despair

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Warning: Reading this blog may be hazardous to your mental health

Well, it’s Monday yet again, though I don’t know why it bothers, and it’s the beginning of yet another thoroughly pointless work week.

Okay, I suppose one can honestly say that it’s not pointless at the local level; people need to work to be able to pay rent, buy food, get medicine as needed and so on so they can survive.  But that, of course, just kicks the can of meaning farther down the empty dirt road of reality, since why they should survive‒why they should want to survive‒is a debatable question.

There are empirical answers to that question, of course, but ultimately, it probably gets down to the brute fact that this shit just is.  There’s no sign of any kind of meaning beyond what people invent for themselves in their own (individual and/or collective) heads.

And that would be just fine, too, as far as meaning goes, if people could just own the fact that it is all artificial, it is invented‒any (and all) of our senses of meaning and purpose, any of the stories we tell ourselves and each other about the telos of reality.  But people have this irritating tendency to start to believe their just-so stories, no matter how absurd, because they would rather delude themselves than face the possibility that everything is‒on the deepest and largest scales‒meaningless.

I suppose it’s related to the recognized fact that the best way to convince someone that you’re telling the truth about something is actually to believe that you are telling the truth, even if you are not.  If you believe something, no matter how absurd, you are likely to convince others that you believe, and that might make it more likely that they believe you.  Of such bootstrapped fictions are cultures and civilizations made, at least initially.

By the way, my plans for meeting up with my youngest this weekend fell through at the last minute, so to speak, thanks to a prior engagement with a friend (theirs, not mine) who came in from out of town, and about which meetup they had forgotten.  These things do happen, of course.  I could hardly blame anyone for preferring to spend time with someone else rather than with me.  Not that I think this was the situation!  I’ve no real doubt that the conflict was true and real and regretted.  But even if it were not, although it would make me sad, it’s not something for which I could blame anyone.

Well, I guess I can blame myself.  After all, it is surely because of what and who I am that people don’t really like to be around me much, and don’t like to stay around me longer than they are required to do.  If I knew that there were some precise and specific, alterable attributes in me that were responsible for this, I would probably try to change those attributes.  But it’s probably the gestalt of me that is the problem.  I simply am that which I am, and this portion of my four dimensional structure seems to tend to repel other such four dimensional beings.

Even if I could fix myself, and with relative ease, I might not.  I don’t honestly feel that I deserve to be fixed.

I could, of course, fall back on the true words of Will Munny from Unforgiven and say:

But, while I can recognize that fact in my frontal lobes and other parts of my neocortex, unfortunately my basal ganglia hate me, and it’s hard to convince them otherwise.  They have tremendous neuropsychological inertia, and I don’t even know where to get a grip to try to move them.  But I sense that pushing them in just some random direction is more likely to make things worse than better.  I’ve gone into that general reasoning before, and I’ve encountered nothing to change my conviction on that count.

You know, it occurs to me that I should probably have some kind of disclaimer on my blog in general*, to the effect that people shouldn’t read this blog unless they have a pretty strong sense of self-worth and so on, and that people who have mental health issues should definitely not read it.  I fear that a person who is vulnerable might be inadvertently convinced to do themselves harm after reading my work.

Possibly I think too highly of my lowliness, but I’ve long since recognized that my inherent nature veers toward destruction.

So, yeah, I guess you can warn anyone who expresses an interest‒if such a being exists‒that if they so much as doubt their courage, they should not try to enter this particular Cave of Caerbannog, for death awaits them all here with nasty, big, pointy words.

Oh, and finally, let’s just take a moment to mark and to celebrate the Apollo 11 Moon landing, which took place 57 years ago today.  If you are one of the people who claims to think that humans did not land on the moon, well…I won’t tell you that you should end yourself and thereby raise the overall intelligence of the world by a small but measurable amount; that would be uncharitable.  But I do suggest that you please either get a vasectomy or a tubal ligation, because if there is any genetic component to such stupidity, we don’t want it to propagate forward in time.  Let’s put a bit of chlorine into the gene pool.

Otherwise, have a good day.

*I have put one in today’s headline, at least.

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“With the lights out, it’s less dangerous”

Well, I’m writing today on the lapcom, not for any particular specific reason, but just because, as of yesterday afternoon when I was preparing to leave the office, the various strengths (or magnitudes) and directions of the vectors in my brain came together and produced enough impetus for me to pack and then carry the lapcom with me.  After that, there’s much less of an energy barrier in the way of actually writing using the lapcom in the morning.  If I have it with me, I prefer to write using the lapcom rather than the smartphone.

As for the subject/topic of this blog post, well…I don’t know.  I have no idea what to write or what to say, other than to say whatever comes out of my (figurative) mouth here.  I don’t know what I’m going to write ahead of the actual writing any more than you know what my next word will be before you read it.

I guess that’s how conversation happens in real life as well.  People (at least, neurotypical people) don’t tend to script their conversations.  They just start talking, and the process of talking is identical with (or at least part of) the process of forming the ideas in the first place.

You don’t think about that to say before you think and say it, nor do your think about what to think about and say before you think about thinking about and saying things.  One cannot in any literal sense fully plan ahead what one says or thinks, because it would imply an infinite regress.

No, most of the time, expressing one’s thoughts is the first circumstance in which one formulates those thoughts (though of course it might well not be the first time one has had the same or similar ones).  Ideas, and even memories, do not exist fully formed within the brain, as if on some SSD drive; they must be reformed every time they are brought up.

This is part of why memory in humans is so malleable.  All memories bring out not just information from the past, but also color it with whatever information is leading to the memory being recalled at a particular moment.  This feeds back on and can alter the memory over time.

The things that happen with neural nets/deep learning systems/LLMs is teaching us at least some things about how thoughts and minds work in non-linear ways, though it’s important not to draw too many or too literal parallels to actual brains.  For one thing, brains are vastly more efficient than any kind of software/hardware we have.

Though your brain is certainly the most energy-hungry portion of your body, using about 20% of all the calories you burn, this still is only about 20 watts or so.  That’s less than your typical lapcom uses, and far, far less than any LLM or similar system uses.

The brain is also more complex on many levels.  Synapses are not simple binary switches, like transistors; they are more or less continuously variable in the amount of neurotransmitter they release into a synapse, and the number of receptors in the receiving synapse, and the degree to which activation (or inhibition) of those receptors affects the functions of the postsynaptic neuron and how that interacts with other inputs and the basic metabolism and chemistry of the next level of nerve cells.

Those functions are also affected by hormones of various kinds, from peptides to steroid hormones to things like histamine and glutamate that are neurotransmitters and hormones and (some of them) even amino acids.

Then, of course, there are the inputs from the many and various “glial” cells, which are not neurons, but which “support” neurons in the brain, and which (among other things) create the myelin sheaths that allow nerve transmission to happen much more quickly in “white matter”, and so on.  These things can alter and tweak the “weights” in any particular neuron “node” in ways that are more complicated than the nodes and weights in neural nets.

And of course, the scale is daunting.  You have about a hundred billion neurons in your brain (give or take), and each one has connections with 1,000 to 10,000 other neurons, making the total number of synaptic connections in the brain on the order of a hundred trillion to a quadrillion.

Just imagine if every star in the Milky Way galaxy had some kind of hyperspace links to 1,000 to 10,000 other stars.  That would be a complex galactic network.  The brain is this scale of network.  And the synapses, again, are not binary switches like transistors, but are more or less continuously variable within a given range.  Likewise, the impulses traveling down an axon, though binary in a sense (each nerve impulse either happens or does not), actually vary continuously, because it’s the rate of impulses arriving that affects the release of neurotransmitters.  But it’s not the only thing that affects it.

Anyway, this is all interesting stuff, I guess.  Learning about neural nets is fascinating, and is yet another use of linear algebra, matrices and the like (which are also good for General Relativity).  And learning about how gradient descent works in machine learning and so on is interesting and thought-provoking (an amusing coincidence, not an irony).

I’m reading some things about this and trying to pick up on it, just for general understanding.  I doubt that I’ll ever do anything with any of it other than maybe “talk” about it here (which is nearly the only place I talk about much of anything).  But at least it’s interesting.

It’s futile, of course.  But nearly everything I do or have done is or has been futile.  And that’s not just on a cosmic scale, but on a human, day-to-day, interpersonal scale.  Almost all my efforts are either wasted or fully counter-productive.  This is the outcome of something like me trying to do and be good as much as he can; it just tends to be pointless or worse.

None of it matters, though.

Anyway, as often happens with the lapcom, I’ve written too much of nothing today, and that’s irritating to me.  I can’t imagine how annoying it must be to my readers.  At least, the rest of your day will probably be less annoying by comparison with this post, right?

Right?

I guess maybe it doesn’t really work that way.  It’s all just irritating, isn’t it?  It’s irritating that I don’t catch a terminal illness, some kind of deadly but not-too-quick infection or cancer or something.  It would be good to be able to have people know that I was dying, so that if anyone out there is mad enough to want to see me or greet me or say goodbye to me before I die, they could.  I think I would appreciate that.

Odds are, though, I’ll just disappear and be gone someday, perhaps very soon, and almost no one in the world will notice.  Those who do notice will only do so vaguely, because there is practically no one to whom my life is integral or even very strongly connected.  I’m just background static for the most part.  When I go, it will just be good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say.  There’s really no sensibly available better alternative of which I am able to avail myself.

As Kurt Cobain sang, “Oh, well, whatever, never mind.”  He had some good ideas, did Cobain-sensei, and he carried them out.

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“Please could you stop the noise, I’m trying to get some rest…”

I’m writing this blog post on my mini lapcom today.  It’s the first time I’ve written one on the lapcom in over a month—since May 1st, in fact.  I’m not entirely sure why I decided to bring the lapcom with me when I left the office on Saturday, but bring it with me I did.  I think partly I just wanted to spare my thumbs, which are not as bad as they were, but are still quite sore a lot of the time when and after I write.

Also—and this is stupid—I wonder if people who see me writing my posts on my smartphone imagine that I’m just playing some game or scrolling through one of the social media all the while.  It certainly shouldn’t matter to me whether anyone thinks that, but I’m a somewhat mature-looking man (so to speak) and I don’t want to set a bad example.  I also don’t want to leave my lapcom feeling too lonely and neglected for too long.

I know, that’s very silly.  I have no reason to suspect that my lapcom experiences anything at all—it’s not that kind of computer and it’s not running any of that kind of programming (largely because no one knows how to write such a program).  But still, I often feel a weird, imaginary empathy for things that I know pretty well don’t have any qualia, as the philosophers of mind call it.

I even used to feel bad if I accidentally mistreated one of my stuffed animals when I was little, such as by sitting on it or something.  I guess that’s not really that unusual for a young child, is it?  Still, I have retained something of that all my life.

Don’t even get me started on actual other people’s feelings.  Those are cacophonic!  That’s part of why being around a lot of people is just a bit overwhelming.

Of course, real, physical noise also is irritating, especially something like background music when you’re trying to work.  That’s one thing that’s annoying at the office.  There is constant overhead music playing, just to keep people from overhearing each other on the phone and becoming distracted.  But to me it’s like listening to the sounds of the world beyond the gateway in Event Horizon, or the noises in that recovered record they deciphered.  Ugh.  I’ve sometimes thought of just playing construction noises for them so they can see what it feels like to me.

Oh, I also brought the lapcom in case I felt the urge to write some fiction.  But that’s a pipe dream, I suspect.  Also, I don’t see how I could manage the time to write fiction and still do my daily blog.  There are only so many spoons (as they say) that I can bring to bear on anything at any time, and the supply is largely used up just grinding through days in pain and whatnot, to say nothing of the sensory and social stresses that also accumulate.

Even so, I honestly feel quite sad being alone a lot of the time, though I do my best to distract myself.  I would like to have good friends, someone to hang out with and so on, but unfortunately, the sorts of people at work, while perfectly nice and tolerable people, are not really the kinds of people I think I could hang out with much.  I don’t think anyone in the office, including the boss, reads more than a book a year or so.  I think I would have a hard time being a close friend of someone who doesn’t really read, at least at this point in my life.

And that’s also something that I would definitely find a deal-breaker in any kind of “significant other” kind of relationship.  Obviously such a thing would be nice, but again, I don’t think I could be very close to someone who didn’t read a reasonably significant amount.

All this is moot, of course.  Most of these possibilities and wishes are irrelevant, because no one really wants to be friends with me, let alone any kind of romantic thingy.  I don’t blame them.  Why would they want to do or be such a thing?

Even when I’m at the office, I’m basically alone.  I mean, I have a few “work friends”, of course, some of whom are quite good work friends.  But we do not ever do anything together outside of work.  I probably wouldn’t be able to have fun doing such a thing, even if anyone wanted to do it; we tend to have office holiday dinner parties of sorts at restaurants around Christmas/New Years time, and those get me so stressed out that I have to start drinking as soon as I arrive.  It’s not good.

Anyway, that’s over 700 words already, and I’ve just been moaning the whole time.  I apologize.  But I do spend a good deal of my time hating the world, hating my life, and especially hating myself.  Of course, the “hating the world” part is really projection—I hate the world because I hate my life and myself.

It’s a low-flying, subacute kind of hate, though, nothing florid.  I don’t spend as much time deliberately damaging myself as I used to, unless you count all the OTC meds I take for pain.  But, of course, those aren’t intended as self harm; quite the opposite.  But I have no doubt they are doing their thing on my kidneys and stomach and liver and so on.

Oh, well.  Whataya gonna do?  The universe was not made for me, and it was certainly not made by me.  It never promised but one thing, so to speak.

All right, that’s enough of me bringing you guys down—and on a Monday morning of all things, when you probably want something to boost your spirits.  So here, if you have spirits that need boosting, wait till they’re haunting you and feeling miserable and come out with, “Don’t feel too bad.  If you need a boost, well…here, use this, it’s my stepladder.”  Then, put on a wistful expression and add, “I never knew my real ladder.  And my mother left us before I was even born.”

Ba-dump-bump.

That ought to make them glad to be dead.

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Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry, as, to behold desert a blogger born

Hello and good morning.  It’s Thursday.  Further bulletins as events warrant.

I don’t know what to write today.  I’m really, really mentally fatigued.  I feel as if I’ve been working for forty days straight instead of just four.

I guess that’s at least slightly biblical, if you care about such things.  You know, raining forty days (and forty nights) or wandering in the desert for forty days while occasionally getting tempted by the devil and whatnot.

It’s all rather silly, of course, but it is memorable.  Anyway, I write stories about supernatural entities attacking college towns or trapping the spirit of a dead addict in a train station or about whole universes potentially colliding or teenagers becoming demi-vampires.  I can hardly complain if other people’s stories aren’t realistic.  Though, at least I don’t claim, let alone believe, that mine really happened.

Anyway, I haven’t written any new fiction in quite a while, and that is severely demoralizing.  I also haven’t played my guitar or even listened to any music this week.

I have listened to/am listening to Sean Carroll’s Mindscape podcast, because the first one of every month is his “Ask Me Anything” podcast, which lasts over 3 hours and is almost always very interesting.  If you like physics with a bit of philosophy thrown in, you might enjoy it.

Of course, what I should be doing‒or, rather, what I want to want fervently to be doing‒is reading Professor Carroll’s General Relativity textbook, Spacetime and Geometry, as well as other similar sources.  Or I want to wish to go on Brilliant dot org and work through their mathematics and physics and CS courses as completely as I can.  Or I want to yearn to get to work on the Babbel app, learning some German or some Russian or some French‒it doesn’t seem to have any Asian languages (last time I checked), so I can’t use it to bone up on my Japanese, nor to try to learn Cantonese or Mandarin or what have you.

But my mind is so tired.  I don’t even do any singing, let alone playing, like I said.

I know why I’m so tired, or at least, I know a big part of it:  chronic pain.  For just about a quarter of a century‒nearly half of my life‒I have been in pain every day, all day, except for those brief moments when I have had enough medications on board to do their own damage to my mind and my body (depending on which of the many medications it is that I’ve taken).

I’m also always grumpy nowadays, which is really disappointing.  This probably goes back to when my chronic pain really became chronic and exacerbated my depression and everything, but it’s become more persistent over time, and now it seems to be my default state.

The people who know me now just think of me as a grumpy and ornery person by nature; it’s even a bit of a joke, since I know that I am grumpy* and at least retain the capacity to be self-deprecating and not to hold it against people.

But that’s not the way I used to be!  That’s not who I was before my chronic pain started.  I did have trouble with depression (and I was, apparently, always autistic), and that probably sometimes made me irritable, but not like now.  I think‒I recall‒that I was usually a fairly upbeat and enthusiastic person, reasonably friendly and kind whenever I could be.

Anyone reading who knew me in the past, feel free to disabuse me of that notion if it’s wrong.  In some weird way, it might be comforting to learn that I’ve always been just an asshole, I simply didn’t know it back then.

Oh, and teeth; I used to have great teeth.  I took good care of them, flossed all the time and everything.  I had dentists tell me that I was a very boring patient.  But various of the meds I’ve taken (and the mental states into which I’ve fallen, to say nothing of the state prisons into which I’ve fallen) since my chronic pain started have more than decimated my oral hygiene, despite regular, frequent brushing and flossing.

I am a shambles.  I’m a twisted wreck of what I used to be, with only just enough in common with that self to remind me of it.  Or so it seems to me.

I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.  I do not want to last much longer‒not like this.  Every day is a trial by endurance, like the stupid “touch the truck” thing, but as far as I can see, there’s no prize…not even a stupid truck.

It’s more like Space Invaders:  see how long you can keep shooting down all the things that are trying to destroy you, but as you succeed, the onslaught becomes more and more difficult, and it never lets up except for brief seconds when it’s about to send a new, harder wave at you.

And then, once you finally, inevitably fail, it’s just…game over.  It might as well not have happened.  Maybe you can put your initials up if you lasted unusually long (thereby scoring more points than others), but no one really cares, and your mark will be displaced very soon anyway.

It reminds me of the final words of my story Solitaire, which you can get as a stand-alone story or in Kindle format or hard cover in Dr. Elessar’s Cabinet of Curiosities.  Now that’s a story that’s not silly, but it is very dark and horrifying.  It’s also short, so if you’re interested, it won’t take much of your time.

Okay, well, that’s it for now.  Unless you’re lucky, I’ll write a post tomorrow and also on Saturday.

TTFN

*I sometimes say that I am an amalgam of the Seven Dwarves:  I’m occasionally happy, I am sometimes sneezy, I’m quite bashful in many situations, I’m frequently sleepy but rarely enough to stay asleep for long, I’m definitely often dopey, I’m usually grumpy…but I’m always Doc.

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Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt blogs

Hello and good morning.

It’s Thursday, the 28th of May, which fact implies that May must have started on a Friday.  There are 7 days in a week, so the 28th is the final day of the 4th full week of the month.  Thus, the next day must be the beginning of a “new” week from the perspective of the month.  I’m pretty sure I’m right about this, but I’m not as confident as I ought to feel.  I could go check, of course‒and later, I probably will do so*‒but for now I want to sit with my postdiction.

I have this mental issue in which I feel significantly unsure even of straightforward things for which I “know” the outcome.  For instance, I have to keep track of the money value of sales and who gets the credit (and thus who gets paid and how much) for given sales.  Often, two people work on a sale, and the value is split between them evenly.  I do the splitting in my head, even when they sell for bizarre amounts that make no sense (don’t get me started).  Then I update “the board” and add all the various totals up:  the running total for the particular agents, the total amount sold of each package, the overall total for the day and the overall total for the week.  I do all this in my head, because I know I can, and it’s faster than using the calculator (for logistical, not computational reasons‒I cannot actually do arithmetic faster than a calculator).

But in the end, I check over all the numbers using Excel’s various auto-totaling functions.  This is not merely for the sake of thoroughness and to confirm accuracy, though it serves those purposes.  It’s also because I never feel sure.  Even if I’m splitting a 500 dollar deal two ways, I feel unsure that it’s 250 per person.

It is 250 per person, of course.  That’s basic, simple division.  It’s definitely correct.  I know that intellectually.  But I feel unsure.  It can be terribly annoying, to say nothing of producing anxiety and stress.

It might not bother me so much if I didn’t see so many people expressing and acting upon secure confidence in so many things which they cannot know and things that I know are not so.  Of course, I’m sure at least some of such seeming confidence is bluster and bravado; people are encouraged to act confident because other people respond to it.

There are probably sensible evolutionary reasons for this proclivity.  But there are also evolutionary reasons why young men are more likely to do risky things that get them hurt and/or killed, as well as to get in fights (sometimes lethal ones) with other young men, but that doesn’t mean we want to encourage such behaviors in the modern world.

I don’t really know what point I’m trying to make.  But then again, I don’t really know the point of anything or anybody.  As far as I can tell, there is no point, other than the fact that all this shit just is.  People can make up reasons and purposes and so on, they can imagine telos behind the universe, but pretty much every such proposed idea I’ve encountered has been just plain idiotic.  The infantile, simple-minded, wish-laden fairy tales into which people buy at all levels are just astonishing.  It would be funny, even hilarious, if it were not just so pathetic.

Even the writer of Ecclesiastes recognized that all is vanity.  Sure, he** probably went on to do some sophistry to try to convince himself to obey “YHWH”; it’s been a long time since I read the book.  But I get the feeling that the “all is vanity” point was what really stuck around in the foundations of his heart.

And I think he was probably right.  There probably is no deeper inherent meaning to anything, beyond the laws of Quantum Field Theory and General Relativity and whatever mathematical and physical structures underlie those structures.  I don’t expect that, as we drill down deeper into the nature of reality at its roots, we will find any implied meaning to anything, in the human sense.  But we will find out more about how to shape the universe to the degree that we can do it, so from a practical point of view it’s definitely worth learning as much as possible.  One never even begins to know what potential will be revealed by some fact of nature until one has that fact.

Anyway, enough of this.  Like everything else, this blog post has no point and I’m getting sick of it.  I hope you all have enjoyable days.  There’s no good reason for you not to try to do so.

TTFN

*I did, and I was correct.

**I feel reasonably confident in saying that essentially all of the books of the “Bible”, original and sequel, were written by men.  Supposedly, there was a Gospel according to Mary Magdalene, but the Lateran council or the council of Trent or one of those other goofy get-togethers where a bunch of ignorant but self-important men decided which stuff actually should be put in the Bible kept it out, as well as the apparent “Doubting Thomas” gospel or what have you.  I have to admit, I would be interested in reading at least part of Mary Magdalene’s take on things…that is, if I thought any of those writings were accurate or were likely to be hers, or that she even existed, or that any of the events they described actually happened.

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“Shell smashed, juices flowing, wings twitch, legs are going…”

It’s Tuesday now, and I’m going to work again, despite‒as the Beatles song puts it‒feeling low down.  My trouble is, I more or less feel low down almost every day.  What am I supposed to do about it by staying at the house?  That’s likely just to make me feel worse, because then I’ll just be alone with one of my least favorite people‒me‒and feeling non-productive and useless.

At least I wouldn’t feel “hysterical and useless”.  I don’t know if I’ve ever been what would be called “hysterical” in my life‒I tend to bottle things up and slash and burn my own figurative innards (and sometimes my literal skin) rather than outwardly flipping out‒but if I have, it’s been quite a long time.

I guess I was probably close to hysterical the time I called the old version of “the hotline” and got picked up by a few undertrained Palm Beach County deputies who did nerve damage to my left wrist with a poorly applied handcuff before dropping me at a clearly underfunded emergency mental health facility.  But I think my hysteria was at least somewhat justified at the time.

That was when I was out on bail, had already lost everything, was effectively homeless, and had very few hopes for much good happening ever again in my life.

I wasn’t wrong, either.  Even the psychiatrist whom I saw for the follow up to that 24-hour hold admitted that he thought there was no way someone wouldn’t be depressed if they were going through what I was experiencing.  He knew I was a doctor, as was he, of course, so he had a certain amount more personal sympathy than he might have had for someone else, but I think it was the shape of the situation, not the specifics, that he thought worthy of despondency if not outright despair.

Anyway, that was a horrible stretch of time, and when I was offered a plea bargain I took it, not because I was actually guilty, but because I saw no way of fighting the whole stupid thing with no money and no real allies in the process.  I hoped at least to have it done in a relatively short amount of time (three years minus gain time) so I would be able to see my kids again before I had missed too much of their lives*.

This highlights how utterly, damnably inadequate our criminal “justice” system is.  The fact that a person who can afford a private attorney can consistently expect fewer convictions, lighter sentences for lesser “crimes”, and even often doesn’t serve time despite having been convicted (see The Donald) than people who don’t have the capacity to hire private lawyers is an absolute and inexcusable travesty.

The word “justice” should not be allowed within a hundred lightyears of that system.  I would say it’s a joke, but jokes are more worthy of respect.  It is, instead, a low-flying, long-term catastrophe, and no one who would like to live in a just society should support it as it is.  No one should be allowed to have private representation in criminal trials unless everyone gets it.  Otherwise those with more money are effectively not subject to the same laws as everyone else, and that includes everything from petty shit up to murder (see OJ), which at the very least in practice violates the Constitutional guarantee of equal protection under the law.

Don’t even get started on sex crimes.  I think we all know how rarely and haphazardly they are punished, let alone prevented.

It would be amusing if someone set up a service whereby they would provide assistance to women (and, yes, men) who were the victims of unpunished sexual assault by helping to get rid of the bodies of their assailants (if they killed them themselves) or just helping to delete the perpetrators from start to finish.  Of course, this could easily run afoul of the crucially important notion of due process, without which laws might as well not really exist, but our government(s) are failing miserably in that crucial area anyway.

Enough fantasizing.  I barely have the energy to get up and live my own so-called life, let alone to set up illicit vigilante services.  I am very tired and I am in continuous pain, and I have very little notion of anything good happening in my future.  A few things in my life now are wonderful, of course‒my youngest, my sister, my brother, and yes, my son, since at least I know that he is doing well, and of course, you readers are pretty darn great‒but I know that I am not wonderful.

I am not much more charming or beneficial than a growth of black mold or a teratoma (or even a less benign tumor).  Maybe tumors and mold growths have rights of some sort in an idealized world, if any living thing does.  But they cannot expect to be welcomed or loved or supported.  They are generally only worthy of removal and destruction if anything at all.

I don’t know what the point of this post is, but then again, I don’t know what the point of much of anything is, least of all the point of me.

Whatever.  Never mind.

*That turned out to be a pipe dream.  I also stayed in Florida instead of remaining with my parents up north after getting out of prison for basically the same reason.  I was severely and devastatingly disappointed when my kids themselves asked me not to pursue my legal right to visitation once I was out, because it would be too disruptive of their lives.  I could not in good conscience selfishly force myself upon their time‒not after I had screwed everything up so much and hurt them thereby‒so I acquiesced.  I can easily sympathize when people don’t want me around.  Anyway, now at least I am interacting regularly with my youngest, and that’s a wonderful thing‒it’s better than I surely deserve‒but my oldest still doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.  Most of you reading this blog post have read my stuff before and have some acquaintance with my mind; can you blame my son for not wanting me around?

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“You look so tired, unhappy…”

I don’t think I’m going to write anything interesting or thought provoking today, as I sort of did deliberately earlier this week (Monday more than Tuesday).  I certainly don’t expect to write anything profound.  I’m actually just very mentally and emotionally* tired right now, which is nothing new, but which is more onerous sometimes than others.  Such is the case with all things, I guess.

Yesterday, for most of the day, I felt extremely grumpy, by which I mean that basically everything was bothering me.  Part of this is no doubt due to my recent exacerbation and complication of my chronic pain:  I did something to injure my right knee, and it’s still very stiff and sore, especially when I first try to rise after being seated for a while.

It eases a bit after I walk a little; the stiffness seems to work itself out some.  But then it just re-seizes up as I sit, and it’s quite painful once I move again.  It certainly isn’t enough to distract from my chronic pain, but it does add extra highlights to it.  I guess at least it keeps things from being too dull (though the pain still often feels extremely boring‒in the “drill bit” sense, not the “tedious” sense**).

I’m sure it’s all plenty boring for you to read, probably in more than one sense.  I apologize.  You come to my blog in good faith, expecting to find something at least tolerably worth reading, and I keep spewing my vitriol and discomfort all over your minds.  Again, I am sorry.

I’m so tired of my life, though.  Yesterday, I don’t know how many times, or in how many ways, I fantasized about…well, you know.  I’m just very drained, and I feel as though there are always new setbacks.  I suppose that’s true, in a sense.  It’s probably true for almost everyone, in some fashion or other.  That doesn’t make it better or easier to bear, though.  If anything, it just reinforces my sense of despondency about the world and the universe.

Ordinarily, I can be philosophical about such things, embracing the apparent lack of meaning partly because it means that people can create and choose the meanings of their own lives.  But chronic pain and chronic insomnia just chew away at one’s sense of optimism or even one’s sense of acceptance.  Chronic pain tends to make one hostile and even spiteful, especially when one is dealing with it all by oneself.

Also, my thumbs are sore, despite the fact that I’m trying to find ways to give them a rest.  And the stupid rash on my right hand that seems to have started (years ago) due to some kind of contact hypersensitivity to something in the “rubberized” grip of those Pilot® gel-roller pens (which I love but, alas, must avoid) continues to act up, and as a consequence the skin near the crook of my right thumb is dry and splitting open, which can sting quite a bit.

Oh, and I’d also like to register a complaint about this parrot what I bought not half an hour ago from this very boutique.

You want to complain?  Look at these shoes!  I’ve only had them three weeks, and the heels are worn right through.  If you complain, nothing happens, you might as well not bother.

Something like that, anyway.  It is terribly annoying.  O that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.  Fie on’t!  O fie! ‘Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.

And if the cloudbursts thunder in your ear‒you shout and no one seems to hear‒and if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes, I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.

Sorry about that hodgepodge of quotes from various brilliant British artists from different times and very different genres.  Such are my go-tos, as they say.

What is it about Britain that has led to everyone from Shakespeare to Newton, to Darwin, to Maxwell, to Monty Python, to Tolkien, to Orwell, To Kipling and Wells, to Byron and both Shelleys, to the Beatles and the Stones and Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin and Radiohead and the Police and so on and so on?  Maybe it’s the chronic emotional repression, which leads to the build-up of thoughts and feelings that have to burst out somewhere?

Except I don’t think that’s how such things as feelings actually work.  Maybe it’s just that it’s not culturally “acceptable” there to express one’s deepest feelings and concerns except through formal art.  Keep a stiff upper lip, everyone‒unless you’re making an embouchure to play an instrument.  Then you can blow away!

Speaking of which, that’s probably what many of you wish you could do to me right now.  With that in mind, and since I don’t think I’ve something more to say, I will draw to a close.  I hope you all have a very good day.

*Aren’t those really just part of the same thing, though?  I think so.  Emotions are a kind of thought, or at least a state of mind.

**Though it is all but unbearably tedious, believe me.

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“I’ll take a quiet life, a handshake of…”

In case anyone feels bereft, I apologize for not doing a blog post yesterday.

Of course, the odds of someone feeling seriously let down by the fact that I didn’t write a post for one day seem vanishingly small.  Nevertheless, it is a physical possibility, so presumably, depending on to what degree the various multiverses exist and to what degree possible things all happen “somewhere”, I’ll act as if someone in some bizarre verse would give a shit whether I am even alive or dead, let alone whether I miss a blog post for a day.

Oh, by the way, the reason I didn’t do a blog post yesterday was because my chronic pain has been so severe and worsening this week‒with relatively atypical symptoms, too‒that on Wednesday night I had a truly hideous night, despite doing all that I could to assuage my pain, and so yesterday I did not go to work.  Therefore, I did not write a blog post.

Honestly, my pain is not much better today, if at all, but I did at least lie around most of the time yesterday, so there was a modicum of physical rest.

It’s terribly frustrating.  I do many things to try to moderate and improve or even resolve my chronic pain, and sometimes it seems to be improving thanks to certain attempted interventions‒this was the case recently, for a very short time‒and then BAM, it comes crashing back into my temporary optimism, sometimes making things worse than before.  For instance, recently, in addition to my usual pain, I’ve felt as though I have electricity running through the entire lower half of my body.

It’s not electricity such that one twitches and spasms‒not often or much, anyway‒but more like a globalized version of the feeling you get in your tongue if you place both poles of a nine volt battery against it, but less pleasant.

So, yeah, that’s not been fun.  And, of course, it still feels as though my upper and lower halves are nearly severed, held together merely by a thread (or perhaps a cable) made of broken bits of bone, frayed connective tissue, and above all, lots and lots of nerves (heavy on the nociceptors, not so good on the proprioceptors and the motor control units).

That sucks, obviously.  It’s also very discouraging, and it really doesn’t help my depression and my urge for self-obliteration.  If I could use my pain somehow to connect to and obtain power through, for instance, the dark side of the Force, as Darth Vader supposedly did in the Star Wars universe, that might at least entail some compensation.  It might even make the process worthwhile, depending on whether the dark side can actually be used to accomplish beneficial things*.

Alas, this real world does not seem to have such characteristics, and based upon our understanding of how that world works, at the deepest levels and at its many intermediate levels, we would not reasonably expect it to have them.  In the real world, pain is useful in and of itself in that it serves as an alarm signal.  But the purpose of an alarm is, in part, to encourage action that makes the alarm cease.

One does not imagine that having a fire alarm in one’s kitchen or living room or bedroom (or all of them) that is stuck on and wails constantly, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, etc., would make a house better to occupy or improve its resale value.  Indeed, one might be inclined simply to move out of that house, even if it is not sold, if nothing can be done to stop the alarm.

I want to move out of this house a lot of the time, especially at frustrating and rotten times like this one.  I don’t have any other house waiting for me, as far as I know.  That’s not really a problem, though.  I just want, as the song says, no alarms and no surprises.  Please.

 

So, that’s about it for the last 36 hours or so.  I’ve been trying to rest my body and do interventions to decrease my pain, but there has been only very limited success.

I also haven’t been playing or singing any music recently, and even my reading has been falling off.  It gets ever harder and harder for me to distract myself, and many of such distractions seem not to be distracting anymore.

I’m so tired of all of this.  It hurts.

Anyway, I’m supposed to be working tomorrow, so I guess I’ll write another post then.  I’ll try to do a better job of hiding my feelings and darkness and whatnot, as I’ve been doing for the most part, lately (I think you can agree that I’ve succeeded to at least some degree).

It doesn’t change my own experience, but at least it can make yours better than it might have been otherwise.  The cliché says that misery loves company, but that doesn’t seem to be the case with me.  I find it much better if at least other people are doing okay, and if I can contribute to that, that’s a good thing.

Honestly, it’s hard for me to see myself doing any good for anyone in the world anymore, but I suppose I used to do so.  I think those days are long gone, though.

I hope you all have a good day.

*And why should it not?  The “good” and “evil” of power is dependent upon what is done with it, after all.  So, unless that power inevitably makes one want to do wholly destructive things, which doesn’t seem quite to be the case in the Star Wars universe, then the dark side is just one means of using the Force.  And we know that light side users can do bad things.

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“Like”, “comment”, and “share” (if you feel like it)

I’m very tired this morning.  By which I mean I’m more tired even than usual.  My head is a bit foggy—more so than usual, again—and I feel like I just belong lying down inert, perhaps in an open-topped coffin.  I’ve occasionally thought that they looked like good places to sleep.  It seems a shame to waste them on people who are already dead.

It’s Wednesday today, and I don’t think I’m going to have anything nearly as thoughtful to say as what I wrote yesterday, which was at least rather “deep” if not particularly useful or helpful or interesting to any of my readers.  I did get an interested comment on my take on one of the reasons mindfulness is useful, and that’s always nice.  I’d love to encourage greater feedback from more of my readers, here on the site in the comments, but I don’t know what to do to encourage them [I decided just to do a little cajoling in the headline, in case that works].

Probably there is just some percentage of people who tend to comment, no matter the situation.  It’s a bit like the long-known “fact” (which may or may not be a true fact) that every advertisement, from flyers/mailings to commercials, actually elicit a response in only about two percent of people who interact with it.  I suspect it’s probably similar with things related to blogging and social media and the like.

One sees it most readily on places like YouTube.  The number of views of a video is almost always something like an order of magnitude greater than the number of likes (and often it’s larger than the number of subscribers), and that’s still larger, though by a ratio that’s not as clear to me, than the number of people who comment (let alone share).

My own YouTube videos (and those of my published songs) are poor examples, or perhaps one might say “poor samples”, not representative of the phenomenon as a whole.  I have a number of “views” on my music videos that is generally a couple of orders of magnitude larger than the number of “likes”, but I know why that is.

Almost all of those views are from me, because I put my songs in my YouTube music playlist, and so I have listened to them often, back when I used to ride my scooter to work and back.  I had a lovely Bluetooth enabled helmet.  I like to listen to songs and sing along in a car, or similar, when I’m on my way places*.  So I’ve listened to my own songs probably orders of magnitude more times than everyone else put together has listened to any of my songs.

It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it?  I’m also the one who has bought more copies of my books—because I gave copies to the people in the office—than everyone else put together, I’m fairly sure.

As for this blog, well, I get a higher number of likes relative to number of readers than I do with anything else, and I even recently have been getting a comment or so most days, which is very nice.  There’s at least some interaction.  It would be nice if I could reach a larger audience, but I’m not terribly good at self-promotion.  I am pretty good at self-denigration, though.  In fact, I’m one of the best there is at it!

Ha ha.

Well, like the song says, it’s all just a drop of water in an endless sea.  Or, it’s all just spit in the ocean** as more people probably say.  My spit may be more purulent than average, but it’s all still just spit.

Anyway, I don’t know what else to discuss today.  I’m very tired and worn out and I’m in ongoing pain that only responds somewhat to all the mitigating things I try to do, at least so far.  I’ve been through a quarter of a century of trying, and I have not been passive nor uncreative nor ignorant in my attempts.  As those reading might notice, I’ve thought about this matter a lot.  You probably would also if you were in chronic pain for nearly half of your life (so far).  It has a way of garnering your attention.  It’s built that way.

It’s interesting to note that shortly after I’m sixty, if I’m still alive***, I will have been in essentially constant pain for half my life.  After that it will become a majority (unless I’m cured at some point along the way, of course).

I occasionally (not often, though, because it’s too disheartening) wonder what my life would be like, what I would be like, if not for my chronic pain.

Things would almost certainly be vastly different.  I cannot be certain that they would be better—there are probably at least a few things that would be worse.  But it seems likely that my life would be much better overall, if only because I wouldn’t have a huge chunk of my will and energy stolen by being in pain all the time.  That constant pain really does make everything else harder.

But no matter the state of the rest of my life, at least one thing would be true (by “definition” in this case), and that is that I would not be in pain every fucking day of my stupid useless life.

Surely that must be worth something.  It would not be worth not having my children exist, but almost everything else would be worth trading.  I sometimes think of it as parallel to a line from Me and Bobby McGee:  “I’d give all of my tomorrows for a single yesterday, holding Bobby’s body next to mine.”  It’s nice poetry, albeit a bit weird to think about temporally.  But in my case, I think of it as basically saying I would gladly give up some significant fraction of what would otherwise have been my future if I could be out of pain.

But, of course, my future is less valuable to me now at least partly because I am in pain.  If I were not in pain, ironically, the future would be much more valuable, since it would be at least somewhat less uncomfortable.  If I could be free of depression, and the tendency thereto, that would make things better still.  That might even constitute a future worth having.

Yeah, yeah, I know, wishes, horses, manure, beggars riding, dogs and cats living together, watermelon, cantaloupe, rutabaga, yada, yada, yada.  I’m wasting my time and yours.  And I’m writing too much, because I’m using the lapcom, and I’m not saying or doing (or being) anything at all worth saying or doing or being.  This is all just stupid.

I hope you all at least have a good day.  I would not mind if this were my last one.

*I can’t do it anymore because I don’t ride or drive anywhere anymore, so I am not “alone” when commuting anymore.  I’m also not alone at the house.  It’s really quite disappointing.  I like to sing.

**This is a bit amusing:  I made a typo when I first wrote that phrase, and it was rendered as “spit is the ocean”, which seems almost like some vaguely deep thought about how oceans are lived in, swum in, excreted in, and bled in by numerous living creatures.

***Right now that seems a horrifying prospect.

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An angry and probably unpleasant rant

It’s Friday.  yay.

Today’s date (February 6, 2026 CE or AD) has a mildly amusing coincidence/repetition of digits, 2-6-26 in the shortened American version of the date layout.  In the European system, the date would be almost palindromic (6-2-26) but that’s leaving out the zeroes in front of the day and month digits and ignoring the number of the millennium.  So it’s not quite as cool as it could be.

Some might say that such numbers and the arrangements and the noticing thereof can never be “cool”, but such people are troglodytic idiots.  They live in a world full of and shaped by complex ideas, by innovation and technology they could not have invented themselves, and which they don’t bother to try to understand because other people take care of and do all that stuff.

I’ve said before, many times (with sadness and regret and yes, quite a lot of anger) that if it were up to most people, we would all still be living in caves (the few who remain alive, at least).  That’s metaphorical, mind you; very few humans actually ever lived in caves as far as we can tell.  It’s just that the remains of those who died in caves (and their artifacts) are much more likely to endure to be discovered than the tools and remains of those who lived on the savannahs and such.

Anyway, the troglodytes have a quite common attribute, one that might explain a good deal about them:  even though they may have the capacity to read, even though they may have been taught to read, they don’t choose to do it.  It’s both sad and quietly horrifying.

Even those who claim to read just one book (e.g., the Bible, the Koran, etc.) don’t even really read those books.  You can tell, because they clearly don’t live their lives respecting all the precepts of those books.

This fact can sometimes be bad, but more often than that, it’s just as well.  Those books are horrific (and often just horrible, aesthetically).  They also tend to be rather stupid by modern standards, but it’s hard to hold them too much to task for that.  They were, after all, written from depths of profound ignorance about the universe.  One cannot know a truth before it has been discovered.

Of course, if those books really had been written, or at least inspired, by an omniscient being or beings, they could reasonably be expected to be very smart books by any standards.  Alas, they are not.  Trust me, I’ve read many of them, as well as many other books that don’t claim to be the products of omniscience, but which would be far more convincing* if they did than those ancient compilations of legend and myth and mental illness that are the so-called holy books.

Ironically, the Tao te Ching is much wiser than the aforementioned holy books, and it was never said to be written by anything other than a man.  It’s not perfect, of course, but it doesn’t really claim to be so.  Perhaps some of its adherents think it’s somehow “perfect”, but that doesn’t really matter.  After all, there are probably those who “think” Mein Kampf and The Art of the Deal are perfect.

Weirdly enough, some of these people would probably also say the Bible is perfect [Disappointed shrug and heavy sigh].  People are stupid.  And there are none so stupid as those who refuse to think.

Sorry, I don’t even know how I got to dealing with this set of subjects today.  It certainly was not planned.  Then again, nothing here was planned, other than that I would write a blog post as usual, which is not surprising.

It’s not as though I have anything better to do with my life‒that is, nothing better other than to shut it off, I suppose.  But so far, I am too much of a coward to do that.

I know, I know, there are those who (with truly very good intentions) will call continuing to be alive a “brave” choice, but though I appreciate such people’s kindness, that “choice” is very much the default.  In a similar vein, it’s not brave to hunt, or to fish, or to farm, if hunting or fishing or farming  is what you must do to survive.  It’s just pragmatic.

I am not brave for still being alive.  This is not to say that it would be brave for me to kill myself, either.  But it also would not necessarily be cowardly.

Bravery in the usual sense is overrated, anyway.  We can (and should) all be glad, of course, that there are people like firefighters, as well as honorable soldiers and honorable police officers.  But if one stops to think about it, one can see that we should all very much wish to live in a world in which bravery was not required, a world where heroes are not merely not needed but are not useful.

It’s likewise with so-called leaders.  If a society were functioning well, it would not need (or want) heroes or leaders, at least not in the traditional sense.  In a well-functioning civilization, people would see their elected officials as their employees, as the public servants that they are.  They are not, and should not be thought of as, leaders.  That’s just a troglodytic way of thinking.

Alas, we are far from such a well-functioning civilization yet.  Who knows if we ever shall achieve it?

I do know, however, that I will probably be working tomorrow, which means I will write a blog post, barring (as always) the unforeseen.  Until then, I hope you each and all have a very good day by any reasonable criteria.

*Especially modern science books.