Thursday, so this may be my last chance to wish those of you who celebrate it a Happy Thanksgiving.

My wishes are never very effective, unfortunately.  Just look at my life.  But maybe they’ll work better for you than for me.

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Raveling down the knitted sleeve of care

Well, it’s Saturday morning, and I’m heading to the office‒way too early, because I still can’t get a good night’s sleep,  Even with recent interventions to try to help my pain and insomnia, it seems the sleep honeymoon phase might already be over.

I felt very much like the lone soldier in the jungle again last night, unable truly to rest and relax, primed at some pervasive level to jump up and react in case some threat developed.  This wouldn’t necessarily be a true external threat.  It might be some break in my routine, sleeping past my alarm*, realizing I had forgotten to set my alarm**, or there might be an intruder, some deliberate, secret assailant, come to attack me in my sleep***, or just a new flare-up of chronic pain developing.

It’s not a great way to start a day or to continue a life.  As I said, I had some temporary improvement not in the quantity of my sleep but in the quality thereof‒I wasn’t sleeping more, but I felt as though I was sleeping better‒for the past week plus a day or so.  This is probably why I’ve had the energy to write some blog posts this week.  But last night felt just like one of my typical, paranoid, restless, angry “sleeps” from before.  I have not stopped my new intervention, but apparently it’s no longer addressing whatever the roots of my sleep issues are.

I suppose I shouldn’t draw too sweeping a conclusion so readily.  One night is not a pattern.  But it’s such a familiar experience, and after such a short semi-respite, that it’s almost worse than never having a respite at all.

For at least 15 years (at least), I’ve spent most of my days and nights alone in the wasteland‒not literally, of course, don’t be stupid.  I just mean that I’ve had the sense of being by myself‒even when in crowded places, such as malls or prison‒and with no real recourse to anyone to help me defend against potential enemies, physical or social or “spiritual”, real or even imagined, external and internal.

To be clear, I don’t feel that the world around me is generally hostile.  In some ways, that would be easier, although considerably less stable.  If I were literally being attacked, I could literally take arms against that sea of troubles and let slip the dogs of war, imitate the action of the tiger, throw my warlike shield before my body and lay on*, fighting against assailants until they were all beaten or until I was dead‒and damned be him that first cried, “Hold, enough!”

Almost certainly, the outcome would be my destruction, but we all have that coming, anyway.  Dying in battle against actual attackers isn’t the worst death I can imagine, if I’m honest (it’s not the best one, either, don’t mistake me…I am not a Klingon or a Sontaran, and I do not embrace the philosophies).

Alas, I will probably be taken down in the end just by the progressive deterioration of my body.  It would be nice to die in a way that is heroic or at least useful, but that’s unlikely to happen.

I’m frustrated and angry about many things this morning, and I’m sick of feeling this way so much of the time.  What is the point of this?  Unlike Camus, I don’t imagine Sisyphus is happy.

It would be one thing if he had people whose company he enjoyed with whom to spend his time while he kept pushing his boulder.  Or, if he really were achieving some result, something beneficial, something that improved the world beyond himself.  But just to keep grinding away at his absurd and pointless task, with no benefit, with no entertainment, with no inherent joy in the process…why bother with that?

At the very least, he could try to plot his escape and enact vengeance against those who sentenced him to this fate!  It might take a long time, but it’s not as though he has anything else to do.  Even though he was made to roll his rock as a punishment, any eternal punishment would always be immoral when brought in response to any finite deed in a finite lifetime.

Of course, no one has put me in my current state.  Well, okay, the government of Florida and of Palm Beach County certainly did their parts in carrying out significant injustice in my case, and those involved are probably worthy of retribution, but it’s all really just so haphazard and so much a part of an unplanned, inefficient, and fundamentally unjust system that it’s not even easy to know where to begin.  Probably, we just need another really big asteroid, or a nearby gamma ray burst, just to wipe the slate entirely clean.

I guess we’ll all see what happens.  In the meantime, I hope you have a good weekend, whether you want to do so or not.  So there.

*Ha ha, I don’t recall whether that has ever happened to me.

 **This has happened, but almost always in the middle of the night, when I awaken, realize with a feeling of severe tension that I forgot to set my alarm, quickly make sure to set it…and then just stay awake until it goes off or until just before it goes off.

***I keep various weapons next to me, within arm’s reach, when I sleep.

****Macduff

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Desperate but not undaunted

This may be short, but I thought I’d share a bit of info since I brought the general topic up earlier this week.  Just this morning, while I was getting ready for work (and indeed, just as I was about to brush my teeth) the idea for a story popped into my head.  This happens a fair amount, as I think I’ve said, with weird little scenarios triggered by something that’s been going through my mind or that I see, and they coalesce into the root of what might be a possible story.  Well, since I had spoken (so to speak, ha ha) with all of you about this earlier, I decided to pause my oral hygiene routine briefly and go write the story idea down in the notebook function of my smartphone.

I don’t want to overreact or to ask anyone to get their hopes up.  That latter bit would be utter hypocrisy.  It’s always difficult to say what will come of a story idea, or even the shape it will take‒just look at Outlaw’s Mind*, at how much it changed and improved (to me) from its simpler beginning.

I’m writing all this on my phone once again, by the way.  And the fact that I’ve written at least the roots of this story and most of this week’s posts on my phone leads me to toy with the idea of writing a next story wholly on the phone.  I know, I know, I’ve gone back and forth about hand-writing stories versus word processor/laptop computer versus phones, and I got all those notebooks and pens and everything, thinking that I’d write HELIOS in long hand, and now I’m thinking of the opposite.

This is an example of the workings of a desperate mind, one trying, scrambling, scrounging, looking for answers to getting back to writing, or music, or trying to help my chronic pain, or my insomnia, or my depression, and whether or not to pursue the possibility of an ASD diagnosis (not the heart kind‒I know I had that).  I’m trying to find something that has some meaning at all for my life to persist.

I guess that means I haven’t given up yet, but that’s more a matter of habit than anything else.  I am extremely stubborn, and I have trouble letting go of a process once it’s a habit.  Maybe that’s the ASD doing its thing, assuming it’s there.  Maybe I’m just dysfunctional and odd and alien.  I suppose those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

Still, writing about this idea got me thinking of potential scenes and events for the story I mentioned above, so please forgive me if I space out a bit.  Just wait a moment or two; I’ll be back**.

That was kind of fun.  It could be an interesting story, this new idea.  We’ll see if anything happens with it.  I wouldn’t put serious money on the possibility, and I certainly don’t recommend holding your breath.  But if I were to write a novel or novella on the phone, the portability would be a big plus.

That reminds me of those old “palm pilot” things people used to have, the little personal data notebook digital things, with the plastic styluses.  Some people thought they were so cool using those things.  They were always so geeked out about them and seemed to look for excuses to get them out all the time.

Don’t get me wrong; if someone was just having a great time, enjoying using a brilliant piece of then-new technology, then have at them!  Enjoy!  Why not be happy with a new, useful tool, especially if it’s a cool tool?

At least some of the people who ostentatiously used the “personal data assistants”, though, were mainly status hungry.  I get it (though I may not grok it).  Humans in general tend to be status hungry; for ancestral humans, in-group status could have a big effect on reproductive opportunities (and even just basic survival chances), so any genes that pushed toward such behavior would tend, ceteris paribus, to be at an advantage, locally (i.e., in that particular gene pool).

But it is rather bizarre to watch from the outside, and instances of the phenomenon vary between the amusing and the contemptible, with many a superposition of the two.  It still happens today, of course.

Humans also haven’t shown any sign of ceasing to select status hungry people as the ones they follow, even though there are such obvious conflicts of interest and so much bias that makes such people unreliable in the long run.

Oh, well.  I guess it doesn’t matter, because in the truly long run there will be nothing but random elementary particles and forever-expanding spacetime, if the current understanding is correct.

Or, of course, there could be even worse alternatives.

There’s probably no possible horrible situation that couldn’t in principle be made even worse.  Even Sam Harris’s “worst possible misery for everyone” could be made even “worse” just by adding more people to the situation, each one of whom is in the worst possible misery they can be.

I suppose that fact implies the theoretical possibility of its opposite:  the best possible well-being for everyone.  Why does that feel so much more unrealistic?  Well, I could get into some of the potential reasons, many involving the biological necessity and crucial importance of fear and pain.  But that’s for another time, or you can read a bunch of my blog posts here and on Iterations of Zero.  I’m sure you can find my thoughts on the subject.

Aaaaand that’s enough meandering.  You all hopefully are going to have a good weekend.  I am tentatively scheduled to work tomorrow, but we shall see.

*Seriously, go take a look.  If you like it, why not buy some of my published stuff?  And then tell two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on.

**Ha ha.  That’s a trick.  You can’t tell when or for how long I spaced out while writing, unless I tell you, or put a space or row of asterisks in the body of the writing.  I could begin a sentence one day and finish it years later.  It’s a bit like listening to a studio recording that had overdubs and one person doing more than one part.  You hear it all at once, but that’s not how it came to be.

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If I could write the beauty of your blogs, and in fresh numbers number all your graces…

Hello.  Good morning.

Aaahhh, doesn’t that feel better?  Now I can use my standard Thursday blog post opening phrases, because today is, in fact, Thursday.  It’s the 21st of November, the third Thursday of the month, so in the USA you only have seven shopping days until Thanksgiving.

Speaking of Thanksgiving, since next Thursday is that holiday, I probably will not be writing a blog post then.  It is one holiday on which our office is always closed.  We will be open on so-called Black Friday, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll write a post on that day.

Of course, in principle, I cannot guarantee that I’ll write anything at all ever again after this post.  I may not even survive to post this entry*‒I am in the back seat of a Lyft, on the highway (I-95) of the East Coast of the US, so goodness knows there’s a non-zero chance of a fatal accident.  I would even wish for one, but I know such a thing would involve harm and possibly death to other, more innocent, people.

Also, of course, wishes don’t actually directly affect reality‒thank goodness.  Imagine if even one percent of wishes came true as wished.  The world would be thoroughgoing chaos…and not in a good way.  I tend to say of wishes that “If wishes were horses, then we’d all be hip deep in horse shit,” but it would be even more terrifying if wishes worked.

The “if‒then” character of the wishes saying (my version or the more SFW one that involves beggars riding) often makes me think of lines of computer code in some generic programming language, like:

If wishes==horses then execute beggars.ride

Or maybe 

If wishes==horses then horseshit_level = “hip deep”

I wonder what that would look like in machine language.  Or, I wonder what it would look like in straight binary.  Really, though, I know part of the answer to the latter piece of wondering:  it would look, to the naked eye, like a random string of ones and zeros, perhaps the tally of some very long record of flipping a coin and marking heads as 1 and tails as 0 (or vice versa).

Actually, of course, given a binary-based computer language, one can literally generate every possible computer program just by flipping an ever-increasing number of coins.  Or, to be honest, one can do it just by counting in binary:  0, 1, 10, 11, 100, 101, 110, 111, 1000…

This is why, if memory serves, computer science people and information theory people say that every program can literally be assigned (and described by) a number.  You could express that number in base ten if you wanted, to make it a bit more compact and familiar to the typical human.  Or, if you want to be more efficient and make conversion easier, you can use hexadecimal.  This is easier because a base-sixteen number system is more directly and easily converted to and from binary, since 16 is a power of 2 (2 to the 4th).

Even the human genome, or any genome in fact, could be fairly readily expressed in binary.  The DNA code is a 4 character language, so it wouldn’t take too much work to make it binary, however you wanted to code it.  Then, each person’s genome would have a single, unique number.  That’s kind of interesting.

It would be a bit unwieldy as an ID number, of course.  The human genome is roughly 3 billion nucleotides long, which means it would be roughly 6 billion binary digits (AKA bits).  And since every ten bits is roughly a thousand in base 10 (2^10 is 1024, which is very close to 10^3, aka 1000) then 6 billion bits should be roughly 2 billion decimal digits long (a bit less), which is much, much larger than the famously large number, a googol**.

It’s a big number.  This should give you at least some idea of just how unique each individual life form is at a fundamental level.  There are so many possible genomes that the expected time until the final heat death of the universe is unlikely to be long enough to have a randomly created duplication within the accessible cosmos.

Of course, within an infinite space‒which is the most probable truth about our universe as far as we can tell‒one will not only have every possible version that can exist, but will have infinite copies of every possible version.  Infinity makes things weird; I love it.

Of course, just as with the making of computer programs by simply counting in binary, the vast majority of genomes would not code for any lifeform in any kind of cellular environment, using any given kind of transcription code you might want (the one on Earth, found in essentially all creatures, uses three base pairs to code for a given amino acid in a protein, but that’s not all that DNA does).  Similarly, most of the counted up programs would not run on any given computer language platform, because they would not code for any coherent and consistent set of instructions.

But even so, you would still, eventually, get every possible working program, or every possible life form in any given biological system if you could just keep counting.

On related matters, there are things like the halting problem and so on, but we won’t get into that today, interesting though it may be (and is).

It’s quite fascinating, when one is dealing with information theory (and computer science) how quickly one encounters numbers so vast that they dwarf everything within the actual universe.

Mind you, the maximum possible information‒related to the entropy‒carried within any bounded 3-D region is constrained by the surface area (in square Planck lengths) of a black hole with that size event horizon.  For our universe, roughly 96 billion light years across, I think that’s something like 10 to the 124th bits, or at least it’s that many Planck areas.  That’s quite a bit*** smaller than the number of possible genomes, though I have a sinking feeling that I’m underestimating the number.

And information, at least when instantiated, has “mass” in a sense, and the upper limit of the amount of information in a region of spacetime is delineated by the Bekenstein entropy description.  So there’s only so many binary strings you can generate before you turn everything into a black hole.

Something like all that, anyway.

I may have been imprecise in some of what I said, but when you’re dealing with very large numbers, precision is only theoretically interesting.  For instance, we**** have found Pi to far more than the number of digits needed to calculate the circumference of the visible universe down to the Planck length.  It would require only about 40 digits of Pi to get to that precision to the size of a hydrogen atom, and those are only about 10^25 Planck lengths across, so we wouldn’t expect to need much more than 65 digits of Pi to get that precise, but let’s be generous and use 100 digits.

How many digits of Pi have actually been “discovered” by mathematicians?  Over 105 trillion digits.  Talk about angels dancing in the heads of pins!  It’s literally physically impossible, according to the laws of quantum mechanics, even to test whether that number precisely defines the ratio of any given circle to its diameter by measuring it.  One cannot, in principle, measure finely enough.

Still it just goes to show that mathematics is vastly larger in scope than any instantiated, superficial reality.  Information is deeper than one might think…so to speak.  But, then, so are minds themselves, vastly deeper.

As Idris/the TARDIS asked in Doctor Who, Series 6, episode 4, “Are all people like this?  So much bigger on the inside?”  Yes, Idris, I suspect they are, even those people we don’t like and feel the urge to denigrate.

That’s enough for today, I think.  I’ve achieved nothing, really, other than write a Thursday blog post, but then again, that’s all I meant to do.  I hope you have among the better half of all the vast number of possible days available to you.

TTFN

*If you’re reading this, though, I clearly did survive.  I have mixed feelings about that.

**How much larger?  Soooo much larger that if you subtracted a googol of something from 10^1,800,000,000 of something, you would not change it to any extent measurable even by the most precise instruments humans have ever created.  And a googol is already something like 10 to the 19th times as large as the total estimated number of protons and neutrons in the accessible universe.

***No pun intended.

****Actually, I had nothing to do with it; it’s just the sort of “royal we”***** kind of thing everyone uses when discussing the accomplishments of humanity as a whole.

*****Not to be confused with royal wee.  That’s the sort of weird, niche thing one might find for sale in mason jars on the dark web.  Be careful if you’re into such things.  I wouldn’t buy it unless you’re sure of the source, so to speak.