writing

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“Friday night arrives without a suitcase”

I’m writing this today on my smartphone, but this time it’s happened more or less deliberately.  I had several things to bring back to the house last night, and they made my backpack significantly heavier than usual.  Though more than capable of carrying it, I decided there was neither need nor benefit in doing so, so I left the mini laptop computer at the office.

I don’t know about what topic to write today.  I have, of course, not started jotting down potential subjects for blog posts, as I mentioned yesterday (I think).  Or perhaps I have started, but I simply didn’t think of any such topics or subjects yesterday, and so I didn’t write any down.  Such ideas almost never occur to me ahead of time, anyway.  Maybe if I were keyed into that process, it would become more common.

I did write down a potential story idea (or really a story’s beginning) yesterday.  I still do that from time to time, even though I don’t have any expectation of writing any of them.  Here, I’ll show you what I wrote based on something I saw along the route back to the house that I hadn’t noticed before:

“Story idea:  a person who lives in a thoroughly flat area is on a walk and sees a partly obscured path or road that seems to go up a slope that shouldn’t lead anywhere.  He assumes it must just be a ramp that leads to a parking structure or building that’s obscured by vegetation, and he decides to head up and see where it leads.  There’s no signage or barriers to stop him, which seems a bit odd.  He goes up, but as far as he can tell, it continues to be a road, slightly winding, through woods, up a hill that cannot be there, and soon it becomes clear that it must be very big.  What is it?  Where does it go?”

There it is, a typical trigger for a story, of the sort that happens to me occasionally.  I doubt I’ll ever write it, or indeed any fiction ever again, but it still arouses intriguing thoughts and possibilities.  If any readers find that it triggers your own ideas for a story, feel free to use it.  I give you my blessing or permission or whatever it might be.  Even if we both (or all, if there were more than one of you) were to write stories based on that trigger, they would probably all be wildly different stories.  Indeed, it seems like the sort of exercise that might be done in some “creative writing” course, with everyone writing stories based on the same prompt.

I sometimes wish I would have such notions about songs to write (or poems, which is more or less equivalent for me…unlike a lot of songwriters, apparently, I come up with the words first, because I am a wordy kind of guy).  I sometimes wonder how songs are written by very productive songwriters or songwriting teams.

I have read quite a few books and so on about or by people such as the Beatles in general and Paul McCartney specifically, and Radiohead (they are my two favorite song creating groups, though there are, of course, many others including Billy Joel, Don Henley/Glen Frey/Eagles, Roger Waters/Pink Floyd, etc.).

But nothing I have read seems to resonate with me about how to write a song.  For one thing, the primary songwriters in neither the Beatles nor Radiohead actually “read music” as they say, whereas I was “classically trained”* on both piano and cello.  So it’s quite hard for me to separate the idea of songwriting from that background, even if I were to want to do so, which I don’t.

I also really don’t tend to come up with chord progressions until after I’ve come up with a melody, but that’s probably because the cello has been my main instrument in the past (and voice even more so than that).  One rarely plays chords on a cello and almost never can one sing chords**.

Okay, well, in case anyone was interested, that was a little bit of spontaneously written “under the hood” description of some of my creative “processes”, though it seems pretentious and even misleading to talk of such a thing as a process in my case.  I suppose, if I were doing such writing full-time, I would need to have, or would just develop automatically, a more rigorous creative process, especially if it were how I made my living.

Alas, that seems unlikely to be my situation at any point in my future, though it would be nice if it happened.  We’ll see how that goes, but I can’t in good faith recommend that anyone bet on it, let alone that they hold their breath waiting.

I hope you all have a very nice weekend, or that you all have very nice weekends, which are two different ways of giving the same well-wishing that have a slightly different feel, but which empirically must mean the same thing.  In any case, please be well.

*That sounds much more high-falutin’ than it really is.  It just means that I took piano lessons and I played in orchestras at school, in which we were taught formally about musical notation and timing and‒to some degree‒music theory.

**Unless one is doing overdubs with one’s own voice, singing harmony parts.  I’ve done that on “all” of my songs, and it can be quite fun and very neat.  It was also really fun to reproduce the Beatles’ harmonies on my covers of Something and You Never Give Me Your Money.  On my songs, the harmony tends to be improvised; I certainly don’t consciously plan it ahead of time.  Some things, like the whistling in the bridge of Like and Share, just happen spontaneously.  I don’t write songs often enough for me to explore how such things happen.

 

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This majestical blog fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors

Hello and good morning.

A thought passed through my head yesterday evening about a topic to write about this morning, but now it appears to have slipped my mind.  That’s a bit frustrating, but I guess it’s not unusual, nor is it pathological.  I know that Stephen King has said that he doesn’t write down story ideas; he just keeps them in his head and lets them develop, and then, if they go away, he figures they weren’t the really good ideas.

That’s fine and dandy for him.  Writing fiction is his full time job, and so that’s what his brain is keyed into, presumably even when he’s not actively writing.  However, I am doing my writing—nonfiction and fiction* alike—as a “sideline”, so a lot of other things have the potential to drive story ideas out.  Also, my mind perforce wanders to many areas other than writing, including physics, biology, other sciences, mathematics, and philosophy of various subtypes, including ethics, political philosophy, epistemology, antinatalism, promortalism, nihilism, stoicism, and so on.

So, I’ve long since taken to writing down story ideas in my phone’s notes app, and I have subsequently written many of those stories.  Some I have not written, and I suppose that would mean that those ones are my equivalent of the story ideas that fade away in Stephen King’s head.  But I can still look at those story ideas and often remember what I was doing when I thought of them, and even what triggered the idea.  Not always, but sometimes.

Maybe I should take similar notes of blog post ideas or something along those lines.  But, of course, as long-timer readers may know, I almost never plan these posts out ahead of time.  Even the weirdest and most esoteric musings just come out of my head as I write in the morning on my way to work, which was when I used to write my fiction.  So, I don’t tend even to think about blog post ideas at other times (though, obviously, it does happen, given what I wrote above).

Anyway, planning ahead for any such things is pretty stupid in my case.  I don’t expect ever to write any fiction ever again, nor to write any new music nor draw any new pictures nor do anything else creative.  I suppose this blog could be considered creative in a certain sense, though it is nonfiction.

It would be nice to think that my writing this blog contributes in some way to the global intellectual conversation, the sharing of ideas, and that it thereby leads to some good in the world somehow, in some honestly consequential sense.  But I doubt that it does.  It’s just my little weird set of quantum interactions with my own field and with other fields around me in my brief stint as a (metaphorical) virtual particle.

We pop into existence, briefly interact (or not) and then return to nothingness, and only our cumulative effects on the superpositions of the interactions have any effect on the overall world at all—if they even do that.  On a cosmic scale, everything here is just virtual particles, just ephemera.

Even the universe itself may be a kind of virtual particle, proceeding from one kind of emptiness to another kind of emptiness.  Everything we imagine to be important just amounts to eddies in the currents of the process of moving from one blank, lower entropy state to a more final, higher entropy state.  And there’s no good reason even to suspect that there was anything before or that there will be anything after our brief lives for any of us.

That’s part of why I named my other blog Iterations of Zero.  But that blog too is now fallow.  Pretty much everything in my life is fallow.

There is no point to doing anything, not even in the short term, because there’s not even really any transient sense of reward, let alone any sense of deeper fulfillment.  “All is vanity”, as it says in Ecclesiastes.

I don’t really have more to say today, and probably I have no more of importance to say ever again (though that probably won’t keep me from saying shit), and it’s highly debatable whether I’ve ever said anything worth saying at all, at any time in my life.  It would be nice to be convinced that I’d had some real, relatively enduring impact on the world—for good, I mean—but everything I do is futile.

TTFN

*I haven’t actually written any fiction since I wrote Extra Body, nor have I felt an urge to do so.  It’s too thankless a task, given how much effort it entails, despite the fact that such effort is a “labor of love”.  Unrequited love is always wretchedly painful, and I disagree with the poetic line declaring that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  I think it very much depends on the circumstances.  I would rather spend the rest of my life alone and lonely than to fall in love and then have my heart willfully broken yet again, which is by far the most likely outcome of any romantic notion for me.  So it is, albeit to a lesser degree, with my fiction**.

**I’m reminded of a scene in Lord Foul’s Bane when Thomas Covenant is in a boat with the giant, Foamfollower, and Foamfollower asks if Thomas Covenant is a storyteller.  When Covenant replies, “I was, once,” Foamfollower says that the fact that he gave it up is as sad a story in three words as any he could have told.  Then he asks Covenant how he lives without stories, and Covenant shrugs and replies, “I live.”  Foamfollower, half-joking, says something to the effect of, “Another, in two words, sadder than the first.  Say no more.  With one word you will make me weep.”

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This post is not entitled to a headline

I’m writing this on my “smart” phone this morning.  When I left the office yesterday, I was just too exhausted to want to deal with carrying the miniature laptop computer.  I don’t know exactly why; maybe it’s because I’ve been burning my limited energy trying to force myself to be positive and upbeat.

I’ve even used the old autosuggestion, “Every day in every way I’m getting better and better” whenever walking or mentally idle.  But it wears me out after a while, and it feels so false as to be unsustainable in my head, just like when I found I couldn’t even think the words “I love my life and I love myself.”  I don’t believe any of it.

So, I wrote a few halfway positive blog posts in recent days and weeks, and hopefully they’ve been mildly entertaining from time to time, but I don’t know that I’m going to be able to keep that up.  I don’t feel good about myself or about the world in general.  I don’t feel in any way optimistic‒though I wouldn’t say I’m truly pessimistic, either.  It’s not even really what I would call fatalism.

I can only say that my attitude is that things in general will only ever be as good as they have to be, as they are forced to be, because there’s no percentage in being any better than that overall, just as there is no need in biology for organisms to be any better than the minimum required to survive and reproduce.

I could go into the reasons for these facts, but I’ve gone into them before on this blog, and I have done so more than once, so you can look around and find such posts here somewhere.  I’ve probably also discussed them on Iterations of Zero.  Today, I simply do not have the energy available to do so‒and it’s not even 4:30 in the morning yet.

Obviously my insomnia continues, but that’s not new.  I just haven’t been writing about it, because I thought people would be sick of it.  Similarly, I always have my chronic pain, which waxes and wanes a bit, but doesn’t ever take a day off, not for more than 20 years.  And my depression and anxiety continue, probably inescapably, since they are probably related to (or at least exacerbated by) my ASD.

It’s pretty sad, but I’ve realized‒or I have at least faced the fact‒that my time at the office is better than my time back at the house.  I have to go to the house, of course, because I need a place of privacy and rest, but I don’t like it there.  Especially in the morning, before everyone else arrives, the office is very much more comfortable.

And let’s be honest, pretty much all of my socializing happens at the office.  That’s more or less always been my pattern:  I make my friends either at work or school or what have you, though especially when I was younger, those friendships expanded from school and became broader and better.

That sort of thing doesn’t seem to happen anymore.  I am less and less able to connect with people as time goes by, partly because my energy budget is so low, and I have fewer and fewer interests and pastimes and distractions.  Everything in my life‒well, nearly everything‒sucks, and that’s because I suck.  The things in my life that don’t suck are as they are in spite of me.  Some people and things are just inherently good enough to be better than I am worse.  But that doesn’t make me any better.

I’m tired, and I don’t know any good, real reasons to keep trying.  I have and take very little joy in my nature.  Also, in general, I feel that my body is rotting throughout, and has been doing so for a few decades now.  I’m like a fruit that fell to the ground in infertile soil a long time ago, and there’s nothing for me to do but get first mushy and then dry and to slowly, grossly, wither away, surrounded only by various kinds of flies and ants.

Okay, that’s a bit purple and melodramatic.  My apologies.  But it captures a lot of how I feel about myself, my disgust and self-loathing; I make myself want just to throw up.

I wish I had the willpower to stop eating for good, just never to eat again.  That would be kind of nice.  Then I could just wither and fade out, and even get skinny before the end‒unless something else killed me before I reached that point.  I guess that would be okay.

Anyway, I’m not sure I’ll write tomorrow.  I am working then, of course, but I make no promises about writing a blog post.  The office is actually going to be closed on Friday for Independence Day, the first time I can remember us being closed for that holiday, but I’ve already got a pre-programmed post prepared for propagation that day.

Having the holiday off isn’t any particularly great thing from my point of view.  It’s not as though I’ll be doing anything to celebrate (other than my pre-programmed post), nor will I spend my time doing anything fun or interesting.  I’ll probably try just to knock myself out with Benadryl on Thursday night as I do on Friday nights, and then just…lie around.

I’m getting pretty bored with the movies and shows available, even ones that I know already and like, and YouTube is getting overdone, too.  There’s no new science that’s especially interesting, and certainly no new fiction that catches my eye.  And humanity in general, and America in particular, is just disappointing (I have never expected much from them, but they find so many ways to let me down, nevertheless).

Oh, well.  Whatever.  It’s not important, and it certainly doesn’t matter.  It’s just so wearying.  And I am tired.

I guess if I write a post tomorrow, you can read it.  If I don’t, you can’t.  That’s how that works.  But Friday will bring my preprogrammed post, and then Saturday and Sunday of course there will be nothing.

I’m not optimistic enough to start planning for next week.  Honestly, it doesn’t seem worth the wait.

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If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh numbers number all your blogs

Hello and good morning, and welcome to another Thursday morning blog post.

I’m not sure how many of these I’ve written, but since I’ve done them nearly every Thursday, even when I was writing fiction on all other weekdays (and excusing the occasional sick day), we can guess that I wrote on the order of fifty such posts a year for about ten years.  Thus, there are on the order of five hundred such daily posts over the years, each one nearly a thousand words long (and some going beyond that).  So, overall, the number of words I’ve written in these Thursday blog posts alone is comparable to the number of words in my longest novel (Unanimity…so long I had to publish it as two separate books).

Of course, when we approach it from the point of view of actual information, à la Claude Shannon’s information theory and whatnot, I would have a hard time estimating how much actual information there is in such a post.  In the first draft of the preceding paragraph and a half, there were 174 words, which comprise 940-ish characters (counting spaces, which I think one should count, since a space or the lack thereof can matter quite a bit in English).

Now, each character in a typewritten document, not counting ”special” characters, can have one of 26 letters (not counting upper and lower case as separate things for my current purposes) ten numerals, and maybe a comparable number of punctuation marks.  So, each potential space in the writing would have a total of roughly 26 plus 10 plus, say, 8 other characters, so 44 possible characters.  Rounding up, that’s about six bits per character (26 = 64).  Rounding down would give five bits (which is only 32 possibilities), so it’s something closer to 6 bits than 5.

Assuming the ratio of characters to words in the average blog posts stays fairly consistent, that would be, for a 900 word post:  (900/174) x 940, which rounding here and there* gives about 810,000 divided by, say, 180.  This can be reduced first to 81,000 divided by 18, or 9,000 divided by 2, or 4,500 characters per post.  Checking the math on the calculator gets roughly the same amount.

So, 4,500 characters, times five and some fraction bits per character, gives us between 22,500 and 27,000 bits of information per blog post.  Let’s say 25,000 bits.

But when I look at the storage space of my average blog post, they are almost all between 17 and 20 K (which is actually as much as 160,000 bits) in size.

This mismatch shouldn’t be surprising, because while English is (like most written languages) a “redundant code”, storing a word processor document entails storing more than just the individual characters.

Returning to what we mean when we refer to the redundancy of written English, we mean that not every new character gives you as much information as is potentially available.  For instance, if one types the letter “q”, what follows will almost always** be a letter “u” in English, and so we would be quite justified, at least in this, in writing the word “quite” as “qite”.  But, of course, redundancy in any kind of code is useful for counteracting the problem of lost data in transmission, which was one of the things Claude Shannon was thinking about in founding information theory.

There are surely other ways in which the data in a given blog post is “compressed” during the process of saving, but I don’t know enough about the computer science of word processors to know the specifics of how that’s done off the top of my head.  And since, of course, I write these blog posts “off the top of my head” each morning, I’m not going to try to research that subject for now.  That would make writing my daily blog much less pleasant, and make the process quite (ha) a bit (ha ha) longer than it would otherwise be.

Now that I’ve thought about it and mentioned it, I’ll probably be on moderate alert for information regarding the process if I should happen to come across it, and if I do, I’ll be more likely to focus on it and add it to my model of reality than I would have otherwise.

And now I am rapidly approaching the 800 word mark for this post, a mark which I will no doubt pass before I have finished writing the first draft of this sentence.  And, indeed, I did.  So let’s draw this very peculiar post to its close, today.

I’m sure many of you*** are thinking something along the lines of, “Geez, I hope he goes back to just writing about depression and chronic pain and all that shit tomorrow…this post has been really boring.”  To those people, I can only apologize.  To anyone who shares my idiosyncratic interest in esoteric (but highly amateur in my case) things like information theory and whatnot, well—I hope at least you have enjoyed this.

TTFN

*It’s okay to do this since I’m not trying to be terribly precise, just to get “back of the envelope” numbers for fun, anyway.

**Not in this case, of course, since there is a quotation mark after that last “q”…and this one here, as well.  So, the “u” is not a completely redundant character, but it certainly doesn’t give anything like 5 more bits of information.

***If a fraction of my few dozen readers can really be called “many”; I’ll let myself get away with using it as at least a relative term.

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“Or play the game ‘existence’ to the end…of the beginning”

You’d think that people would have had enough of silly blog posts.  But I look around me and I see…well, nothing particularly revealing in any direction.  For all I can tell, the people reading this blog may be the last people in the world who read blog posts, and everyone else is sick of them (the blog posts, not the people who read blog posts).

Perhaps the people reading this are sick of them, too, but have some peculiar masochistic streak, some deep need for punishment in the form of inane reading material that must be satisfied once a day whenever possible.  It’s a  big world; there could, in principle, be such people, and enough of them to account for almost everyone who reads my blog with any regularity.

On the other hand, blog posts could be more like the silly love songs mentioned in Paul McCartney’s tune.  They may not be everybody’s cup of tea*, but maybe a lot of people really love them and enjoy them and are moved by them.  In which case, it may be that the only reason that my blog only gets a few readers every day is that I write weird stuff about weird stuff a lot, and I often come across as nihilistic and/or pessimistic**, and I certainly I have much trouble with my chronic issues.

Not that being a downer or focusing on difficult (or even quite odd) things is necessarily going to make people not want to read a blog.  Quite apart from the possible cliché that misery loves company (which I doubt would have much influence on blog posts) it is a fact that people who have their own troubles will often try to find others with similar issues, perhaps to see if they have different insights, perhaps just to share solidarity or even inspiration.

Maybe the only reason that my blog isn’t the most read thing in the history of the world is that not enough people know about it.  We do know that PR campaigns can make a huge difference, can turn mediocre stories into international bestsellers, or can bring an entirely unqualified (indeed, an antiqualified) person into high political office.  When the promotion is promoting something that’s actually good, and the promotion itself is good enough, truly amazing results can happen.

What a crime it would be if I were writing the best writing ever known to humanity and only a few dozen people ever regularly read it, just because I’m no good at promoting myself due to low self-esteem and/or ASD.  Thank goodness I’m not writing the best writing ever, right?  That’s a real load off, as they say.

But I am writing, it seems, and I will try to continue to write every morning when I’m going to work.  I don’t know for certain whether I will be working tomorrow—watch this space and see if I write a post, I guess.  I hope I’m not working.  Though I’ve been trying hard to present the façade of upbeatness, I am very mentally fatigued, as I tend to be.

I don’t know, maybe I’ve been mentally fatigued for years, or even decades, now.  I know I don’t ever tend to give my mind or myself a break if I can help it.  And apparently, for those with ASD, just the process of daily living among humans is draining, partly because of masking (pretending to be normal, pretending to be fine, pretending to understand nonverbal social cues, or even just tolerating the inanities of primate social dominance displays and rituals among the naked house apes), partly because of having to deal with sensory assaults, partly from just not being able naturally to connect with those around them.

So, maybe through this blog I might connect with—or at least provide connection for—people who have similar issues, at least if they are similar enough.  Though, even the thought of making connections with new people, or of people even wanting to connect with me, has made me feel suddenly tense and defensive—anxious, you might say—even as I write about it.

It’s so strange, isn’t it?  Just an imaginary social encounter, even through the medium of a blog, feels like a potential, literal attack.  And yet, I’ve had friends before—very good friends—and I always enjoyed my time with them, and I never wanted to be away from my wife and kids any more than I had to be.

Of course, that didn’t pan out; like most things that really matter to me, I managed to screw it up in various ways.  Not all of it was my doing, of course—back injuries and chronic pain, along with congenital neurodevelopmental conditions, are difficult to blame on anyone, or on any particular thing, though some morons try—but events often do seem to go against my dearest, most heartfelt, wishes.

Maybe I should find a way to wish that I was not an internationally famous, hugely best-selling author with hundreds of millions of devoted fans and good relationships, real and virtual, with people who make sense to me, and vice versa, and even potentially some strong romantic relationship of some kind.  If I could come to really want to avoid those things, then they would, for me, seem more likely to come to pass.

Either way I would be unhappy of course—in a kind of Twilight Zone style inversion of expectations delivering what someone thought they wanted but really didn’t—but at least one way I would be someone whose writing reached out and touched*** millions of people.

Whatever.  If wishes were horses, we’d all be neck deep in horseshit—and not just in the figurative way we already are.

I hope you have a good day, and that you have a good weekend as well.  If I write on Saturday, it shall be here.  If not, it will likely mean I am not working.  If something happens and I never write here again…well, it’s been nice writing to you.

*But then again, even tea isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

**An accurate impression, to be fair.

***Not in an inappropriate way.

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Viewing his progress through, what perils past, what crosses to ensue, would shut the blog

Hello and good morning.  It’s Thursday, and so it’s time for my “usual” weekly Thursday blog post.  Aren’t you lucky?

I was a bit surprised that yesterday’s post seemed to be rather successful, at least in that people commented on it, here and on social media (where I share it).  I don’t know if anyone else shared it—I encourage anyone who enjoys any of my posts to share it to your own social media, and of course, I encourage you to “like” it if you like it, though I’m falling afoul of my own cautionary song Like and Share by encouraging such activities.

Still, it would be nice if people could share my stuff or comment on it.  I’ll say again:  comments on social media aren’t as useful to me as comments here, on my main page.  Here is where all* the readers come together (over me, so to speak).  So, if one person makes a comment, it might be something that another person finds interesting or insightful, and they might comment back and even get a conversation going.

I don’t know.  I’m probably being unreasonable.  I usually am.  I just have a bit of a hard time sustaining conversation, myself, so I’m always hoping that other people will do so in response to the prompts of my random thoughts, like the ones from yesterday.

Here I’m using a rather constrained version of the term “random”; my thoughts are not random in any true, nondeterministic, quantum mechanical kind of way.  They’re just stochastic, as well as being occasionally sarcastic**, as in my third sentence above.  So, while in practice they are unpredictable, in principle, each follows directly from some individual cause or set of causes.

Of course, nowadays, many people creating “content” on the various social media ask for “likes” or “thumbs up” or whatever the specific equivalent on their site is, as well as sharing and subscribing when that applies.  They also often have things like Patreon accounts, or Ko-fi accounts or whatever (those latter ones allow people to send them small amounts—the price of a cup of coffee, for instance—to help support them), so that some of them can make an actual living by making their “content”.

Of course, it would be nice to make a living by making content, i.e., by these blog posts.  I suppose one can also write posts on Substack nowadays; they are set up to allow people to give paid subscriptions in addition to free subscriptions.

Actually, I think WordPress has instituted something along those lines as well; I’ve gotten notifications of some such things at some point, but I haven’t paid that much attention to them.  All the social media and search engine companies and streaming services are all changing things far too often, so I don’t even try to keep up.

This constant updating gives one (this one, anyway) the impression that the companies really don’t know what they’re doing, and that they haven’t made a good product before they put it out to the public, so they have to keep tweaking it.

I suspect, though, that it’s more that they think they have to keep changing things to keep up with all the competition.  It’s a bit as if seals and sea lions tried to grow tentacles because they saw that squid and octopuses have a fair amount of success using them.

It might be worth it to remind them (the software companies and the pinnipeds) that, while all improvement is change, not all change is improvement.  In fact, most potential change is at best neutral, and more often detrimental, especially in situations in which something is working at least reasonably well.

This is the root of the admission in the Declaration of Independence that prudence dictates that established governments should not be changed due to light or transient causes (something like that, anyway).  It’s also part of why I hate when organizations or people call for “change” without being more specific.  I have more patience with the label “progressive”, because at least it gives tacit recognition to the notion that progress (by whatever definition) is what we want, not mere random change.

It’s true that evolution by natural selection happens with random mutations and non-random survival, and that over time, progress can be made that way, but it is a grim, ungainly, blundering, low, ghastly, ominous, wasteful, and horribly cruel process (here I’m combining words from Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Darwin).  It’s better to use engineering principles rather than random trial and error if one wants to head more swiftly and surely in better directions***.

Anyway, I don’t have any direct way to monetize this blog, though there are probably ways it can be done.  And so, I keep going to work every day, as I am doing now.  If people want to support me, of course, giving “likes” and commenting and (if such a thing ever happens) sharing the link to the posts is also very nice.

Of course, if anyone wants to support me monetarily, they can certainly do so—in principle—by buying my published books and talking about them to other people (and rating and reviewing them on Amazon, for instance).  And, of course, they can play/stream my music on Spotify and YouTube Music and iTunes and so on.  Some of my songs are even available to use as background music for reels on Instagram and TikTok and Facebook.

But I am more or less certain that I’ve made a staggering**** net loss on my music.  That’s okay.  People have listened to my songs, and some people have said that they really like them.  I even had one work friend who was a former professional musician/singer/songwriter say that he thought if my song Breaking Me Down had been released (in a professionally produced version shortened for radio) in the seventies, it would have been a hit.

So, if you so desire, please do listen to my music, share my posts, buy and read my books, all that stuff.  I would be grateful.  And hey, if any of you out there think I ought to try to monetize this blog, please let me know.

It seems unlikely that anyone actually reads far enough even to let me know their response, but if that’s the case, well, I guess I don’t mind being a voice crying out in the wilderness—I’ve always felt that way no matter what.

TTFN

*Though it may be a bit much to use the word “all”, considering that I don’t exactly have that many regular readers—a few dozen at most, most days.

**Oh, noooo, I would never be sarcastic.  Batman forbid!

***Of course, there are many possible ways to think of something as “better”, so making that judgment should also be an important part of the process if one wants actually to make things improve in a way upon which most, if not all, can agree.

****As a matter of percentage in versus percentage out.  The actual amounts are not great in either direction.

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Mind your vectors and terms of address

I’m writing this on my mini laptop computer again, because even though I find the extra weight of carrying it mildly annoying at the end of the day, at least sometimes the irritation of trying to write using my stupid smartphone is worse.

Although, since those two versions of me exist at different times, it’s hard to weigh their degrees of perceived irritation against each other.  In the morning, if I’m using my thumbs to try to type on a diminutive screen in a fashion that could be easily predicted to lead to some manner of repetitive stress injury, its all too natural for the “me” of that moment to hate the “me” of the previous evening who elected not to bring the laptop computer back with him.

But the “me” of the evening, when faced with the minor extra effort of the mini laptop, can feel very much overwhelmed and exhausted and think that the “me” of the following morning won’t find the process of writing using the smartphone particularly difficult.

The human consciousness clearly doesn’t have one, singular, constant terminal drive or goal as an imagined artificial general intelligence might.  I suppose one might think that the drive “to stay alive” would count as an ironically designated terminal goal, but that’s clearly not an accurate interpretation of the situation.

Not only are some people quite self-destructive and even actively suicidal—which you might credibly dismiss as dysfunction, not the lack of a dedicated system, though I think that would be imprecise—but there’s no good way to think that such a specific drive could evolve.  Evolution is blind to “death” as a concept or force, except as a failure, an accident, a lack, whatever you want to call it.

Before humans, as far as we can tell, no creature on Earth had a concept of “death” as the cessation of the biological processes of an individual organism.  Instead, there are proxies, such as the drive to avoid pain, and the related strong sensation of fear relating to danger and so on.

Similarly, there is no drive “to reproduce” in human (or other animal) minds.  Teens going through puberty don’t start feeling the literal desire to replicate their DNA in other bodies.  Instead, proxies for reproduction evolved, urges and drives that tended to lead to increased chances of reproduction, such as dominance hierarchy drives and displays in social primates such as humans, sexual attraction, and—of course—the pleasure of sex itself, with the reward-based drive to have it as often as feasible (with other inputs adjusting the strength of that drive and causing it to manifest differently in the two biological sexes and at different times and places).

The human brain—like probably all the other adequately complex brains on Earth—is a mélange of modules, with varying drives and processes that have evolved in parallel and sometimes independently, and also developed ways of interacting with each other.  Of course, at the root are the automatic drives that are all but undeniable—the respiratory drive, the thermoregulation drive, and so on.

There are even drives that are neurological in a broad sense, but that are so fundamental that they cannot be interdicted by the rest of the nervous system, only adjusted—I’m thinking here mainly of the heartbeat, the driver of which is in the sino-atrial* node and the Purkinje system of the heart, which is sort of a cross between muscle and nerve tissue.

The upshot is, if you ever feel that you’re “of two minds” on some particular subject, you’re probably not just speaking metaphorically, whether you know it or not.  Your final actions are produced by what I see as the final vector sum (and it can be quite small in the end or it can be huge in magnitude and surprising in direction) of all the drives or “pressures” in the brain that have any effect on decisions about behavior.  Then the action caused by the final behavior feeds back on the system**, changing the lengths and directions of some (perhaps sometimes all) of the contributing vectors, causing changes in the inputs and thus changes in the final vector sum of behavior.  Lather, rinse, repeat as needed, ad nauseam if not actually ad infinitum.

Please don’t imagine this as the sum of physical vectors in real spacetime.  The number of possible dimensions of such mental/neurological vectors is huge.  For all I know, there might even be spinors and tensors and matrices involved, but I don’t think those are necessary for my vague model.  “Simple” higher dimensional vectors probably do the trick.

What a curious set of things about which to write that was!  I had originally intended to start this post with some version of The Simpsons’ “Hi, everybody!”  “Hi, Dr. Nick!” exchanges, perhaps then noting that I could change “Dr. Nick” to “Dr. Robert” and thus reference both The Simpsons and the Beatles at the same time.

But then I might have noted that, although the Beatles song is so titled, “Dr. Robert” is not the way anyone has ever referred to me in actual practice.  It would be, honestly, a little weird for someone to refer to their physician as, for instance, “Dr. Joe” or “Dr. Judy” or whatever, certainly in our culture.

Mind you, there was that tendency for a while (it may still be prevalent) to have kids speak to adults such as teachers and daycare workers and people of that sort using their “title” and then their “given name”, such as “Miss Barbara” or “Mister Jimmy”.  I have always thought that was weird.  I mean, just imagine someone trying to address a certain prominent fictional character as “Dr. Hannibal”.

Alas, that all ended up being a discussion not worth having, except as an afterthought.  Though it’s debatable whether any discussion at all is actually worth having—including the discussion about whether any discussion is worth having.

You all can discuss that if you want; feel free to use the comments below, and to share this post to your social media platforms or what have you.  When you do discuss it, remember to define your terms ahead of time, and stick to them rigorously—i.e., the meaning of “discussion”, and of “worth”, and so on—so that you decrease your chances of getting involved in semantic games and misunderstandings and sophistry.

Whatever you choose to do, please try to have a good day.

*The “sino* in that term relates to its location in what’s called the sinus of the heart, and the “i” in it is a long “i”; it has nothing to do with China, though an identical prefix is sometimes used to mean “related to China”, but in this case with a sort of short “i” sound…or, really, a long “e” sound.

**And there are surely numerous other feedback loops all along the way affecting many, or perhaps all, of the vectors.

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A brief rundown of my events since last I wrote

I hope nobody’s been too worried about me since I haven’t written a post since Friday.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

I know, I know, that’s ridiculous.  I doubt anyone really even noticed that I hadn’t written.  But I haven’t in fact written since Friday (the 13th).

We ended up not working Saturday, partly because it was Father’s (Fathers’?) Day weekend.  That was good, because my youngest came to visit me on Saturday in celebration of that holiday, and as I said to them on Saturday, it was my favorite day in at least 12 years.

Sunday, of course, I don’t write blog posts, so that was nothing unusual; I did laundry and so on.  Then, yesterday, as I got up to get ready for work and to start writing my post, I realized that I really didn’t feel well.  I almost threw up before even getting my shoes on, then things progressed to more dire regions of state-space, and, well…I ended up staying at the house with GI distress and a low-grade fever.  As I told my boss, I think I ate something that disagreed with me strongly and in no uncertain terms.

Still, now I’m feeling a bit better, although I am still washed out.  The biggest worry for me about it at the time, though, was fear that I would dehydrate and might be at risk for having a kidney stone again.  Despite that fear, though, for the most part I didn’t want to take anything in by mouth.  And it’s not as though I have the capacity to take in anything by any other route.  I don’t have the equipment at the house to give myself IV fluids, though I suppose I could get some to have around in case of emergencies.

Anyway, sorry, that’s pretty boring.  I’m feeling at least like I’m heading in the right direction now.  And I can’t really miss more than the one day at work, because then there’s just too much on which to catch up.  Therefore, here I am on my way in, but I’m not fully at my usual capacity‒so please cut me a bit of slack if I’m not as coherent as I might usually be.

Saturday was quite nice, though.  We went first to a gaming/arcade kind of place.  It was a bit loud, but still, it was a lot of fun.  For the first time in my life, I was able to grab a prize with a claw game on my first try.  That was pretty much my only real triumph, but as I said, it was still very enjoyable.

Then we went to lunch at Talkin’ Tacos because, of course, I wanted to have tacos on that Saturday in particular.  After that, we went to a local farmer’s market that I’ve wandered through a few times before (but such places are really not much fun alone).  It was fun this Saturday, though.  It would probably have been more fun if it hadn’t been quite so hot and sunny and humid, but it was still cool‒just not in the literal, physical sense.

Other than that, well…I don’t know.  I don’t really have much more about which to write today, and I’m a bit washed out, as I think I mentioned.  So for now, I guess I’ll draw this to a close.  I hope all you fathers out there had a lovely holiday, and that everyone else also had a nice weekend and a nice day yesterday.  Hopefully, by tomorrow, I’ll be back up to snuff and can write something a bit more interesting.

Thank you for reading.

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Uttering such dulcet and harmonious blogs, that the rude sea grew civil at her song

Goodo and hell morning.

I’m pretty sure I’ve used that pseudo spoonerism before in a Thursday blog post opening, but I guess that’s okay.  I would be the only one to complain about such copying (and perhaps some imaginary, truly obsessive reader) and I’m okay with it as long as I am also the copier.

I’m writing this on my smartphone, because I had a very bad pain day yesterday*, and even the small extra weight of the mini laptop computer was something I wanted to avoid‒probably purely for psychological reasons, since I doubt it affected the level of my pain directly.

Anyway, I’m not in as much pain today so far, though it’s early doors, of course.  Still, I can’t change my mind and conjure the laptop computer at this point; if I could do that sort of thing, why would I bother going to the office?

Well, today I have one reason other than exerting effort necessary to maintain my job**:  my black Strat is back.  I asked my boss to bring it back, since it was just sitting in his garage, and yesterday he did so.  I even took a bit of time near the end of lunch to change to low E string, though I had brought my electronic tuner back to the house, so I had to tune the guitar afterward by ear***.  I’m pretty good at that, though.  Tuning a cello is much trickier, and I’ve done that a lot in my time.

I diddled around a little bit on it during a brief lull in the afternoon, and it was definitely nice.  I could still play Wish You Were Here and The Man Who Sold the World and Nothing Compares 2U, but I’m embarrassed to say that I had to look up the 5th (or was it 6th?) chord in Fake Plastic Trees****.  Once I got that chord back, though, it was as if I had never forgotten it.

My boss said that he thought my desk area looked better now with the guitar back in place.  Or maybe he asked me if I thought that was so.  Either way, the general message was the same, and I agreed with his assessment (or just answered his question in the affirmative).

I’ll probably do a bit of strumming and plucking this morning before work (and of course I will sing along).  One of these days, maybe I’ll do one of my videos of me playing and singing one of those songs above, or maybe One Headlight, or something like that.  I wonder how the acoustics in the new office would measure up when recording music.

We’ll have to see if I can still sing okay‒though, really, I do sing occasionally at the house when the housemates are out, and as far as I can tell my voice is still tolerable.  I don’t think I sing as well as I used to, but then again back in the day I used to sing more or less constantly during every daily commute, so I got a lot of practice.  I’d play and sing along with the Beatles or Elton John or Billy Joel or the soundtrack from Les Mis or (my favorite) The Phantom of the Opera.  Then later, when I had really long commutes after my divorce, I’d sing along with Tori Amos and Pink Floyd and Radiohead in addition to the previously mentioned artists.

Is it weird that, talking about how (or whether) I can sing, I cannot help but think of the old Simpsons  episode in which Troy McClure stars in the Broadway show Stop the Planet of the Apes, I Want to Get Off?  Specifically, I remember when the famous “Take your stinking paws off me…” line leads into a song in which the surrounding apes repeat, “He can talk, he can talk, he can talk, he can talk, he can talk, he can talk…” and Troy belts out, “I can siiiiiiiiiing!”

I haven’t watched much of The Simpsons since Phil Hartman was murdered.  He was never a main character, but he was always awesome.  I once read that he claimed, “I can do a thousand voices…and they all sound like Phil Hartman.”

Well, I suppose that’s enough gobbledegook for today.  For those of you who prefer talk of music to talk of mathematics and physics and their relationships to prosaic, daily matters:  You’re welcome*****.

I hope you have a good day today‒though as you should know by now, it will inevitably be the best possible day you can have, so don’t fret too much.  Reality is what it is.  And as John Mellencamp might have said (though he did not, as far as I know):  “When I fight reality, reality always wins.”

That’s one of the ways we know that it’s reality.

TTFN

I like this picture because David Gilmour’s Strat here looks JUST LIKE mine.

*Unless you prefer to say that, because of how much pain I was in, it was a good day for pain but a bad day for a person who would rather not be in chronic pain.  Raise your hand if that describes you.

**This is a bit peculiar, but without intending to do so, I initially wrote, “…exerting effort to stay alive” (emphasis added).  That hadn’t been the conscious idea or intention in my head as I was writing.  I wonder what a Freudian would say about that off slip of the typing thumbs.

***No, this is not going to be a stupid “by ear” related dad joke.  I just wanted to point out that I did use a video on YouTube where the proper guitar notes were played, just to get the sound for my low E.  After that, the rest of the tuning is pretty easy.

****It was a Dsus2, if memory serves at the moment.  [Checks the chords]  Yes.  Yes, it was a Dsus2.  And it was the 5th chord in the song, if you count the little Asus4 temporary life as a chord that’s separate from the A major chord from which it arises and to which it returns.

*****It’s not “your welcome”, which would seem to refer to a welcome that belongs specifically to you‒it’s “you’re welcome”, with the contracted form of “you are”, meaning, yes, you are welcome to the boon I have provided in the form of not writing about physics and mathematics today******.

******And though I’ve never seen it written so, it’s also not “yore welcome”, which would seem to be some reference to the way people used to be welcomed in the old days.

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“It’s just the kind of day to leave myself behind”

Well, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it.

Note that I ended that sentence with a period, despite the fact that it seems to be in the form of a question.  That’s because I didn’t really mean it as a question; I had no desire to imply that I wasn’t sure what day of the week it was.  I’m reasonably certain that today is Tuesday.

I’m not absolutely certain, of course, because outside the realms of self-contained systems of mathematical or logical axioms and rigorously defined and applied operations, there can be no true certainty, only higher or lower credence.  Real-world probabilities never reach zero or one.

Mind you, some things are so likely as to be practically certain, and there’s not much point in worrying about whether they are true unless and until some completely new evidence and/or argument makes itself known.  Such is my conviction that today is Tuesday*.

No, I was expressing a sort of resignation about the fact that today is Tuesday.  I would have said it in a sardonic tone had I been speaking aloud.  It’s not that Tuesday is an especially bad day of the week necessarily, notwithstanding the Beatles telling us that Tuesday afternoon is never-ending.  No, it’s just that Tuesday is still practically the beginning of the week, but I am already tired from Monday, and it’s a long way until the weekend, especially if one works on Saturday, which I am going to do, as far as I know.

That last statement has a lower credence than I give to the fact that today is Tuesday, but it’s still well above a 50% chance.

I know, I know, why am I writing this inane nonsense?

It’s just stream of consciousness.  I’m not planning it out, except to the extent that something I’ve written already makes me think of something else I want to write next.  But I have no particular chosen topic today, obviously.  Not that this is atypical.  I almost never have any plan when I start writing blog posts; I just start writing.  Sometimes I’ll just start with an inane phrase, like I did today, and see where that takes me.

Oddly enough, I think when I do have a particular topic in mind—such as in my short-lived series My Heroes Have Always Been Villains—people don’t seem to enjoy my posts as much.  Or, at least, I don’t get as many “likes” or views.  Maybe some people read and “like” them via social media or something, but if so, whatever they’re doing doesn’t reach me as feedback.  I don’t really see comments or responses that aren’t done here on my page.

Of course, as you may already know, the initial purpose for this blog—in this incarnation—was to try to promote my fiction by interacting with potential readers.  Boy was that a dud of an idea!  [No question mark ==> rhetorical, but not really a question].

More people read and have read this blog than ever read any of my books, unfortunately.  It’s rather discouraging, and it’s a large part of why I haven’t been writing fiction for a while, and the last thing I wrote, Extra Body, I just published here.

While I always write the stories I want to write and that I will enjoy (or whatever one might call the process) there really is a rapidly diminishing marginal return as one writes books that almost no one is even aware of, let alone purchases, let alone reads.  And as you know, I have no stomach for self-promotion.  Sometimes I envy narcissists, at least for an instant; then I remember that I tend to find them disgusting (though just a smidge of narcissism can be endearing in the right circumstances).

I also am not very good at interacting with people who might help promote my work, let alone at asking for that help.  I’m pretty good at the creative stuff, or at least I’m tolerably good at it.  I can write, I can draw, I can do music (playing and singing) and other similar stuff.

I’m also pretty good at science and math, and not just in a rote learning sense; I’m pretty creative there, too.  I once invented my own “number” which I call a “gleeb”, the symbol for which was a combined cursive g and b:

The nature of a gleeb is that, if you multiply it by zero, you get one (in other words, a gleeb is the “forbidden” or “undefined” result of 1/0).  That may not seem to make sense, but while I was “up the road” I even worked out some of the algebra and properties of such a number, and it turned out—to my inexpert analysis—to be logically consistent, at least.

I’m not saying it’s useful.  As far as I can tell, it’s not.  But it was a bit of mental fun and exercise, perhaps the intellectual analogue of playing hacky sack.

I’ve also occasionally thought of ideas in physics and in medicine that I thought were interesting, and which later I discovered had actually become areas of research or therapy (the therapy bit is in medicine, not in physics…as far as I know, there are no therapies in physics, despite the fact that there is such a thing as physical therapy**).

But I am not good at putting myself forward or putting myself out there or calling attention to myself.

Okay, well, I guess that’s enough meandering nonsense for the moment, though such nonsense can sometimes be fun.  Hopefully, Tuesday afternoon will not become some bizarre event horizon in which we are stuck forever.

Of course, the person going through the event horizon doesn’t experience the process as eternal; only the distant observers “see****” them slowing and slowing and coming finally, asymptotically, to a complete standstill.  The person who goes through, if they are looking backward, might see the whole history of the universe playing out before them—at least until tidal forces spaghettify them—but they will not experience time stopping.  Think about it:  how could one experience time stopping?  The passage of time is inherent in the process of experience, certainly as we know it.

I hope you have a good day.

*And even if it weren’t, I could just call it Tuesday and say that I have my own way of naming the days of the week, and it would be no more arbitrary than the one in use here in the US and elsewhere.

**This is as opposed to psychotherapy, of course, but it also can lead one to imagine such things as ethereal therapy or conceptual therapy or metaphysical therapy.  What would that last one be***?

***See, I ended that sentence with a question mark; it really was a question, though mainly a rhetorical one.

****I put that in scare quotes because as a person (or whatever) gets closer and closer to an event horizon, any light or other signal leaving them, heading outward, gets red-shifted to longer and longer wavelengths, so it becomes harder and harder actually to see them.  In the end, we cannot truly observe them stuck there forever, because the wavelength of the light leaving them approaches infinity.