On the way to Mars…

For a long time, I dedicated time to managing my image, an extension of living in a community where worrying about what your neighbours thought of you was considered important (an extension of the group dynamics of social animals), which was handed to me by my parents and such.

We aren’t removed from the tribal characteristics of our ancestors — we just think we are.

There’s nothing the matter with wanting to please ourselves through the use of our “mirror neurons” with which we naturally mimic one another.

In other words, I’m telling myself it’s okay to be all the parts of me — including the flesh-and-bones member of one species — even the ones I’ve told goodbye!

With that said, I am back to watering the seeds of the future.

Planting ideas that have only 12852 sols (13205 days) to reseed the next generation.

Time to shop for more parts at Radio Shack to help reduce inventory at the local store, not knowing which one will be closed to keep Radio Shack the corporation solvent.

What shall I build next?

On the way to Mars…

Mourning has broken

As sheep graze the green grass of Ireland in the month of March, not more than a week away from Saint Patrick’s Day, here on this third planet in orbit around the local star we call our Sun, a collection of cells looks at itself and smiles.

Now, what is a smile?

Smile, n.: A subset of collection of cells sharing signals to coordinate an activity that similar cell collections recognise automatically.

Could the definition be more generic?


What is a smile but a symbol and what is a symbol but a clash of simple meanings?

Today, for the first time, I held my smiling great-nephew in my hands and flew him through the air like Superman.

It takes one to know one.

In that moment, I realised that I am who I am, wealthy enough to retire on the interest of a modest trust fund of my own making, happy to be the slightly rude and crude fellow who occasionally acts like a gentleman in front of women who want to be treated like ladies but who otherwise is not a core member of the type of folks who would be associated with the “church lady“.

I have finished another round of recovering from the loss of my father, which includes releasing the constraints upon myself that I had learned to keep subdued in order not to feed and incur the wrath of Dad when he was alive.

I am not a weekly churchgoing kind of guy but I am willing to support those who are, having, with my wife, pledged to donate half a million dollars to the summer church camp where she and I met as 12 year-old “rising seventh graders,” neither one of us being daily Bible readers or church attendees but friends with those who are.

To those who are, I am grateful for their influence upon my youth.  I know that many of them would love for me to join them in service to the community to promote religious teachings in action.

But that is not who I am.  I am a child of a universe of which our cultural/religious teachings are limited to a single solar system.

I will allow the teachings to continue to be a part of my set of states of energy but I believe it is a subset of which the set includes stuff unassociated with our species and its methods of survival on and around Earth.

I am healing from unintentional cuts in the thought patterns I was following that the cuts interrupted — cuts known as psychological damage in one respect and unique personality traits in another.

I am who I am because of who I was when I didn’t know who I was or who I wanted to be, exactly.

I am a collection of cells influenced by a lot of subcultures.

But again, that is from the viewpoint of a single planet.

From the viewpoint of the known universe, our species is invisible.

I practice telling myself this over and over because I choose to equal the influence upon me from others (“others” being any stimuli outside the immediate circle of influence that constitutes my set of states of energy (this collection of cells) that moves around the planet) by repeating to myself what I believe.

I have healed from these wounds, these cuts, these interruptions that redirected the forward momentum of multiple personalities in conflict that comprise the entity known as me.

I have reevaluated my risk aversion levels woven together as characters/masks/personalities/compartmentalised responses to external stimuli.

In the midst of healing that started when my brother in-law died in 2006, continued through my midlife retirement, caring for my mother in-law as she aged, got lonely, left her hometown, moved to our town and died, then rapidly followed by my father’s declining health and death, I resurfaced the core personality traits I had suppressed for the sake of others.

I am blossoming late in life, changing my personality feedback loops to pay attention to when I’m reacting for the sake of others and cutting off those reactions, replacing them with self-affirming actions instead, rather than living in the past working hard[er] to suppress myself when it surfaced unexpectedly.

I am no longer living for others and letting others live for themselves, choosing neither to lead or follow others.

I am responsible to myself.

All while giving leave of the self for other goals that may or may not include me (especially after I’m dead and gone).

I have reached the point where achieving these goals means leaving people and ideas behind that I was trying to please for no other reason than I didn’t know what else to do because I waited for permission to tell them goodbye, permission I was never going to receive from anyone else but me.

I felt like an interstellar spaceship being held in place by the roots of an extinct dead grass patch.

I gave myself permission to once again be my natural self, weird in some circumstances and accepting of comparable weirdness from others.

Releasing the fear of being seen and judged by the imaginary thought patterns of others in the subcultural religious teachings of my youth.

The release was a relief and a lifting of carrying a burden that was not mine to own.

I stopped worrying about pleasing people with whom I don’t hang out regularly anymore but have friended in social media circles.

In other words, I want to joke about butt plugs shaped like the bust of Vladimir Putin but not when I’m getting blasted with “God is so good to me and my family” messages all the time.

So, all I can do is say goodbye to the people/family in the subcultural religious teachings of my youth and let them be happy in their subcultural circles of which I no longer actively participate.

No better way to be me than to use someone else singing “I Gotta Be Me.”

Never stop falling in love!

Lying in bed (that’s a good phrase to start a sentence; grammatically, it’s not ‘laying in bed’ (or is it?)), I couldn’t sleep.

Reclined as I was, our 15-1/2 year old Cornish Rex cat tucked into my left underarm, my wife to my right, our 15 year old Cornish Rex cat on her stomach, I felt my face was flush.

Has been flush for many days now.

Lack of exercise, combined with the anxiety of flight-or-fight, boxed-in, can’t-escape feelings, has raised my blood pressure, filled my circulatory system with potent chemical combos that are not meant for a sedentary lifestyle.

Being in love is like that.

Kinda like marriage.

An attraction so strong you morph into a moth and move toward a mood lamp with breakneck/wing/pride speed.

I want a hug right now.

Not just any hug.

The hug that accompanies a swingout or whip of a dance move.

My left hand holding her right hand, my right hand around her waist, both of us turning in unison.

Eyes locked on each other.



Losing the formality of a routine because we’re having too much fun.

Falling in love again, all over again, again and again and again…

Be it romantic.

Or seductive.

A partnership of unspoken understanding.









Do I fall in love too easily?  Am I too trusting?  Do I think my dance partners have my best interest in their thoughts?

No answers are necessary.

I am in love with the universe — we have each other, subsets within sets of subsets of sets.

I have danced with Earthlings, most who still think in increments of days.

Time to flip the telescope around that was turned the wrong way and focused on the heart, get my eyes out of the emotion-filled microscope and take the long view again.

Love in the moment is most beautiful but Martian colonies need more than love to keep growing!

There was a boy…

There was a boy.

He, in today’s world, might have been diagnosed on the autism spectrum (or pick your other favourite euphemism for “we medical professionals aren’t really sure”).

He was in constant pain, a pain without a locus, a locust without a home, a home without a crop, a crop without a horse.

He did not know he was in pain.

He didn’t even know to assume that his condition was normal or not.

He wasn’t aware he was a boy.

Labels were given to him, labels that others insisted he adopt as his own.

These others, bigger than the boy, operated out of fear, misunderstanding and something the boy couldn’t quite put a finger on.

He knew he was supposed to care about these others.

But he lived in a different world than they did, on another plane, in another universe, somewhere not quite completely connected with the others.

He was alone with himself, sometimes sad, sometimes happy, sometimes mad, sometimes sane, always in pain.

He had a point to make — he wanted to be free of pain.

To be free of pain meant only one thing to him: he wanted death.

People died because of his actions.

People were tortured and survived because of the boy’s temporal wants and needs, wants and needs imposed upon the boy by the others.

The boy really wanted to care about people who suffered and died to meet his wants and needs, people he’d never meet, people who lived out there somewhere in their own imaginary universes, their homes with locusts and crops.

But the boy didn’t care.

The boy didn’t care because he only knew how to be alive.

Whirlwinds of people swept the boy up into their storms, a rush of excitement like a carnival of lights and sounds, making the boy smile, laugh, and forget his simple happiness of being alive.

Left alone, the boy sat by himself in silence.

He sat in his unknown pain and waited to die.


Years passed.

A half century or more.

The boy thought maybe he had changed a little.

He forgot a lot.

He repeated himself more and more.

He closed his eyes and slept.

One last, long sleep, drifting into a painfree foreverness…

There was a boy.

No more.

Actions instead of words

Caught in a whirlwind of sets of states of energy called thoughts within a central nervous system of which the spongy portion we call the brain is supposed to be an important portion…

Wondering who someone with my name is like.

Because my life with my name took a different tack.

Fictionalised part of it.

More than once.

Or twice.

History repeats itself sometimes, too — novella description from Oct 30 2008:

Even breathing has consequences.

Lee loved his wife unconditionally. Yet, just as domestic love wanted to rivet him down for good, Lee desired to explore free love. Does free love include sex? Is there really no such thing as a free lunch?

Fredirique entered Lee’s life and turned it upside down. Will Lee surrender to Fredirique’s fun and games in the city or will Lee return to the quiet domestic bliss he’d learn to savor in the suburbs?

Lee thought he had to pay the price for unrequited love, his guilty conscience serving in his mind as judge and jury — will he give himself a life sentence or time off for good behavior?

Some people are driven to have so much fun, to push themselves past where pain would stop most everyone else, to achieve accomplishments that no other member of our species has or will again.

I danced because I liked to have fun — my willingness to memorise long sequences of dance moves, to memorise any long sequence at all, has never been my strong suit — thus, I let myself flail around rather than succumb to suppressing my unwillingness to control my body/thoughts in specific contortions.

I love life.  My goals are simple: to live.

The wild, uncontrollable part of me is not so wild or uncontrollable as others — not the least nor most wildest, not the least nor most uncontrollable.

However, on this planet we should allow each other to be as wild or uncontrollable as we want as long as we don’t adversely interfere with the same from others.

Civilisation is the intersection of our concepts of wild and uncontrollable, in almost infinite form.

Today, I piece back together thought patterns in an attempt to remove the repetitively painful portions…

To return to my peaceful self again.

Meditating in nature.

Happiness is being myself.

Myself being fluid yet fixed.

Despite years of writing blog entries, still the most popular one read every week: where/when I mentioned the Seven Ages of Man.

I am happy to die today.  I have made peace with myself.

I can breathe.

No need to compare my life to others.

I can write about the peace of breathing but words do not do the breathing for me.

Have a great day!  Time to spend more time breathing, less time writing.