life

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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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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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Most people are dead, and it will probably always be that way

I sometimes think about historically based films in which tragedies happen and deaths occur.  I know they’re highly fictionalized, but think of Braveheart and of Gladiator* and movies of that sort, where the loss of loved ones makes viewers sad but drives the protagonist to “great” deeds that change the course of local history‒or, well, that make the course of local history.  After all, one only knows history after it happens, and once it’s happened, one cannot change it.  One can be mistaken about it, one can misrecord it, one can lie about it, but one cannot actually change it.

Even if it were possible to time travel, going into the past to alter something, it wouldn’t change the history from which you came‒as even the Marvel movies have pointed out, you’d just have created a new future, a new history, local to you.  It wouldn’t change your previous one‒that would be paradoxical.

Yes, Back to the Future is bullshit.  This really shouldn’t surprise you.  It’s still a fun movie.

Anyway, that’s beside the point I planned to make.  I think of tragic deaths in historical dramas that we see and about which we feel heartbroken, or even about real historical horrors‒human made, like the vast slaughters of Genghis Khan’s hordes or natural, like earthquakes and volcanoes and tsunamis and the like‒and about all the deaths involved, and sometimes I think:  “They would all be dead now, anyway, no matter what.”

Not one single person who was born before 1900 is alive today, as far as I know.  If there is one, that human is an all-time record holder in longevity, and is unlikely to live much longer.  And I would probably bet my own life** on there being no one alive who was born before 1850.  Indeed, the majority of humans who have ever lived are dead.  It’s not as big a majority as it might be, given how long humanity has existed, but that’s only because of recent exponential population growth.

In principle, of course, with a fast enough exponential population growth, it would be possible for the majority of humans to be presently alive, even with current lifespans.  But that’s not sustainable in the real universe.  For it to be sustainable in the long run, eventually humans would have to expand their empire over matter and space at faster than the speed of light, and reach far beyond the cosmic horizon, which is impossible in principle, as far as we know.

I say “eventually”, but don’t let that mislead you.  It would happen with surprising speed.  There’s a well known fact that, given a typical doubling/generation time of about 20 minutes, and assuming enough resources, a single bacterium could multiply to a volume greater than that of the visible universe within a month.  I’ll try to check my math on that when I get to sit down with a pen and paper***, but whether the specific time of a month is not quite right, it’s in the right ballpark.

This is the sort of doubling that is thought to have happened‒at an even faster rate, of course‒during the “inflationary” stage of the universe, if inflation happened.  Of course, in a sense, if “dark energy” is really the cosmological constant, then we are still undergoing inflation even now, just with a slower doubling time.  That doesn’t help is with our exponentially growing human population, though; spacetime itself can expand at, functionally, faster than the speed of light****, but nothing travels through spacetime faster than light.

Anyway, we’re already slowing down our population growth rate, which is good, since Malthusian growth tends to be unpleasant for almost everyone.  Therefore, as time goes by, the fraction of all humans who are dead will probably more and more overtake the fraction who are living.  And all early deaths are, in hindsight, not too terribly early.

This is one reason I get slightly irritated by people who talk of “saving lives” or characterizing a person’s death, per se, as a tragedy.  If every death is a tragedy, then the anti-natalists are right, and each new life should be avoided.  But, of course, it’s not that death in and of itself is a tragedy‒or if it is, it’s an inevitable one that’s going to happen to us all, sooner rather than later.  Even a being that lived for thousands or billions or googols or googolplexes of years would come no closer to living eternally than does a mayfly.  This is a mathematical fact.

It’s suffering that is the tragedy, not death.  Death can be a decent shorthand, in certain circumstances, because‒as Carl Sagan pointed out‒if one is dead, there is very little one can do to be happy.  Then again, if one is dead, there is also very little that can happen to make one disappointed or sad or in pain or afraid.  And since these things are more common and sustainable, or at least more reliable, than joy is, life itself, as a shorthand, is at least as good an indicator of suffering as death is of loss of possible joy.

It’s possible, I think, to live without joy‒meaning that it can happen, not that it’s a state one can or should seek.  But I don’t know that it’s possible for any true living things, or at least any living things with any equivalent of a nervous system, to exist without suffering.

So, perhaps Dumbledore’s post-mortem***** admonition to Harry Potter could be truncated to “Do not pity the dead, Harry.  Pity the living.”  Full stop.

*Which should have been the title of the sequel to Jaws.

**That’s maybe not as impressive as it might seem, since much of the time I hate my life and myself.  But it’s the only life I have with which to bet.

***With a typical length of 1 micrometer (10-6 meters) and a doubling time of approximately 20 minutes (leading to 72 doublings a day), after only one day, a colony of bacteria would be roughly 4700 cubic meters in size, a cube more than 16 meters (just over 50 feet) on a side.  After 2 days, its volume would be about 2 x 1026 cubic meters, or a cube 280,000 kilometers long on a side.  That’s nearly the distance from the Earth to the Moon.  After the 2160 doublings involved in a month of doubling, that would yield a volume of 2 x 10632 cubic meters, or with a side length of about 5 x 10210 meters.  A light year is 10 trillion kilometers, or 10 quadrillion meters, which is “only” 1015 meters.  So that’s a cube with a side length of 5 x 10195 light years‒waaaaaay more than a googol light-years.  Indeed, if you subtracted a googol from that number, it would not change it to any degree measurable by any means known to humans (5 x 10195 minus 1 x 10100 is still, basically, 5 x 10195).  The visible universe is only about 92 billion light-years across, yielding a sphere with a volume of “only” 4 x 1080 cubic meters.  It’s not even close to the order of magnitude of a volume of 2 x 10632 cubic meters!  My estimate was far short of the mark.  But that only strengthens my point, doesn’t it?

****It doesn’t actually do so locally‒I suspect that is also impossible, since it would defy the speed of local causality.  It’s only the summation of all the local doublings spread across the entirety of space that can make distant points separate at faster than the speed of light.  Then again, can “traditional” inflation cause any kind of local superluminal expansion?  I don’t think so.  Could two points in space a Planck length apart separate at a local speed that exceeds c even during inflation?  I doubt it, though I’m not absolutely sure.  Of course, if space is mathematically continuous, then there are no two closest possible points, anyway.  Between any two points on the real number line, there exists an uncountable infinity of other points, no matter how arbitrarily close you make them.

*****Of course, if one can deliver admonitions, one is not really dead in any useful or meaningful sense.  But it’s fiction, and it’s magic within fiction, so leeway can be given.  We have no evidence nor have I encountered any even borderline convincing arguments for any “life after death” in the real world, unless you count things like multiverses or Poincaré recurrences or the like, and I don’t, since they really entail other versions of a person, not a continuity of personhood.

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“…all these weird creatures who lock up their spirits…”

It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m writing this on my laptop computer at the train station.  I brought the computer back with me last night because the bases of my thumbs have been—like so much of the rest of my body—really killing me (albeit slowly) lately, more so even than usual.  I guess writing the blog post yesterday on my smartphone didn’t help soothe them any.

It’s the last day of January in 2024, if that’s important to anyone.  Actually, it’s the last day in January in 2024 even if that’s not important to anyone at all, anywhere.  It’s just a fact of reality, one of those things that is so whether anyone even notices that it is.  Of course, the names of the months and the numbering of the days and years and all that are “made up” and effectively arbitrary, but once the system is in place, it is a fixed thing.  It is what it is.

This is the nature of reality, of course.  Despite political disinformation, or ideologies, or beliefs, or wishes, or fads, or “political correctness”, or whatever subjective, parochial notion people might have, reality is nevertheless “out there”, and it does not bend to anyone’s desires except through concerted effort and thought and will.  Even then, the laws of nature, whatever they may be in their ultimate form, are clearly not optional.  The old saying goes, “Nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed,” but there is no option not to obey nature.  It might be better to say, “Nature, to be commanded, must be understood.”

Even if the world were to turn out to be an illusion—some version of the Matrix, or a deceit of some other kind, perhaps some manner of hallucination—this would not undermine the existence of reality.  It would merely create relative barriers to our understanding of it.  Even if our universe were to turn out to be a simulation in a simulation in a simulation, on and on, as far as one arbitrarily might extend the chain, there would still have to be some underlying, ground-state reality in which the simulators and the simulations can exist.  A dream is not a free-floating thing, able to dream of other dreams that can then dream of it.  It requires some foundational place in which at least the first dream can occur.

All that’s pretty self-evident, I guess, so I’m sorry to bore you with the rehashing of such ideas.  It’s just that I encounter notions such as the whole “perception is reality” and its relatives too often, and they are maddening.

Then again, many things are maddening to me, especially lately, especially when my pain is flaring up.  Much of the world that I perceive is maddening.  I feel angry toward almost everything in the universe, and I have fewer and fewer respites in the form of distractions that make me at least temporarily joyful.  Pain doesn’t help, obviously.  Being in pain makes everything darker in general, and I’ve been in pain for roughly two decades, with no single day’s break from it.

The Dread Pirate Roberts said life is pain.  This is a simplification, of course; it would be more accurate to say that pain is a ubiquitous and necessary part of life.  That’s one of the reasons I hate it in general.

I particularly hate my own life, especially as it is now and as it feels to be more and more becoming over time.  There are so many things in the office, for instance, that increasingly drive me to want to lash out, physically—against the inconsistencies, and the idiocy, and the counterproductive chaos.  The noise also doesn’t help, frankly, and my pain makes things that I would normally at least be able to tolerate difficult even to endure.

I’m tired pretty much all the time.  I have no desire to play music, let alone to write any, and no desire to read fiction, let alone write any.  It’s harder and harder to find even YouTube videos that are transiently interesting, or that cover science topics in which I’m interested in ways that I didn’t already know.  “Mainstream” movies and shows, and the fodder on the various streaming services, all seem so utterly banal and trite and submoronic.

The last movie I watched all the way through was No One Will Save You, on Hulu.  I enjoyed that because the outsider main character fought off the invaders and the humans alike until finally the aliens accepted her and left her to her usual nature while taking over all the humans in the town.  At the end of the movie, the young woman dances happily with the alien-infested townsfolk, finally accepted into a community, finally having come to a place where she belongs—among the aliens, if you will.  As the last scene pulls out from the dancing, we see green forests and pleasant scenery, with alien ships hovering overhead*, perhaps supervising everything.  Perhaps this is the state of the whole world at the end of the movie.  I didn’t find it in any way horrifying.  It was actually quite beautiful.

Of course, it is a silly conceit that an alien species would look so like humans (only slightly stretched and bent here and there), or that they would have any interest in us, or that they were only slightly more advanced than we are (presumably) such that they would have any difficulty securing the dominance of any group, let alone an individual.  It’s a bit like a scientist finding it difficult to keep a yeast culture in a petri dish because some single yeast cell is fighting back.

Perhaps I’m being unkind.  Perhaps the aliens could simply have overwhelmed the Earth (which in the end it seems they did) but they wanted to do some manner of experiment or more subtle control, and were sworn not simply to wipe out individual humans who resisted, even when one of those humans killed several of them.

I guess human naturalists wouldn’t necessarily kill a grizzly bear or a lion or a shark or whatever that had killed people who were trying to interfere with it in some way as part of their research.  Perhaps they would consider it lamentable but accept—just an inherent risk involved in what they were doing.  I don’t know.  I’m probably overthinking it.

Anyway, that’s the most interesting new movie or fiction I’ve encountered recently (not counting Doctor Who, which isn’t really new), but I don’t plan to watch it again.  I should cancel my subscription.  I should probably cancel all of my subscriptions.  What is the point of having them when nothing is interesting?

I’m very tired, and I’m very sore—it hurts to sit, and it hurts to stand and walk, and it hurts to lie down, just in slightly different ways—and I’m exasperated.  Also, my train will be here in a moment.  So that’s it for today.

*Are they “making home movies for the folks back home”, as in Radiohead’s Subterranean Homesick Alien?  Possibly.

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TTFN

I think I’m going to take a break from writing these blog posts, and I may quit doing them entirely.

They aren’t doing me any good‒they’re certainly not encouraging anyone to buy my books or to listen to my music.  They also aren’t functioning successfully as any sort of therapy, which was a large part of my hope.

Of course, it’s possible that my mental health would have been even worse if I hadn’t been doing this blog, but it couldn’t have been that much worse‒almost by definition‒and maybe I would have reached a catastrophic failure at some point sooner than it’s going to happen now, and at least I wouldn’t have had to suffer through the extra time I have in this branch of reality.

And finally, not least, this blog certainly isn’t working as any kind of cry for help for me, though I’ve tried to use it that way.  Perhaps there’s just too much of a “bystander effect” for this to function effectively in that mode.

I’m pretty sure these posts are not doing any good for anyone out there in the world.  There are people who are entertained by them sometimes, of course, and they tell me so, and I appreciate that.  But that’s not a strong enough motivation to keep going.  My apologies; I do not intend to denigrate you in any way, my readers.  It’s just that my strength is running out, and I feel horrible, physically and mentally.

I’ve been doing this blog at least partly as a habit, continuing the morning writing I did for years when working on my fiction.  I’m not writing fiction anymore.  It just feels too futile.

I don’t think my stories are bad.  I think some of them are pretty darn good.  But only a handful of people will ever read any of them, and though many people will say that one does art mainly for oneself‒and at some level, that is definitely true‒one also really wants to be appreciated.  Likewise for music.

I mean, yes, Van Gogh painted many paintings in his lifetime, though he only sold one…but then again, he did cut off his ear and end up killing himself, too (I knew he was a genius).

Anyway, although even Stephen King writes because he must‒so he says, and I don’t doubt him‒I don’t think he would have written nearly as many books if no one were buying them.  It just gets discouraging after a while.

I may do some little audio snippets here and there and share them on this blog.  Sometimes those can be rewarding, and they’re usually brief, and as long as I keep the editing to a minimum, they’re not too much effort.  I have a few little rants I’d like to go on sometime soon.  So those will probably appear here, if I end up doing them.  But otherwise, I don’t see the point in much else.

I honestly don’t want to go to work anymore.  Of course, today is payroll day, so I’m going, because people would be left in the lurch if I didn’t.  But it’s not rewarding, except in the obvious and banal way.  I mean, there are people at the office with whom I get along, but as has been the case most of my adult life, people mainly spend time with me because I’m useful.

I am useful, in many ways.  And it is nice to be useful.  But it has its limits.  Even at work, I try to get across to people how much distress I’m in, without being too melodramatic, but nobody seems really to take me seriously.

I guess that’s one of the drawbacks of having a dark and odd sense of humor and also having difficulty expressing one’s emotions.  Even if you talk about trying to stretch the pain out of your back by using a noose‒as I did yesterday, which was a particularly painful day‒people don’t seem to realize that really, suicide seems more and more attractive all the time.

I can’t easily participate in the comments anymore on a website I’ve followed for a long time, and I don’t think the host likes me, anyway, though I admire and like him and have enjoyed following his website, and recommend it readily.  To be fair, I am weird, and I am dark, and I tend to bring people down.  Does the fact that I get on some people’s nerves surprise anyone?

So, yeah, I don’t think I’m going to be writing any more blog posts for a while, and I may not write any ever again.  And, again, I may put audio stuff up here‒and I may turn some or all of them into “videos” as well, and put those on YouTube‒but I don’t have a planned schedule for those things right now, so we’ll have to see what happens.

Anyway, I’m feeling queasy/nauseated (and probably nauseous, but that’s for you all to judge) right now, and my train will be here soon.  Try to have a good day, and a good year, and a good rest of your lives.  Somebody ought to do it, and it’s not likely to be me.

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Yeah, yeah, whatever.

It’s early morning and I’m waiting at the train station again.

It’s also relatively cool out, and it looks like it’s going to be so for most of the rest of the week, if the forecast is correct.  I should probably have walked to the train today, but even though I woke up hours ago, I just didn’t feel up to walking.  Actually, I didn’t feel up to much of anything at all, and I still don’t.

I almost just stayed at the house today, even though it’s payroll day, because I didn’t want to get up and move.  I’m really feeling that each and every thing I do or can do is utterly pointless, even taken from the scale of an evanescent mammalian lifetime.

Our boss apparently intends for the office to be open on New Year’s Day, but I am not going to be there.  I think it’s bullshit to make people try to work after New Year’s Eve and also to expect to sell anything.  In past years on those occasions when we have worked on January 1st, we barely made any business, and a good percentage of it was canceled.

I have no interest, and I have no motivation, to do anything at all, and certainly not to come in to the office on New Year’s Day.  Other people had their three-day weekends last weekend, and their family holidays, and you can bet dollars to donuts that most of them will not be coming to work next Monday, anyway.

Of course, it’s not as though I have anything better to do with my time by staying at the house; that’s one of the reasons I’m going to the office today.  I have nothing better to do.

I have nothing.

I had been looking forward to the 60th Anniversary and the Christmas Doctor Who specials, but now they are done.  They were good, and I’m glad I watched them.  But the regular season isn’t starting until May, apparently, and I’m sorry, I can’t wait around for that.  Five months is way too long.

I am tempted not to go to the office the rest of this week, or next Monday…or ever again, really.  I’m tempted not to go anywhere ever again.  What’s the point?  There’s nothing to which I look forward.  Life is just a series of discomforts‒many of them not at all minor.

My whole body has been hurting more than usual lately, despite aspirin and Tylenol and naproxen and icy hot and a massager and ankle and knee braces.  My back, especially, has felt as if the spine is becoming completely disconnected at its base and I am about to split in half.  And I’m getting some new form of sacro-iliac/coccygeal inflammation/arthropathy, too, the source of which I do not know.

I wish I could go into a coma.  I wish I could simply sleep.  No more.  ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

I’m tired, and I feel horrible (and horrifying, come to think of it).  I hate my life.  There’s no point to it, and it gives me very little in the way of positive things.  Even thinking of my kids‒the best part of my life, ever‒just makes me miss them.  Since yesterday morning, I feel that I’ve just been fighting back tears most of the time.  It’s pathetic and disgusting.

I really do often wish I had some kind of drug problem (other than OTC analgesics, ha ha), but even alcohol gets unpleasant really quickly.  I bought a few bottles of wine for the holiday weekend and ended up pouring out as much as I drank, or more.  It doesn’t even do a good job of blunting my anxiety and tension, let alone making me feel good.

I don’t really want to see 2024.  I have no optimism about the year, and if anything, I feel that more and more of the little, stupid aspects of my life are falling apart all the time.  I’m just a net detriment to the world‒not that it deserves anything better, but still, I don’t enjoy that fact and process, and I don’t want to keep feeling the guilt and shame of my life.

I don’t know what to do.  I’m useless, even to myself.  I hate this world, I hate the social and political state of things (see yesterday’s post), I hate my body for its chronic pain, and I hate myself above all else.

I think I’m pretty close to being done, here.  I hope you all are having a more pleasant holiday season/experience than I am.  Tomorrow is Thursday, so if I do a post, it will probably be in my old “traditional” format.  If I don’t, you’ll know that I decided not to go in to work.  If I don’t ever do any more posts, I guess that will become evident after a while.  Though, of course, as with the halting problem in computation, you could never truly know that I was never ever going to release another blog post until you had waited until the end of time.

You could pretty sure, though‒sure enough to bet your life on, after not very long.  You could even bet my life, but that’s not worth much, so it’s not much of a bet.  It’s also a bit too self-referential and potentially paradoxical, given the subject matter.

Anyway, I’m sorry.  I know this isn’t pleasant, and you all deserve better.  But, it’s in my nature to disappoint and to bring people down, so that’s what I’m doing.  Have a good day if you can, nevertheless.

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Peculiar thoughts prior to the 1st of 2 holiday weekends

It’s Friday morning, and I did not walk to the train today.  Neither did I walk back from the train yesterday evening.  I didn’t really think I was going to do the “yesterday evening” thing, and I didn’t really intend to do the “this morning” thing, because I didn’t want to push it after having taken a long time off since doing any longish walking.

I don’t feel fatigued or sore or anything, but there is some chafing here and there that tends to happen when I restart walking seriously, but which I somehow forget every time until it happens again.  There’s some flaw there in the code I’m running in my brain, it seems.  Then again, there are many flaws in my brain code, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.

I’m scheduled to work tomorrow, so I will be writing a blog post unless they cancel the work day because no one is going to show up.  As far as I know, though, I will be working, so keep a weather eye on the horizon.  If the workday is canceled, then I guess the next blog post I will write will be on Tuesday morning, since I think even our office is going to be closed on Monday.

I’m writing on my laptop computer today, since I have the time before the train comes, and I’m not sweaty and there are plenty of seats.  I’ve been trying to be upbeat and whimsical and so on in my recent blog posts, but I don’t think I’m going to do that today.  For one thing, those posts don’t seem to garner as much attention and readership as my despondent and despairing and hateful blog posts.

I’m not sure why that is.  Perhaps the things which I find interesting and entertaining and “positive” to discuss are not what most readers find engaging.  If one is to base one’s assessment on the “reels” that are shown on Facebook, which I’ve been sort of auditing lately out of (rapidly dwindling) curiosity, then people’s interests are very silly and rather pathetic, though they can often be quite funny.  Of course, it’s probably rather silly and very pathetic that I’m even indulging my morbid curiosity by looking at them.

I haven’t been reading any books at all for some time.  Just ask Kindle; it apparently keeps track of my “streaks” and “records” and whatnot.  That is ever-so-slightly disconcerting, but I know there are essentially no humans involved in keeping track of me personally—at least not with respect to my reading.  It’s all mindless, algorithmic stuff, and the algorithms aren’t all that good, it seems, because Amazon is pretty bad at recommending books in which I’m interested*.

Sean Carroll and Sam Harris are much better at finding people with ideas I want to explore; a good many of the books I’ve read in recent years have been by people I’ve first encountered in one of both of their podcasts.  I guess that’s not too surprising.  I’m interested in their thoughts, so I’m likely to be interested in people they find interesting.

I still haven’t set up my health insurance.  I have a real mental block about this, or an emotional block, or whatever.  I don’t know how much it’s going to cost, for one thing, but the real barrier is, I think, my self-hatred.  I worry that, if I get health insurance, I’m going to feel obligated in some strange way to take care of myself and try to maintain and then improve my overall health and lifespan.  But that’s only going to prolong my existence, which I don’t consider a win.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but I have almost a fantasy of being diagnosed with some sort of inevitably terminal illness that will give me a short bit of time at least to try to connect with and say goodbye to people I love, and which will then kill me with relatively little mess.  It’s the sort of thing I think many people would want at the end of their lives (though they probably would want to put it off as long as possible) if the symptoms weren’t too unpleasant and could be palliated at reasonably low cost, so one wasn’t absolutely miserable in the time approaching one’s death.

Unfortunately, we usually do not get to choose, and we often get no warnings.

Well, actually, in a sense, we all get very long-term warnings.  Any sensible person is on constructive notice from an early age that someday death will come for them.  I suppose most people try to avoid thinking about it, but that doesn’t make it go away.

It’s interesting occasionally to think of the various other animals in the world and wonder how many of them ever recognize, at anything other than a rudimentary, acute, fight-or-flight response level, that they are going to die.  I think very few of them do.  Perhaps the cetaceans do, since many of them are both very intelligent and social, and they appear to communicate to some significant degree.  I’m not sure how much even the other great apes (apart from humans) actually recognize their own individual mortality.  I sometimes suspect that elephants know, but I’m not sure what gives me that impression.

If there are birds that are aware of mortality, I suppose it would probably be the corvids.  I guess it would be appropriate if ravens knew about death.

Huh.  That may end up being the substance of my pre-holiday message, ironically enough, though there really isn’t any substance or any point to what I’ve written today.  Of course, that’s probably entirely appropriate, since there is no apparent teleological substance to life itself.  It just happens, and then it stops.  This may be true even of the universe as a whole.

That’s okay.  Something doesn’t have to have some external purpose to be worth happening.  Just as one can enjoy reading a book or watching a movie or show, or listening to a song, that has no deep message or purpose or meaning other than itself, one can—potentially—enjoy a life without any meaning other than its own existence.

If only I could put that set of ideas into practice.  Alas, we here return to the faulty code I’m running.  If only I could update that more readily.  Goodness knows I’d do something more useful than Google and Microsoft and all the others do with most of their updates.  I may despise myself, but I do think comparatively highly of at least some of my capacities.

You would think that would give me at least some sense of satisfaction, but unfortunately it makes me feel worse about my character and nature.  And that seeming contradiction bring me back to lamenting my buggy code, and thus I appear to be stuck in a meta-level loop, or a perhaps in an old, Basic-style “Return without Gosub” error.

Oh, well.  Have a good day please, and if I don’t write anything else before then, I hope those of you who celebrate it have a Merry Christmas.

*YouTube has a better track record with video recommendations, but that’s deteriorating gradually, or I am, or both.

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Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor blog post

Hello and good day to you all.

It’s been a reasonably productive week for me, especially considering that I haven’t felt very well.  I didn’t even write an entry for Iterations of Zero last Sunday, but I’m planning on making up for that by publishing two new posts this coming week—one new and one republished from among works that were previously posted here.

On the other hand, Unanimity has been proceeding at an excellent pace.  On Saturday, April 28th, its first draft passed the quarter-million-word mark.  This will be my longest book so far, even after I pare it ruthlessly down in the editing process.  That’s not a bad thing, though—at least I hope it won’t be.  The story will be as long as it must be.  I’m just the messenger; please don’t shoot me (though you can, if you wish, quote MacBeth and call me “Liar and slave!”).  I’m greatly enjoying writing the book, and that has to be my primary criterion for success.  Obviously, I hope that people will read and enjoy the finished product, but even if I knew without any possible doubt that no one would, I think I’d still write it.

The recording of the audio of Hole for a Heart is complete, and the sound-editing process has begun.  I’ve been forced to re-record some of it due to mic malfunctions during the initial reading, which led to terrible static.  Apparently, once or twice while I read, the microphone cord came partly loose.  The result, when looked at on the waveform-layout, is a terrible progression of spikes, and when you listen…well, you won’t listen, because that’s been deleted and re-recorded.  Trust me, you wouldn’t want to hear it.

I did a little more “voice acting” in this story than in its predecessors, because there are more characters interacting, and there’s a bit more drama and emotion in that interaction.  I worry that I might have hammed it up a bit in places, but at least I enjoyed myself.  The story doesn’t have a happy ending, but then again, it’s a horror short story, so it wouldn’t end happily, would it?  Looking back on my published short stories, only one in three seems to have a “happy” ending, and if you go back in time to earlier works, that ratio drops even farther.  My novels, though, are another matter.  They all end up, more or less, with the good guys having triumphed, at least for the time being.

Unanimity will end on a bittersweet note, though.  Oh, of course, the situation will be resolved, and the dangers will be conquered, but the outcome will still be tragic, and the surviving characters will be scarred by their experiences.  This, unfortunately, is just the way things often are—in life as in fiction.

The next novel I plan to write, on the other hand, is going to be much more upbeat, and probably quite a bit shorter.  I’m not sure which of the stories clamoring about in my head will be released after that.  Eventually, I’m going to write a second book, and then a third, in the saga of Mark Red, but I really want to get other things out first before I return to my young demi-vampire and his friend and mentor, the vampire Morgan.  At some point, I expect also to write my prequel to Son of Man, detailing the back story of the character Michael.  That’s a tale that’s been waiting in my head for at least as long as Son of Man waited.

Of course, sooner or later, I’m going to write the story of my beloved characters The Dark Fairy and the Desperado, originally created in idle drawings, and yet other books lie waiting in between.  Thankfully, I write almost every day, unless I’m feeling quite ill.  I’d love to be able honestly to paraphrase Epicurus and say, “When I get a little time, I write books.  If I have any left over, I work to buy food and clothes.”  Unfortunately, in real life, working to make a living takes up a far bigger chunk of my time than writing does.  And then, of course, I have to sleep, alas.

Finally, as I said previously, I am going to start, probably next week, writing my long-planned series on my favorite villains from literature—from novels, to myths, to legends, to comic books, to movies, and beyond.  Often in fiction (and less often, but far too often, in real life), villains are the ones who set a story in motion.  Without Sauron, The Lord of the Rings would not be worth telling, and Harry Potter’s life would be far less gripping (though probably much more pleasant) had there been no Voldemort.  Villains act while the heroes, more or less, simply react, but both of them, when they’re “good”, teach us about the world and about ourselves.  Perhaps more important, reading about them is fun.

On that note, I’ll bring this blog post to a close.  Thank you all for reading, and please be as well as you can possibly be.

TTFN

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After the Storm

Okay, well, here I am back again, after a hiatus last week, for which I apologize.  I suppose that I can’t be held entirely to blame for that break—after all, the cause was hurricane Irma, which did a fair amount of damage to south Florida, and kept the power out where I live for over a week.  My neighborhood is fairly old, and there are quite a few trees, and the power lines have seen better days.  This is not a great combination when a category 5 hurricane comes through, though thankfully we did not get hit by the main force of the beast, as we thought was going to happen.

I had intended to do my fiction writing even when the power was out—I had my clipboard and a stack of notebook paper all ready—but the sheer annoyance and mugginess of south Florida without either regular lights or air conditioning just made the whole thing too unpleasant.  Actually, it was fairly unpleasant to do most things, even to sleep.  Late summer in Florida is no joke.  I guess if I’d known that I was going to be stuck in those conditions on an ongoing basis, I would have just buckled down, bitten the bullet, and mixed my metaphors—goodness knows I’ve been through worse—but given that I knew it was quite temporary, I used the occurrence as an excuse to be mildly lazy.

However, as of Monday morning, I am back at the word processor, and have been writing steadily on “Unanimity.”  It’s moving along well.  I’ve been writing what I hope is one of the most intense and dark scenes in the book, and it’s becoming longer than I thought it would be.  I fear it will need some serious pruning before I’m done with it.  Oh, well, I’ve had a lot of practice lately with cutting up unnecessary and troublesome branches of one kind or another.

I’ve been working toward the making of my planned video log, which will be named the same as my other blog on WordPress (Iterations of Zero), though I don’t know if I’ll officially name the channel or anything.  I expect that, before I come out with my next post here, I’ll have created the inaugural video for Iterations of Zero, and that’s kind of exciting.  It may be uncharitable of me to inflict my face on the viewing world, but since no one is forced to watch, I say caveat viewor.  Hopefully I’ll be able to make it worth your pain.  It’ll be worth it to me, anyway.

In the meantime, things are returning to normal, or what passes for normal in south Florida (those of you who have read Dave Barry or Carl Hiaasen, or their ilk, will know that Florida is a bizarre place indeed…especially if you realize that they do not need to embellish most of what they write).  The trains are running again, the weather is muggy and hot, the drivers are almost uniformly terrible (apparently something about the local climate interferes particularly with the function of turn signals) and greenery takes root on anything that sits still for longer than five minutes.

I’m going to cut it a bit short this week (I’m sure you’re all devastated); we went back into work last Thursday, as soon as the power came back at the office, and have been working straight every day since, to try to make up for the days that we missed while the hurricane raged and ranted.  So, I’m a little tired from that, and just from trudging my way through the hurricane and its aftermath.

Hopefully my next posting here will also contain a link to my latest (and earliest) video on YouTube, and you can let me know what you think.  In the meantime…

TTFN!