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Monday morning…looking up?

It’s Monday morning again, as tends to happen around this time of week.  I hope you all had a good weekend.

I’m starting this blog post at the house, where I’m waiting to see if the Uber prices come down a bit before deciding to take one.  If they don’t, I may decide to walk to the train; it’s relatively cool out, and I feel physically rather energetic.  I may even take the bus, though that’s a circuitous and irritating path.  I’ll keep you posted about what happens.

…

Okay, well, the price dropped an acceptable amount, so I booked an Uber, but the estimated wait is 15 minutes, which is unusually long for this time of day.  That further cements my plan to try to make sure to walk back from the train on the way “home” this evening.  Yes, it will take longer even than waiting for an Uber, but it will cost less, it will have a lower carbon footprint‒though I will make many more actual footprints‒and it will also get me some good exercise.  I hope you can all help keep me honest and maybe even spare some words of encouragement.

I have some good news to share with you today.  It’s not momentous, but it means a lot to me.  I did not start on HELIOS, but I’m happy to report that I’ve started something else.  The prospect of beginning a new novel, even a “light novel” sci-fi story, was a bit intimidating, so on the other spiral-bound notebook, the one on which my cousin recommended I write a zombie story, I thought maybe I would write a short story.  I didn’t intend to write a zombie story (sorry, Lance) since I don’t even really enjoy reading or watching such stories, but it’s still a good basic idea.

I opened up my old collection of story ideas, from which came more than one of my existing works, and scrolled down.  Most of the ideas weren’t that gripping for the moment, but quite a way down the list I found an idea whose time, it turns out, had come.

I won’t tell you much about the story idea here, partly because I don’t have the full thing sketched out, but mostly because I don’t want to diminish my drive to write it.  It’s called Extra Body, and no, it’s not a horror story.  If anything, it’s a sort of lighthearted sci-fi short story, but set in the ordinary, modern world.

I wrote one page of it at work on Friday, and then yesterday‒yes, Sunday‒I wrote another page and a half.  It’s almost, but not quite, unheard of for me to write fiction on a Sunday, simply because I habitually mandate that as a mental break day from writing fiction.  However, since I’ve been on quite a prolonged mental break from writing fiction anyway, I decided to get in an extra day.

Also, instead of setting my usual daily goal of 3 to 4 pages of writing, I just set my goal to at least 1 page.  That takes a lot longer when I’m writing “by hand” than it does when typing‒I can type a full 400 to 500 word page in a very short period of time‒but that’s okay.  I’m hoping this pressure will keep me more concise than I often tend to be.

I must say, it’s good that I’m keeping the target low when writing by hand, because my hand muscles are deconditioned for writing much on pen and paper.  Of course, my writing is also terribly messy, but that is nothing new.  As I rediscovered yesterday, I can always read my own handwriting at least.

This shouldn’t be too long a short story, especially not for me.  It’s not going to be terribly deep or thought provoking, just a bit of fun.  Then, maybe, once I’m done with that, if I’m still around, I can start HELIOS.

Another thing, in closing for the day:  I did in fact look up the chords and tabs for All Apologies only to find that, though it was originally played in a form of the “drop D tuning”, it’s just a 3-chord song (not counting sus-2 and 7th chords, which one usually does not).  I decided to learn it using standard tuning, because I don’t like having to twiddle with the tuning of my guitar so much.  This meant I had to figure out the main riff for myself, since the tabs are not really any help, being all in the original tuning.  That wasn’t much work, though.  It’s a nice sounding riff, but it’s actually quite simple.

So, since I had the guitar out anyway, I decided to look up the chords to Close to You, in preparation for possibly recording my parody, Antichrist.  This song has slightly more chords than the other one, but unless you count the “truck driver” key change in the middle, it’s also really a pretty simple song.

I guess most popular songs are not all that complex.  One can get spoiled when playing around with Radiohead and the Beatles, let alone with having played Bach on the piano (and cello), or having been in pit orchestras playing West Side Story and the like.

Anyway, as may be obvious, I’ve gotten a slight boost in my overall energy, partly from better allergy control, I think, so that’s good.  I hope it continues.  We shall see, I guess.  For now, at least I’m being slightly productive.  I hope all of you are feeling at least as well as I, and that you have a good week.

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“Find my nest of salt”

It’s Friday, in case you didn’t already know, and since I am not scheduled to work tomorrow, it’s actually the last day of the workweek for me.  Oh frabjous day*.

I didn’t write a post yesterday, because I was out sick.  I think that some dip that I used had been in the fridge longer than I had remembered and had gone bad or summat, though it tasted okay.  Anyway, it certainly didn’t want to stay down after a while, so that was unpleasant.  I was worried that I might have caught some upper GI virus, but it was too self-limited an illness for that.

I feel as though I get sick on Thursdays more often than on other days, and especially on ones after a week in which I worked on Saturday.  I’m not sure if this is true pattern recognition on my part or some form of selection bias, but it feels as though it’s at least a slight trend.  I would suspect‒if it’s something real‒that it’s related to me getting worn down mentally (and physically) and becoming vulnerable to random physical insults after having had a longer week and no real recharge time.

This didn’t happen to me in the past, but then again, I was younger then**, and my reserves were deeper.  Also, I had a family to come home to, and a safe environment, and friends, and books that I wanted to read.  It was also reasonably quiet both at home and at school or work, and what noise there was‒even when it was quite chaotic‒was related to what was happening, what was being done, what the work entailed.

Things now are much different, and I need to find a way to recharge myself more rapidly and reliably, at least if I want to avoid total system collapse.  I’m not sure that I do want to avoid that, though.  Some part of me occasionally thinks that, at least if I completely fell apart, people would have to notice, and maybe someone would help me.

I doubt it.  The world is not set up well for doing very beneficial things, especially to and for people who are odd.  And I certainly don’t seem to be the sort of person people like to keep around for very long at a time, not in close personal contact, anyway.  They’ll happily‒or willingly, anyway‒keep themselves surrounded by shallow, lazy, manipulative users, as long as they wear at least a façade of warmth and cheerfulness.  But if someone approaches things differently, and is too mentally fatigued and fed up to bother trying to pretend otherwise or to force smiles all the time, they withdraw, even if that person works hard and tries hard, and is creative and smart and would never willingly betray them.

This is all hypothetical of course, but it does highlight why I think people‒indeed, the world‒are probably not worth keeping around.  Or it’s not worth keeping myself around to be among them.

Case in point:  for at least two days now (and it may have happened yesterday, too, for all I know) the Tri-Rail trains going north and south from my station boarded (with last-minute announcements) on opposite sides of the track from the ones they usually arrive on.  Now, it can make sense for one of the trains to board on its opposite side from usual; track maintenance needs to be done from time to time.  But having the trains switch sides smacks of someone just having screwed up, and then having done so again.  It’s not reassuring for passengers, that’s for certain.

Of course, my own reliability is not impressive lately.  I haven’t yet started work on HELIOS, though I have the blank notebook in my backpack (and another one remaining at the office).  I think, oddly enough, that if I were able to find a way to work on that during the day, I might recharge a bit just from that.  Then again, maybe I’m wrong.  I’ve only ever really successfully written fiction consistently early in the morning in near-silence.

Well, I haven’t given up on it yet, but I’m not optimistic.  I guess I’ll let you all know if I succeed in starting.

I also feel like I want to get the tabs to the Nirvana song All Apologies and learn it, and maybe do a recording of it, but I doubt that’s going to happen.  My guitars are just sitting unused.  Despite this, they give me no reproach‒guitars are very nonjudgmental that way.  They merely sit there, fallow, waiting and gathering dust, as is my keyboard (the musical one) and my cello.  It’s a shame, I know.  But, as the song’s lyrics say, “I’ll proceed from shame.”***

For now, though, I won’t proceed any further than this final paragraph.  I hope you who read this all have a good day and a good Saturday and a good Sunday if you’re at all able to do so.  As for everyone else, well, who cares about them?  They’re not like us, right?  We don’t need them.  They are our enemies, and we are theirs.  JK…OAI.

*Was anyone else really, really bothered when, in Tim Burton’s movie version of Alice in Wonderland, they referred to Christopher Lee’s character as if its name were “Jabberwocky” when that was just the title of the poem from which it was drawn.  The creature’s name, or title, is the Jabberwock.  It says so right in the second stanza of the poem:  “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!”  Yeah, I figured nobody else probably cared.

**Almost by definition.

***I don’t believe that the line is “aqua seafoam shame”, as so many people seem to think.  That’s merely a classic mondegreen.  I think this largely because the mondegreen version is a weird, abstract, bizarre bit of imagery that doesn’t resemble anything else in the words or tone of the song, whereas “I’ll proceed from shame,” follows quite logically from the preceding “I’ll take all the blame”.  Cobain’s lyrics could be cryptic and quasi-nonsensical sometimes, but their tone is more consistent than the whole aqua seafoam thing would be.  End rant.

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Near-catatonic dysthymia with sensory overload and the difficulty they engender in writing fiction at work – a personal case report

Well…

I tried to write some on HELIOS yesterday‒even just a page would have been nice.  I got my clipboard down, put the title at the top of the first page, and I even worked on a few names for characters and places.  I chose a good name for the school in which some of the action takes place, one that I like (this happened before the workday started), and a couple of tentative names for three main characters.  I’m not sure about sticking with any of those.

As I’ve noted before, I made up the rough idea of HELIOS when I was quite young, as a comic book superhero.  I don’t remember what name I had given to the main character, but knowing me, it was probably some ridiculously simple and probably alliterative name.  For instance, I once made up a completely ripped-off-from-the-Hulk character called “the Cosmonster” (!) and his regular, human name was John Jackson.

To be fair to my past self, I was quite young, and I was influenced by Stan Lee, who made such characters as Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, and Reed Richards.  So, there was precedent.

Still, a decent name for the main character is rather important.  “Doofus Ignoramus” is unlikely to be the secret identity of a memorable hero, though it could be an interesting genus and species name for some newly described creature.

Anyway, as I implied, I got no actual writing done on the book.  It’s just too noisy and chaotic during the day, and it’s almost impossible for me to block it all out, since I have to attentive to work matters.

Also, my dysthymia/depression and probably some other things were in full swing yesterday, and I was all but catatonic through at least two thirds of the work day.  I barely moved when I didn’t need to move, I barely spoke‒even when someone spoke to me, except when necessary‒and I don’t think I showed any facial expression before about 4:30 pm, though it can be hard for me to tell.  I’m trying not to exaggerate here.  I really felt more or less completely empty.

I even did a quick Google search for the official clinical meaning of catatonia, to see if I was close to meeting it, as I felt I might be.  It wasn’t quite the right term, but it wasn’t ridiculously far off, either.  There were times during the day that, if I had somehow caught fire, I probably would have looked at it and thought something along the lines of, “Huh.  I’m on fire.  I should probably put that out.  But is there really any point to doing that?  It’s too noisy in this world, anyway…maybe I should just let myself burn.”

Eventually I thawed slightly as the day went on‒I do fit the typical pattern of depression in that my overt symptoms tend to be worse in the morning.  Weirdly, despite that fact, I find it far easier to get many things done in the morning, when it’s quiet and I’m effectively alone.

I’ve always been that way, or at least as long as it’s been pertinent.  Even in junior high, I used to get up and go to school very early, so I tended to be the first student there and have quiet space and time to feel like the surroundings were just mine before everyone else showed up.  I carried this on through high school.  In my undergrad years, I used to set my watch fifteen minutes ahead and then still make a point to get to class early, by my watch, even though I knew it was set ahead.

That would be harder to do nowadays, since all the effing digital devices display time based on local corrections to UTC, getting updates and adjustments through 5G or Wi-Fi or whatever other connections are there.  This is good around daylight savings time, I guess‒it’s harder for people to make the excuse that they forgot to set their clocks forward in the spring and that’s why they’re late for work the Monday after.  But the whole uniformity of time and whatnot seems overrated‒and it certainly doesn’t seem to stop people from being habitually late in the morning and then keeping other people late at the end of the day.

Not that I am bitter.

Going back to writing:  despite my emptiness and disconnectedness yesterday, and my inability to write any fiction, I decided to order two good spiral bound notebooks, thinking maybe I can at least bring them on the train and write on my way back to the house or something.  If I brought the clipboard with the paper in it, the pages would get all shmushed and mangled in my backpack, and that would be very aesthetically unpleasant.

So, I’ll be getting two of those lovely, sturdy “5-Star” spiral bound notebooks delivered today.  They were quicker to arrive and cheaper than if I had bought them in a stationery store, and I had better choices of colors, though I still had to settle for one green one along with the black one to get a one-day delivery.  That’s okay.  One of the nice things about black is that it goes with every color quite nicely.

I guess I’ll let you know how things go today.  I’m not too optimistic, especially given that work is more sensorially overloading and distressing than is even riding on a commuter train, a fact which at first glance might seem rather contradictory.

It makes a certain amount of sense, though.  On a train‒or a bus, or similar‒one is actually much more alone than one is in an office.  There are other people, but they are each also alone.  You are all mutually alone, and there is no impetus to communicate or interact.  It’s much more pleasant than working where people feel they can just come up and interact with you without warning, whether or not you’re already doing something.  And then, they’re all talking and interacting and there’s overhead music, and there’s stupidity, and you can’t even hear the useful, pertinent information that you’d like to hear.  It’s too chaotic and noisy, certainly for someone with constant tinnitus in one ear and other sensory difficulties.

Oh, well.  Whataya gonna do?  The forces that brought the world into existence never bothered to get my input when they did what they did.  The morons.  Things could have been so much better than they are, but they didn’t bother to ask me.  Then they give the poor excuse that I “didn’t exist” at the time.  Whose fault was that, huh?  Not mine!

Maybe it’s not too late for me to fix everything.  But it often seems hardly to be worth the effort, even if it can be done.  For the most part, life in general does not merit help or protection.  Macbeth had its number:  it’s a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Speaking of tales told by idiots, I’ll let you know tomorrow how it goes today with respect to fiction writing after my notebooks arrive.

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Whither one goes affects whether the effects of the weather are noteworthy

It’s a bit chilly this morning, at least for south Florida.  As I looked at the weather app when I was getting up, it reported that the temperature near me was about 51 degrees Fahrenheit.  We can take 32 away from that then multiply by 5/9‒so that’s 19 x 5, which is 95, divided by 9‒which gives just over 10 degrees Centigrade (or Celsius, depending upon whom one asks).

I guess that’s pretty cool, though certainly there are many places north of here where people would welcome it as a relatively balmy day for this time of year.  Alternatively, in parts of the southern hemisphere, where it is summer, it would seem aberrantly cold, even more noteworthy than it is in my neck of the subtropical woods.  Going farther afield, on Mars it would be truly a record-setting heat wave, whereas on Venus, such a temperature would be impossibly, unfathomably cold.

The surface temperature of Venus is, if memory serves, around 900º Fahrenheit, or nearly 500º Centigrade, or nearly 800 Kelvin (I am rounding the Kelvin “273” addition to Centigrade because I only have one significant figure in my recalled estimate of Venus’s average temperature in Fahrenheit, and adding other specific digits would be misleading and unjustified).

It’s interesting that Venus, the planet named for the goddess of sexual and romantic love, is the most hellish planet in the solar system.  It’s hot enough at the surface to melt lead.  The atmospheric pressure is 90 times that of Earth and largely consists of carbon dioxide.  The cloud cover is constant and it rains sulfuric acid.

Perhaps Venus, the morning “star” (and the evening “star” too, depending on which side of the sun it’s currently on from Earth’s point of view) is more appropriately given one of its other names, which is:  Lucifer, the light-bearer, herald of the dawn, who in later mythology was associated with the Devil (at least before his fall).

Of course, it’s hard to reconcile Lucifer’s supposed fall with the fact that the planet is still conspicuously up there in the sky.  And I do mean “conspicuously”.  Apart from the sun and the moon, Venus is easily the brightest thing in the night sky.  Sometimes one can still see it even as the sun is beginning to rise; the cloud cover of Venus makes it highly reflective of visible light.

Anyway, I find it sardonically and cynically amusing that the goddess of love is associated with a nightmarish hellscape, but I have a personal history that makes me look askance at romance.  I am, in other words, biased.

Venus is a good object lesson in the potent effects of carbon dioxide’s tendency to allow visible but not infrared light to pass easily through it, and so to create a “greenhouse effect” even in the modest concentration it achieves on Earth.

The physics of this is well understood, relating largely to the resonant frequency of the bonds in the molecule as well as its size and shape.  Smaller, tighter molecules like molecular nitrogen and molecular oxygen, the two gasses that make up the vast majority of Earth’s atmosphere, don’t interact much with infrared light, and are more prone to scatter shorter, bluer wavelengths of visible light‒this is a rough explanation of why the sky is blue (and why the sunrise and sunset are much redder, as that sunlight is going through more of the atmosphere due to the angle at which we see the sun at those times of day, and the blue is partly scattered out of it, leaving relatively more redder light behind).

Anyway, the broad physics of the greenhouse effect is almost elementary, and has been understood for a long time.  The specifics of what precisely will happen in any given set of circumstances can be tricky to tease out, given the complexity of reality‒you might say that Venus is in the details‒but the specifics are often less important than the broad strokes.

After all, when a giant asteroid is heading toward the Earth, it isn’t that reassuring to know that only, say, 75% of species will be driven extinct by its impact, and that life will survive and eventually once again thrive.  How much would someone have to pay you for you to be willing to accept a 75% chance that just you will die, let alone everyone like you on the planet?

There might well be a big enough sum for you to be willing to risk your own life, especially if you got to enjoy the money for a while before the dice were thrown, or to leave it to your heirs.  But for your whole species?  Is there a reward big enough to be able to take that chance?  Let’s assume you’re not a raging misanthrope/panantipath like I am for the sake of this question, since depending on my mood, I’d be inclined to negotiate for a higher chance of extinction.

Also, of course, by pretty much every possible form of ethics you might follow, you don’t have the right to roll the dice on all the members of your own species.   You don’t have any right to roll the dice on the members of your own family, unless they unilaterally and spontaneously and freely grant you that right.

Sorry, I don’t know why I’m writing about these topics today.  They are just what spewed out of me, like vomit from the proverbial drunkard or pus from a squeezed abscess.  I wish I could write something more interesting, or write something that helped my mood some.  Writing fiction did at least help fight my depression, but it’s hard when almost no one reads my stuff.

Maybe I should take to writing at least a page of fiction a day by hand, on the notebook paper and clipboard I have at the office, during downtime, instead of watching videos.  Yesterday I mainly watched ones about spontaneous symmetry breaking and the electro-weak era and the Higgs mechanism.  To be fair to me, it’s very interesting stuff, and it actually would have some relevance to my potential comic book turned manga turned science fiction story, HELIOS.

Of course, that’s named for another mythological figure, one that’s even hotter than Venus.  But I don’t know if I can write it.  Motivation is difficult.  Still, as Stephen King reputedly once told Neil Gaiman, if you write just one page a day, by the end of a year you’ll have a decent-sized novel*.

Once I get writing, I have a hard time stopping at only one page.  If you’re a regular reader of my blog, you’ll probably know this implicitly‒my general target for post length is about 800 words, but I almost never am able to keep it that short.

I guess we’ll see what happens.  And, of course, I’ll keep you all…posted.

*He has also noted that, for him‒as I have often found it to be for me‒writing fiction is the best form of therapy.

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Top o’ the work week to ye!

I was going to title this post “top o’ the week to ye”, but I realize that many people consider the week proper to begin on Sunday; standard calendars in places such as the US and Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth and so on look at it that way.  In Japan, on the other hand, I’m led to understand that the week officially starts on Monday, since that’s the day work starts, and Saturday and Sunday (Doyōbi and Nichiyōbi) are the weekend.

Though Japan has individually named weekdays referring to esoteric things much as we do in the West, the Japanese months‒at least their current, standard names‒are basically just numbered (though I understand there are older, more traditional names).  It seems pretty sensible just to number the months‒and the days, for that matter‒rather than give them names.

Then again, while there is a certain logic to the number of months‒related both to the length of the year and to the moon’s orbital period, both of which are objective, external facts‒the number of days in a week is pretty much arbitrary.

It seems the sort of thing that, around the time of the Revolution, the French might have wanted to make decimal, with, say, three ten-day periods (decadi?  decamaines?) per month and 36.5 of those a year.  I mean, multiples of ten were justifiably popular with them.  For instance, they defined the units of distance so that a meter was one ten-millionth the distance from the pole to the equator at the arc passing through Greenwich, England.

Thus, there were 10,000 kilometers on that arc, making the Earth’s circumference a relatively easy to remember 40,000 kilometers (with variations depending on which great circle you’re measuring).  Then they defined their measures of volume accordingly (a liter as one cubic decimeter, for instance), and then their standard of mass based upon those volumes of water, which is surely the most “standard” substance for living creatures on the surface of the Earth.

Of course, now the meter is “officially” defined in terms of the speed of light, which is, as far as we can tell, absolutely constant in all reference frames.  So, a meter is defined as the distance light travels in 1 / 299,792,458 seconds exactly.

The second, by the way, is defined as the time taken by 9,192,631,770 cycles of the unperturbed ground-state hyperfine transition in the electrons of Cesium-133, again exactly.

Of course, given General and Special Relativity, how long that takes can vary depending on one’s reference frame relative to other reference frames‒this is why the GPS system has to compensate both for velocity-based time slowing in the satellites relative to the Earth and gravity-based time slowing on the surface of the Earth relative to the satellites.  Ponder that when you use your GPS; it would not work at all without those constant corrections due to Einstein.

The specific numbers used to define the meter and the second are fairly arbitrary, but they are consistent, and so are useful.  They definitely make more sense than the choice of starting the week on “Sunday” in the part of the world formerly known as “Christendom”.

Think about it*.  Sunday is considered the Sabbath day in most Christian and formerly Christian cultures, certainly those influenced by the former British Empire.  But the Sabbath is supposed to be observed in remembrance of the seventh day of Creation, when God rested.

Leave aside the strange notion of an infinite being either reckoning days based on the cycles of one planet around one of hundreds of billions of stars in each of possibly trillions of galaxies.  We can accept that as a non-literal measure of time, since God is supposed to be outside of space and time, anyway**.  But why would an infinite being of infinite power need to rest?

Anyway, the original Sabbath, as observed in Judaism and a few of the sects**** of Christianity, is Saturday, the official end of the week according to that arbitrary choice.  Even the Spanish word for Saturday, for instance‒sábado‒is related to the word “Sabbath” or “Shabbat”, and Spain is traditionally a very Christian place.  I don’t know what’s behind the disjunction between the Sabbath and the end of the week occurred in the realm of “Christendom” when even some of the most Christian languages maintain the vestiges of a recognition that the sabbath day ought to be at the end of the week, according to their own “holy” book.

Oh, well.  It’s all arbitrary or at least stochastic.

Don’t get me wrong‒I like 7 for the number of days in a week.  It’s a prime number, for one thing.  It’s also the number of “non-fixed” celestial bodies known in antiquity because they were visible to the naked eye (the Sun, the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn), which is probably why we have seven days.  Many of the days of the week in western languages retain traces of having been named for those bodies.

Also, 7 times 52 is 364, which means 7 divides into the days of a year with only one and a quarter days’ remainder, so the same date will fall one day “earlier” on each subsequent year (two days earlier after a “leap year” but not after the turn of three out of every four centuries, because of the adjustments made in the Gregorian calendar).  At least they don’t skip quasi-haphazardly through the days of the week every year.  Such would be the case in a decimal “week”*****, unless one made the 5 (or 6) remainder days of the year entirely separate, not ordinary days at all.

This is, apparently, how the Hobbit calendar works in Tolkien’s world, though they put their extra days in “mid-summer”, around the summer solstice rather than around the winter solstice.

Well, this has been much ado about not much of anything but random trivia about time and measure and the days of the week.  I suppose that’s appropriate for what is the beginning of at least the work week for most of us, depending on how you reckon it.

Try to have a good day, everyone, in any case.

*There must be higher love.

**So says Francis Collins, anyway, and he ought to know***.

***Well…no, he oughtn’t know.  No one ought to know, or has any way to know, or any justifiable claim to know such things.  It’s all conjecture and speculation, unsupported by any evidence that would stand up in even a kangaroo court, and what can be asserted without evidence can be dismissed without evidence.  But never mind; it can be fun to think about it.

****Christians often seem much more comfortable dealing with sects than dealing with sex.  Ba-dump-bump.

*****Although…on non-leap years, the dates would cycle between two “opposite” days of the “decamaine”, then would ratchet over to the next pair on leap years, so that might be fun.

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Chaos surfing and the omni-curious mind

It’s Saturday morning and‒as I warned you‒I am writing a blog post today.

I just experienced a tiny little frisson of déjà vu, which is always interesting when it happens.  It involved that seemingly obvious, curious sensation that I could remember dreaming about the process of writing this particular blog post, in the location in which I’m writing it, at some time in the past.  Of course, I have no reason to suspect that precognitive dreams are actual things, except occasionally, by coincidence, due to the large number of dreams that happen and the brain’s capacity to model/predict its world with decent accuracy due to the regularities therein.  But déjà vu is still an interesting and sometimes enjoyable experience.

In case you haven’t noticed, mine is very much a stream-of-consciousness kind of blog.  I sometimes wish I were writing something more useful or informative or thought-provoking.  Then I could imagine I was contributing to the world in some way.  I have a wide range of knowledge on lots of topics‒science in general, some physics and cosmology, biology and medicine, some mathematics, a tiny bit of computers, and of course some philosophy (and psychology).

I sometimes regret not having explored philosophy more at an earlier age.  There was a philosophy class in my high school; it was one of my favorite classes, and the teacher was great, but I avoided philosophy in college deliberately.  I had little understanding of how good and useful it‒as well as pure mathematics, not solely for use in physics‒is in improving one’s ability to think about all subjects.

At its “worst” it’s at least analogous to doing calisthenics to get stronger and more fit.  One doesn’t do push ups in order to become a world champion at push ups‒usually‒and one doesn’t do push ups because one expects to become a professional pusher up and to make one’s living that way.  As far as I know, there is no such profession.  One does it to keep one’s body fit so it is more capable of responding to any of a functionally limitless number of specific challenges throughout life.  So it is with the mind, but the mind is far more capable of growth and strengthening than even the greatest athlete’s body has ever been.

I get so frustrated when I hear people whining about, say, the fact that they never use the Pythagorean Theorem in their daily lives, or haven’t used algebra since they left school.  My first reaction when I hear such moans is to think, “If that’s true, then too bad for you; you’re missing out.”

But I also find it noteworthy that most people don’t complain of the fact that they’ve never played kickball or tag or used their sandlot baseball skills in their later life.  Similarly, very few people get jobs playing video games‒there is a vanishingly small few who make at least temporary livings playing video games competitively, but that’s not a reliable long-term strategy for almost anyone.  Such skills are, for the most part, far less useful than those of algebra and calculus‒though I understand that there is some evidence that playing video games can make people better drivers by improving their alertness and response times.

Breadth and depth of knowledge are ends in themselves; they are their own reward, one might say.  When one learns something new, one makes oneself “larger” without taking anything away from anyone else*.  Information can be shared without loss, and one can contain whole universes‒real and/or imaginary‒in one’s mind.  It’s remarkable.

But also, knowledge, even of esoterica, is of practical, basic value.  Insights gained from having studied epistemology or Boolean logic may become useful, unexpectedly, in a business negotiation or a plumbing emergency.  Who knows?  The world is too complex for one to be able to predict the specifics of local events very far ahead of time‒and even the precise knowledge of that fact is based on an originally obscure branch of mathematics and information theory, and was formally born of the use of a “primitive” computer weather simulation.

You cannot fundamentally alter the chaotic nature of reality.  You cannot effectively steer the chaos‒but you can learn to surf on it.  And the more you know and the greater the breadth of your mental skills, the more likely you are to be able to catch the right waves and ride them to someplace you’d like to be.

Anyway, back to what I was saying earlier:  I sometimes imagine myself doing a more informative or exploratory blog, a discussion of sorts, albeit one-sided.  When I leave it to my stream of consciousness, my blog is often depressing (or at least it’s often depressed).  But I don’t know what people might like to read my thinking about; I have a great deal of difficulty understanding what other people find interesting or engaging, let alone why.  So, if anyone has any general subjects they’d like me to explore, whether truly broad or regarding current events or science news or anything within my relative wheelhouse**, feel free to let me know in the comments…or, I suppose, via Facebook or Twitter.  I don’t like to encourage such things, but these “social media” can be entertaining and even useful in certain rarefied situations.

In the meantime, have a good weekend if you’re able to do so.

*Apart from the tiny, tiny increase in overall universal entropy that all learning entails.  But that’s going to happen anyway, and the entropy created by a lifetime of astonishing erudition is unnoticeably small next to, say, that produced every day simply by the Earth absorbing sunlight, warming up, and releasing higher-entropy heat back out into the cosmos.

**My wheelhouse walls are made of rice paper, so I can easily knock them down and expand that chamber as desired.  I dream of my wheelhouse eventually being as large as the cosmic horizon‒or even larger!  Why not?

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Salutations on a Friday

I don’t have much to say, today‒or much to write, I guess, if you want to be precise.  Honestly, I don’t think I have much to say in the literal sense, either, but it’s harder to tell since I don’t tend to talk to anyone at all before nine or so in the morning.  Often, I would prefer not to say anything even then, but people will insist on saying things to me, like “Good morning,” and so on.

I guess I don’t really mind the “Hi” and “Good morning” type greetings*, though it is often irritating that one is expected to return them in some ritual fashion, for no particular purpose that I can discern‒other than, I suppose, that of primate hierarchical, dominance, and coalitional signaling between members of the same flange of naked house apes.  I doubt most people think much about it.  Still, a “Hi” is okay.  I can return it with a word and a nod, though often my voice is apparently too quiet for other people to hear when I reply.  I also will often give a Vulcan salute, which is good because it is silent and distinctive.

I gave one of those to a young man on the train who had asked me which stop was next because he needed to get off at a particular one.  I gave him useful information, he got off at his desired stop, and as he left, he thanked me.  I said a somewhat befuddled “you’re welcome” and without thinking did a low-key Vulcan salute.  I’m not sure he noticed it.

It can be amusing to greet or say goodbye to people using the American Sign language “love” gesture, with the index and pinky fingers and thumbs out but the middle two fingers down, as if you were Spider-Man shooting webs straight up into the air.  It’s not that I particularly like telling people that I “love” them‒generally, I don’t (love them or want to tell them), and I think the whole “I love you, man” kind of thing is very much overused, and bastardizes and cheapens the word and the very concept of love.

On the other hand, if you fold your thumb in, the “love” sign turns into the heavy metal sign of the devil (supposedly), so for people toward whom you have the least affection, it can be a good way to slag them off without them even realizing you’re doing it.  I know, it’s petty and rather unsatisfying, but it’s not as though you can act on your real impulses.  If you set them on fire with a homemade flame-thrower or beat them to death with a baseball bat, you’re liable to get arrested, even‒and this is the galling point‒if everyone else in the office agrees that the person is annoying.

This is all hypothetical, of course.

Anyway, I will be working tomorrow, so I suspect that I’ll be writing another blog post in the morning.  Yippee.  I don’t know why, but I have not yet been able to break that habit.

I am tempted just to sleep in the office tonight rather than go back to the house.  It’s a bit pointless, all the going back and forth.  There’s no one and nothing waiting at the house for me.  Even the neighborhood cats are coming around less often; someone else must be putting out better food than I do.

This is probably just as well.  I only started feeding the cats because my housemate used to do it, and he said he was going to come pick up the really skittish one.  He has not yet done so, and it’s been a few years now‒I don’t recall how long‒and I’ve been spending money on cat food that I could…I don’t know, that I could use as washrags to wipe the bathroom sink, something like that?  Nothing that I spend money on is really beneficial, other than books, perhaps, but I have oodles of those, and I still haven’t read much of Quantum Field Theory, As Simply as Possible, or Spacetime and Geometry, or Classical Electrodynamics or any of those books that I keep meaning to read.

It’s all very boring, but at least I have chronic pain and depression and insomnia to keep things from being too peaceful.  It’s too bad I don’t have drug or alcohol problems‒at least those keep life from being predictable.

I was being tongue-in-cheek with that last sentence.  I don’t want to have drug or alcohol problems, though they are enticing routes to self-destruction.  It was bad enough when I had to take prescription pain meds for so long.  And my favorite alcoholic beverages are the ones I imagine drinking; the real ones are always a disappointment, and they leave me feeling unpleasant.

I mean I feel unpleasant internally in that situation, meaning that I feel uncomfortable physically, that I feel unwell.  I know that I’m always relatively unpleasant to other people.

However, although my mind is not my friend, there are and have always been aspects of it that are the most treasured things about reality for me, and I don’t want to endanger those.  My love of learning and understanding, of reading, of horror and science fiction and fantasy, of music, all those things are treasures, even when my depression makes them inaccessible to me.  I don’t want them to go away permanently, at least not while I’m alive.  I guess that means that, if I were to get cancer, I wouldn’t want a brain tumor.

Of course, that would mean that I would be most likely to get a brain tumor, if the universe dealt in irony, which as far as I can tell it does not.  As far as I can tell, all instances of seeming “karmic” irony are cases of selection bias or recall bias.  We remember the time the guy who refused to fly died in a train derailment, or when the exercise guru died young of a heart attack, not realizing that we remember them precisely because they are unusual and atypical.  They are cases of “man bites dog”, which is news, according to the cliché, while “dog bites man” is not.

Talk to you tomorrow.

*On the other hand, I have great trouble with “How are you doing?” and related greetings.  I almost always freeze up for at least a moment when met with such inquiries.  I don’t know what to say.  Most days I feel that I am not doing well at all, but I don’t necessarily want to say that to others, nor are they likely to want to hear it, and I feel irritated at being put on the spot, especially when people don’t seem really to care much how well or poorly I’m faring.

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Did you know that the official name for February 15th is “Chafing Day”? Now you know.

Hello and good morning.  It’s Thursday, and I’m writing this post on my laptop computer, but I’m already at the office.  I really didn’t feel well when I finally gave up and got up this morning, and I was sorely tempted not to come to work.  So, I forced myself to come in very early—at personal expense—since I didn’t want to leave things hanging for other people at the office.  I hereby send out a “you’re welcome” to those people whose day I will be making slightly easier by my choice.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, though I didn’t mention it in my post, since it’s a day with little personal relevance to me.  Now, it’s the day after Valentine’s Day, which as far as I know has no “official” name.

In the UK and, I believe, in the rest of “the Commonwealth”, the day after Christmas is known as Boxing Day.  I have been unable to locate a reliable explanation of that term, but I personally imagine it referring to collecting all the boxes and other discarded packages that are a consequence of Christmas gift-giving.

I therefore now hereby propose that we all call the day after Valentine’s Day “Chafing Day”, because it’s mildly humorous, at least to me, and for some people it may even be accurate.  I doubt it will catch on, but maybe I can post a “tweet” or a Facebook message saying “Happy Chafing Day” to everyone, and see if the idea spreads.  Maybe I’ll title this blog post “Happy Chafing Day!” or similar, just to try to encourage the term.

If I’ve elected to do so, you readers will already know.

I felt pretty low at work, yesterday—even for me, I mean.  I told my coworker, the one with whom I’m closest, that I didn’t think I could keep doing this much longer, that I felt like I was going to hit the skids soon.  He misunderstood me at first, saying that he would miss me if I left for another job, but that I needed to do what I needed to do.  I clarified that I didn’t mean that I was thinking I would need to leave the job, but that I would need to leave—period.  By which I meant “to leave reality”, “to leave the world”, however you prefer to euphemize it.

He expressed his concern and said that he didn’t like to hear me talking that way, but of course, he had plans for the evening with his wife, and I didn’t feel like burdening him too much, so I put on a comparatively cheerful face afterwards.  Weirdly, I felt mildly relieved and more relaxed after that.

People seem not to take such expressions of emotional rock bottom as seriously as they might, but having at least gotten some word of my distress out to someone—other than regular readers of this blog—is something of a minor relief.  That way, if I go through the final exit door relatively soon, it will not be a complete surprise to everyone at the office.

I can’t keep feeling responsible for not causing inconvenience to other people at the expense of my ongoing misery, especially since so few people seem to return the favor.  My relationship with reality is an abusive one, and since reality is unlikely to change, I probably should just get out.

Another coworker, with the best of intentions, gave out some candy to everyone in the office, which was certainly a nice gesture.  However, being the weak-willed fool that I am, I ate mine, and then, after finally leaving the office quite a bit later than our supposed closing time—see my comment above about other people not being worried about inconveniencing their coworkers—I got some junk food on the way back to the house, and I ate it last night.

It was not very satisfying, and it probably contributed strongly to my ill-feeling this morning.  I need to take that as relevant feedback from reality and just avoid all such things from now on.  Snacks used to give me one of my only reliable sources of pleasure, or at least distraction, from the discomfort of life, but even they seem to be losing their power, though their costs are not likewise diminishing.  Today, I mean to put up a sign above my desk reminding others not to offer nor for me to accept such well-meaning “treats” in the future.

This situation is another example of the simple but hard-to-swallow fact that good intentions are not anything like a guarantee of good outcomes.

Often, once a person is secure in their good intentions—and I am provisionally convinced that most people who do such things really do mean well—they cease to assess the likely consequences of their actions.  If they mean well, they presumably think that they cannot do harm.  This, unfortunately but  clearly, is not the case, as anyone who has ever paid any attention to the nature of reality in any serious way will know—which is not very many people, I fear.

So, anyway, I’m physically tired and mentally tired, and I don’t feel well at all in either sense, either; I feel ill, both physically and mentally.  Alas, I have no reason to suspect there is any cure, though for certain aspects of things there may at least be some treatments, even if they are only palliative.

I told another coworker—one who is difficult but without meaning to be, because of his own life-long issues—that I more than half-wished I would get cancer, and that if I did I would not wish to be treated other than with palliative medicine to control pain.  Why would I want to prolong my life?  I’ve been undead for years already, and it’s not pleasant, and I see no reason to think that anything good will come along to change that.

It’s physically possible, in principle, of course.  I’m not so foolishly and superstitiously fatalistic to think that it’s utterly outside the realm of chance for my life to turn around and get better and remain better.  But as far as I can tell, the odds are very low.

I’ve waited things out for a long time, nevertheless, not wishing to be rash in drawing conclusions.  But if one is going to venture the capital of one’s continued time and discomfort and despair on some possible future upturn, one wants odds that justify the investment.  I don’t see any routes that carry such odds.  I have looked, and looked very hard, for them.  That doesn’t guarantee there aren’t some that I’ve missed, of course, but I’m not a stupid or unimaginative person—not in that sense, anyway—and I can only work with what I have and what I am, paltry though such resources may be.

So, anyway, I hope you all had as happy a Valentine’s Day as you could, and that you have a good Chafing Day today.  Spread the word about that title, if you like it.  Make memes and videos about it if you feel so inclined.  It wouldn’t exactly be legacy for the ages, for me, but it would be amusing, nevertheless.

TTFN

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The enemy of my Self is Myself

I mean to try to keep this post relatively short today, and only partly because I’m writing this on my smartphone and don’t want to make my thumbs feel worse.  It’s mainly that I just don’t have much to say or talk about, and certainly nothing uplifting.

I tried to do a few relatively upbeat posts‒for me, anyway‒on Monday and Tuesday of this week, but I don’t think they’re as popular as my depressed and nihilistic posts.  It’s rather ironic; one might imagine that upbeat posts would be the ones people would prefer to read, but I guess that may not be true.  I shouldn’t be surprised that it surprises me, probably; people often make very little sense to me.

Anyway, I’m just tired.  I left work slightly early yesterday with a bad headache and just feeling horribly stressed out and tense and angry.  I don’t know if it was that things were particularly frustrating at the office, or if it was the usual fact that I cannot escape from the person I loathe most in the world:  me.

I often say that I hate the world and I hate my life‒at least, it feels as though I often say it, because I say it in my head a lot.  Maybe I don’t say it aloud or in writing as often as it feels as though I say it.  I haven’t kept track, and I don’t mean to do so.  That would be truly boring.

But of course, the reason (one of them, anyway) I don’t just change my life‒or try to change the world‒is that I cannot escape the common denominator that is the single biggest contributor to the fact that I hate the world and hate my life:  I hate myself.

I wish it were otherwise.  It would be nice to love myself, I guess.  I wouldn’t have to be narcissistic or anything.  It doesn’t require a delusional or overinflated self-worth to love oneself, any more than it need be irrational or delusional to love one’s spouse or one’s children even when one can see and knows their imperfections.  No one is perfect, after all‒I’m not even sure what the term could mean when applied to a person.

One can love another person even when angry at that person.  One can punish one’s children when they misbehave, and one can choose not to indulge all their wishes precisely because one loves them and hopes to guide them toward being the best people they can be.

So love doesn’t have to be stupid or delusional.  But that doesn’t necessarily mean one can simply choose to love someone.  I’ve tried to train myself to love myself, with positive self-reinforcement, with cognitive therapy, with auto-suggestion, with written lists of my positive attributes, and even with self-hypnosis.  Obviously, I have not succeeded.

Even when I’m stressed out and irritated by everything that happens at the office‒by the noise, by the overbearing “music”, by the stupid little rituals, by the personality conflicts, by the frequent interruptions when I’m doing one task and people just come in without preamble and start asking me about something else entirely*, as if I were a machine just waiting for them to give me work‒even when all these things are happening, the thing that bothers me most is that I am with me.

That’s what I feel, and it’s what I’ve been fighting and it’s the fact in spite of which I’ve been trying to be positive, at least in my writing, but that’s not really working.

When I was writing fiction, that seemed to help at least a bit‒and sometimes a lot‒but there’s only so much fiction one can write that almost no one reads before one feels as delusional as if one believed one had magic powers.  But it is true that writing fiction is good therapy, as Stephen King has pointed out on more than one occasion, and if I could do it full time without other commitments, I might again find the energy to do it.  Unfortunately, if I want to stay alive‒which is a rather big “if” a lot of the time‒I have to work, like everyone else, and my mental energy is used up and more than used up.

Anyway, that’s that.  Yesterday I was very stressed out and had a headache and yelled openly at my closest friend in the office and came within a hair’s breadth of breaking my tablet and my back Stratocaster.  I banged my head on the wall a few times to release some of those destructive urges, and that didn’t help my headache.

Yet I didn’t sleep well at all last night, even for me, despite going back to the house somewhat early.  I don’t feel rested; I almost never feel rested.  The very air through which I move feels like viscous, heavy smoke, burning my eyes, poisoning me as I breathe, impeding me as I try to walk, pressing down on me as I try to stand up.  I need to stop.  I need to rest.  I need to sleep.

*This is a bit akin to people who will come up and start talking to one when one is reading, as if someone who is reading must be unoccupied and just waiting to be of service to other people.

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There may be no firm fundament but is there a fun firmament?

It’s Tuesday morning, now, and I’m writing this on my laptop computer, mainly to spare my thumbs, but also because I just prefer real typing to the constrictive and error-ridden twiddling of virtual buttons on a very small phone screen.

Speaking of the day, if the Beatles song Lady Madonna is correct, then it’s still Tuesday afternoon, and has been at least since last Tuesday, since “Tuesday afternoon is never-ending”.  Of course, if Tuesday afternoon really is never-ending, then it has been Tuesday afternoon ever since the first Tuesday afternoon.  From a certain point of view, this is trivially the case.  After all, every moment after 12pm on the first Tuesday that ever happened could be considered Tuesday afternoon—or, at least, they could be considered “after Tuesday noon” if you will.

Enough of that particular nonsense.  I only wrote that because there’s nothing sensible about which to write that comes to my mind.  But, of course, in a larger sense, there is nothing “sensible” at all.

There are things that can be sensed, obviously.  I can see, hear, and touch this computer, for instance.  If I wanted, I could probably smell it, though I think its odor is likely quite subdued.  But I mean “sensible” in the more colloquial, bastardized, mutated sense—as in the word “sense” just there—which has to do with something being logical, reasonable, rational, coherent, that sort of thing.  Indeed, it has to do with things having meaning.

Deep down, though, from the telos point of view, there is no true, inherent meaning to much of anything, as far as anyone can see.  Certainly there’s no meaning that anyone has ever demonstrated or asserted convincingly that I have encountered at any point in my life.

Of course, people have beliefs and they have convictions, and humans assign meanings to various things.  All the words I have used in writing this post so far, and all the words I will use henceforth, have “meanings”, but those are invented meanings.  There is nothing in the collection of letters—nor indeed in the shapes of the letters themselves, nor the way we put them down on paper or a screen—that means anything intrinsically.  They were all invented, like justice and morality and the whole lot of such things.

That something is invented doesn’t mean it isn’t real, of course.  Cars are an invention, and only a fool (in the modern world) would deny that cars are real.  But they are not inherent to the universe; they are not in any sense fundamental.

In a related sense, even DNA and the protein structures for which it codes are very much not fundamental; they are quasi-arbitrary.  Of course, one cannot make DNA or RNA or proteins out of substrates for which the chemistry simply will not hold together.  But the genetic code—the set of three-nucleotide-long “letters”, the codons, in the genetic code that each associate with a given amino acid (or a stop signal, or similar) as they are transcribed into proteins—is arbitrary.  There’s nothing inherent in any set of three nucleotides that makes it associate with some particular amino acid.

This sort of thing took me quite a long time to realize as I was growing up and trying to understand biology and chemistry and such.  What, for instance, was the chemical reaction with, say, adrenaline that made things in the body speed up and go into “fight or flight” mode, as it were?  How was it that aspirin chemically interacted with bodies and nervous systems to blunt pain?  How many possible chemical reactions were there, really?  It was mind-boggling that there could be so many reactions, and that they could all produce such disparate effects on various creatures.

When finally I was shown the real nature of such things, it was definitely a scales-dropping-from-eyes moment.  There is nothing inherent in the chemistry of DNA, or of drugs or hormones, that produces their effects.  There is no inherent “soporific” quality to an anesthetic.  You could give a dose of Versed  that would kill a human to some alien with a different biology, and at most its effects would be those of a contaminant.

It’s all just a kind of language—indeed, it’s almost a kind of computer language, and hormones are just messengers*, which are more or less arbitrary, like the ASCII code for representing characters within computer systems.  Likewise, there’s nothing in the word “cat” that has direct connection with the animal to which it refers.  It’s just keyed to that creature in our minds, arbitrarily, as is demonstrated by the fact that, for instance, in Japan the term is “neko” (or, well, it sounds like that—the actual written term is ねこ or 猫).

Of course, there are things in the universe that, as far as we can tell, are fundamental, such as quantum fields and gravity and spacetime itself.  But even these may yet peel away and be revealed to be arbitrary or semi-arbitrary forms of some other, deeper, underlying unity, as is postulated in string theory, for instance.

The specific forms of the fundamental particles and forces in our universe may—if string theory and eternal inflationary cosmology for instance are correct—be just one possible version of a potential 10500 or more** possible sets of particles and forces determined by the particular Calabi-Yau “shape” and configuration of the curled up extra dimensions of space that string theory hypothesizes.  So, the very fundamental forces of nature, or at least the “constants” thereof, may be arbitrary—historical accidents, as much as are the forms and specifics of the life that currently exists on Earth.

And what’s to say that strings and branes and Calabi-Yau manifolds are fundamental, either?  Perhaps reality has no fundament whatsoever.  Perhaps it is a bottomless pit of meaninglessness, in which only truly fundamental mathematics are consistent throughout…if even they are.

I’m not likely to arrive at a conclusion regarding these matters in a blog post written off-the-cuff in the morning while commuting to the office.  But I guess it all supports a would-be Stoic philosophical ideal, which urges us to let go of things that are outside our control and instead try to focus on those things over which we have some power:  our thoughts and our actions.

Of course, even these are, at some deeper level, not truly or at least not fully ours to control—we cannot affect the past that led to our present state, after all, and the future is born of that present which is born of that past over which we have no control.  But, for practical purposes, the levers that we use to control ourselves are the only levers we have to use.

We might as well keep a grip on them as well as we can, and not worry too much about things that are not in our current reach.  Though we can try to stretch out and limber up, maybe practice some mental yoga, to try to extend that reach over time, I suppose.  But that’s a subject for some other blog post, I guess; this one has already gone on long enough.

*For the most part.  Things like cholesterol and fatty acids and sugars—and certainly water and oxygen—and other fundamental building blocks do have inherent chemical properties that make them useful for the purposes to which bodies put them.  Then again, words can have tendencies that make them more useful for some things than others, too.  “No” and “yes” are short and clear and clearly different sounds, for instance; it makes sense that such words evolved to be such important, fundamentally dichotomous signals.

**That means 10 x 10 x 10 x 10… until you’ve done that multiplication 500 times.  You may know that a “googol” is a mere 10100, and that in itself is already roughly 20 orders of magnitude (100,000,000,000,000,000,000 times!) larger than the number of protons and neutrons estimated to exist in the visible universe.  So 10500 is a number far vaster than could ever be written out within the confines of the universe that we can ever see.  There’s not enough space, let alone enough matter, with which to write it.  It’s a googol times a googol times a googol times a googol times a googol!