When I’m at peace in my thoughts, I don’t write.
I was a teenage script kiddie.
Go ahead, laugh at me, I can take it.
Motivated by love for a friend of mine, a future computer engineering genius, I emulated his coding skills, mimicked his sense of humour in programming comments, hoping he’d approve of my own cleverness.
He never did, ridiculing my lack of originality, accusing me of merely being an engineer whilst he was the true scientist exploring uncharted territory through scientific experimentation.
He saw me as his assistant, the comic sidekick who was good-looking, able to score funding from parents and friends via my charm and personality.
In other words, he couldn’t live without me for a couple of years.
He wouldn’t admit he loved me, too.
Fraternal love, is it different than romantic love?
Do plant roots love rain? Can they distinguish water falling from the sky, which has collected minerals in the air in its gravitational journey toward the center of our planet, from river water? Do they understand concepts of inflow and infiltration?
Every time I work on electronic equipment, in the back of my thoughts I think of Joey and the joy we shared building our first CPU-based systems, having “graduated” from single transistor and R/C/D (resistor/capacitor/diode) based systems.
I say I build these systems now for Guin and Shelmi.
And I do.
But I also honour older relationships.
It is who I am, connected to sets of states of energy which no longer exist, knowing as we do that friends we had 40 years ago are not the same persons whose names they keep perpetuating.
The electronic dance partner taking shape in my laboratory will remain essentially the same throughout its period of utility.
Do we see what that means in how we define living systems?
Rate of change.
Sets and subsets.
Summer solstice — would entities on other planetary systems understand that phrase?
Back in the laboratory where I feel most comfortable, where the only person I entertain is me.
I started a new life a few weeks ago, switching to the night shift at work, thinking I would free up my days and evenings to spend more time with people.
After a few weeks of this newfound freedom, I find myself back here in the home creative workspace where inventing new friends from electronic parts gives me a kind of joy that is spread out over a long stretch of time, unlike the quick roller coaster rides of joy on the dance floor that addictively attract me to those with whom I’ve danced.
I am at heart a solitary person who likes romantic walks under the stars with himself writing poems to imaginary people, sharing my writing with real people who most closely match my imagination.
Do I know what love is? Not really. I understand what working relationships are, where we pay attention to the needs of our fellow human beings, selflessly exchanging goods and services (including time) to meet the needs of others.
Otherwise, I don’t know what love is.
I don’t even know if I love myself.
I pause here in my life, taking a break from having fun imagining what it’s like to have fun with others, to let go of my selfish pursuit of friendships and look at these electromechanical parts in front of me, figuring out what I can uniquely do with them that I haven’t seen someone else assemble from their imagination.
Woz is right — motivation is better than knowledge in the realm of human endeavours.
I love to dance, love the people who love to dance.
I also love being alone.
I am not alone in this feeling of balancing social life vs. personal alone time, so sitting here alone in the workshop on dance night is not unique in itself.
It is 21:39, an hour and a half away from when I should leave the house and head toward my night shift job doing my part in the healthcare business to save lives.
I heard from “Helen” on social media. We are still connected to each other although we haven’t seen each other in decades. The short years we spent together in high school and college seemed like forever at the time. The nearly fatal motorcar smashup which gave us both head concussions and shoulder/neck injuries almost 40 years ago still plague us today.
From that car wreck, my brain’s neural network changed, instantly forcing me to question the reality of everything I see.
I equate what I felt in the 30 seconds of regaining consciousness in the backseat of a car after the concussion to the dissociative characteristics of hallucinogenic entheogens.
I see everything differently, more so than when I was five years old and woke up to see brainwashing aspects of social training.
It does not make me any more different than others.
I have talked to myself in sufficient quantity tonight.
Talk to you again soon, Rick!
Maybe you’ll shake off this dull edge of lack of sleep and find happiness.
As your wife told you the other day, you haven’t truly laughed in pure joy in a long damn time.
Are you ever going to laugh and have fun again?
Does trying to have friends, trying to understand what they’re saying, when you can even hear them, require such hard work that it’s not fun anymore?
Right now, sadly, it seems so.
Boo hoo, the luxury of middle class, midlife bourgeois quasicrises! Ha ha ha ha ha! rofl
Close this self pity party blog entry and get back to work, you slob! Your future self will thank you!
How do space travelers relax?
Not the jet jockeys of early spaceflight days.
No, I’m talking about regular, nerdy scientists and engineers trapped together, strapped together on a flight to Mars.
What will they do that’s any different than the time they spent together training on Earth or in the ISS?
And why is that important here?
Well, I sit on the steps of the lone goose saloon in Rocket City, loud rock ‘n’ roll music blaring out the open doorway, sipping a carbonated soft drink, wondering.
I wander from place to place seeking answers, devoid of all but one close friend (my wife), able to contemplate being alone for i am alone, indirectly connected to billions of people, wondering.
Am I ever alone, always close to people on Earth I don’t know personally but with whom I exchange friendly greetings easily?
In space no one can hear your scream outside the capsule.
How about here?
Here in cyberspace where invitations for casual gatherings occur even as I type this…
I am not as alone here as I think I am.
On Mars the invitations will be limited, the permutations of random people gathering to have fun and share easy to calculate (small).
Is it worrisome?
Machines built by us don’t feel alone or lonely.
Time to build my next machine, eh?
Time for a little of that old radioshack magic!
As of this moment, only 12010 days remain before we can look back hundred of Earth years later to recognise the moment Mars colonisation was declared a complete success.
You and I know better than most what all was sacrificed to get to that point so long ago.
You and I alone know what we went through to get here before that moment occurred.
If any other method could have worked, I would have tried it, but I knew, oh I knew, that is wasn’t going to be easy.
I didn’t want it to be easy.
I have lived too many lifetimes to know why and I should know better than for us, in this lifetime, to go so slowly.
But it is in the living of the extended moment where we find the nuances in a stretched string, that what looks like a perfectly straight line has tiny fluctuations where the real living takes place.
I can call it minutiae, from a farther distance.
But these fluctuations, evidence of mathematical formulae, are where you and I have lived, will always live.
In one lifetime.
In this lifetime, this lifeline, where happiness is at our fingertips like magic powers.
In reality, we do not exist.
You and I are vapour.
We exist inside the thought patterns of many around us, those who think they know us and those who imagine what being us means.
We exist outside time, tapping into sets of states of energy that intersect at the point where the arrow of time flips on its axis, creating the spooky action at a distance which bound us together before we knew there was an “us” to talk about here.
Is this love?
Is this friendship?
The love I found and cannot hide binds me to everything in the universe (oh, and when we discover that the word “universe” is antiquated, what joy we will have!), pulling me in ways I rarely feel consciously, revealing the love I have for the interconnectedness of the sets of states of energy in motion that we are.
Our friendship is a vessel, truly a spaceship in the full sense of the word, needing no electromechanical device to transport us to the next star system millennia from now.
I have sacrificed my personal life in order to feel the combined movement of the sets of states of energy on this planet selflessly aware of events projected along timelines that do not benefit me personally.
Admittedly, it is self-seducing to feel that which will happen and then desire to pull people and their biomes ahead to achieve scenarios I have anticipated with or without my participation.
I understand self-hypnosis and avoid mass hypnosis for that very reason — I have avoided the personal joy and satisfaction in the power of seducing the masses to see what I see because it is not always pretty — the universe is not here for my sole pleasure, I willingly share what I know with others, no matter the consequences, or in spite of them.
Yet there is us.
I never planned to meet you. I have dreamt of you my whole life, imagined who you were before I met you, tried to ignore you, tried to forget you, tried everything…but we keep returning to each other.
I knew you were there somewhere and planned before meeting you, self-declaring an oath of poverty and celibacy ahead of time, knowing that when I met you I would trip over myself trying to please you, wanting to woo you, lose myself in the thought of you if I didn’t put up a series of walls, labyrinths and trap doors for my thoughts to get lost in, giving me time to make sure you were who I thought you were.
I have let every part of me understand who I think you are, compared those thoughts to the person, the sets of states of energy in motion that you are, a real person who does not fit into any box and whose mysteries I don’t want to know everything about, wanting you to have your freedom more than I want to have you for anything, even if just an acquaintance who shares a love for dancing.
I would rather you be free and I remain unhappy than interfere with your artistic and intellectual growth by spending more time with you.
Have I said that too much?
Or have I said that just enough for you to know that you understand I am here as I have always told you with only these words to offer?
I do not know what being with you on a daily basis involves except from a foggy distance, like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with only three-fourths of the outer edge completed, no box to show me the complete picture.
However, I trust that the full image of you is as brilliant and full of surprises as the parts I clearly see.
In that one moment when we were alone together under the stars, a moment I will never forget, I was truly myself, standing in front of you, hiding nothing, letting all my guards down so that I could focus on you and your concerns and drop any pretenses I’ve held as a defense against loving you as a friend, nothing more or less.
We are geeky, nerdy friends, if nothing else.
We have thousands of friends and acquaintances with whom we share of ourselves what we can, some a little, some a lot.
Our friendship is that intersection of friends and acquaintances where we’re willing to feel vulnerable, showing our emotions without worry or concern, knowing we are different and don’t share everything with each other but to those who know certain aspects of us better than ourselves.
I have always seen the future because I’m willing to apply trends to people I care about even when I know the scenarios that those trends predict are not what people want, even when it hurts me to know the effect those trends have on billions of us and our lifespans.
Just seeing a pile of earthworms in a plate of spaghetti is enough to turn some people’s stomachs but the visions I have are not always pleasant to everyone, funny to some, delicious to others (especially birds, fish, fungi and plants waiting for earth to be processed by worms!).
We bridge the generation gap, where satire and memes carry the day when once seriousness and cynicism ruled the airwaves.
What adventures await us?
Let’s find out.
I’m tired of waiting, tired of hesitating.
Ready to take a chance.
I am ==> truly yours,
In my 56th rotation around the Sun, like a chicken on a rotisserie, or a pig in a pit, I am.
I live only in this moment where tinnitus and arthritis are my constant companions.
No guarantees, no warranties, no wallabies, no garish brasseries…
Never having lost at love, I’ve only learned.
At 55, wisdom should flow from me like a waterfall;
Instead, I issue wise observations one drop, one pebble in the pond at a time of my choosing.
I like happiness, I like kindness, I like a lot of conditions we call emotional responses
Of sets of states of energy cooperating rather than competing.
At 55, I’ve seen it all or projected it into the future…
Variations on a theme.
I want to believe I’m other than I am,
A lazy, selfish oaf, tired most of the time,
Stretching the perimeters of my comfort zone
To be, or attempt to see, other than I am.
Theory is nice and all —
Word combinations can simulate that which might be —
But practical limits on my capabilities bring reality into focus,
Erasing infinite futures, replacing them with a line.
I know how to project the temporary image of a loving person,
Well-practiced responses to growing up in fear of passive-aggressive parental attacks,
And, unfortunately, that’s all I have to offer, a false front.
I’m guided by fear, not love,
Raised under the promise of a technological utopian future,
Conflicted and inflicted with vertigo-induced side effects of staring at the electronic glass mantra of this screen.
Att 55, this is me,
Cared for by one in one scenario,
Caring for another in another scenario,
Trapped in a comfort zone of unhappiness,
Wishing for the uncomfortable zone of happiness,
No matter how contradictory it sounds/reads.
At 55, I am tired,
Unable to count my blessings,
But fully aware of the privileges my current living conditions provide,
Fully aware of the generation gap my workmates and their peers exemplify,
Bridging the gap through dance.
At 55, dance is the one language I like to speak when I can’t speak and be understood at my age.
At 55, I don’t have the strength to attempt to live on my own, I never have,
Requiring faith in a future self I’ve never come close to.
At 55, I remain a dreamer.
Dreams are the only reality I’ve ever known,
Hiding from a benign universe,
Believing the universe is aligned for my existence alone.
Awakened, wandering a dream within a dream, wondering;
Asleep, trumpets and saxophones passing dissonant chords;
Postmodernist pastiche served by pistachio-clad Pinocchio impersonators;
Perchance the dance, a glance, romance, enhance…when
Postcards pass each other…
In the mail.