In every life a little reign must fall…

Quality versus quantity of life…how do we qualify the ideas in that statement?

My father has been both the idol and the rival in my life.  I idolised my father — admiring his ability to make strong, manly decisions and not question what might have been.  I competed against him in mental games and intellectual pursuits.

My father has also been my friend, sharing interests such as motorsports (NASCAR, IndyCar, F1), balsa airplane models, classical music and spy novels.

In this stage of our relationship together, we approach the statement “quality versus quantity of life.”

I am not my father’s sole friend and vice versa.

We have age-appropriate relationships with our peers, my father having collected more friends through his life that is 27 years longer.

My father’s level of daily health has exhibited drastic changes in the last few months, indicating a downward trend that, combined with a new diagnosis, implies a decline with less change for improvement.

We approach a state of being labeled the “locked-in syndrome.”

Over the past few days, I’ve slowly approached the completed reading of a book titled “An Optimist’s Tour of the Future” which explains in layperson’s terms the current state of the state-of-the art, including genetic life extension research.

Looking at my father, a professor no longer able to profess or postulate, I wonder, will he accept his new role as a leader in the field of patient-based testing, putting the latest control assistive technology, such as NeuroSwitch, through critical pacing?

How does a locked-in brain use the power of seven, bunching shortterm/temporary memory lists of seven groups [(of seven groups of) of seven groups of…] seven items, to develop its image of the future?

Finally, how does that impact quality versus quantity of life for my father’s relationship with his buddies, his wife, his daughter, his grandchildren and, last but not least, me?

As my father’s reign over the family appears to end, what legacy of hope does my father want to give those whose lives are no longer attached to their heady days of physical activity and demonstrative speaking/arm-waving skills?

Does he have the desire to learn new skills in order to achieve something he never thought or never knew possible, operating electromechanical devices through the tiniest of nerve impulses to add data for improving the next generation of prosthetic devices that may one day lead to a brain of our species residing in a cybernetic/android “suit”?

A Slew of Gratitudes

Behind in my thanks: Cassia, Amy, Ashley, CAT, Dr. Patel, Katlyn, Dr. Keane, Dr. [Woody] Reeves, Jeremy, Stephanie, phlebotomy crew, Brandi, Lynn (dietitian), Tamma, care team (Susan, Larry), Dr. Mohsen, Lisa, Deborah, nursing students (Amanda, Lynn, Jared), Dr. Sullivan, Ravonna, Dr. MacDonald, PJ…Seaver Donuts…more to follow… 

Time Share

While computing quantum computer computations, the Committee today announced a joint agreement between major professional sports organisations and carpark services.

From now on, tickets to a sporting event are leased an on hourly basis only.

For instance, those attending American football events such as an NFL game may lease an assigned seat for up to two nonconsecutive quarter periods, but not the first and fourth, first and third, or first and first (figure out the last conundrum on parchment paper, preferably highly-combustible flash paper near a blast furnace).

In a motorsports event such as a Sprint Cup NASCAR race, tickets will be issued on either a per wreck or per time-period basis, as well as both.  One may use a seat for up to three wrecks in any fifteen-minute period, or three laps, whichever comes first.  No refunds for snoozefests.

Carparks may remove vehicles occupying a carpark space greater than 50% of the time length of a sporting event, towing vehicles to impound lots on the other side of the ocean via moldy cargo carriers, stowed behind impenetrable chainlink fences and guarded by dogs impervious to taser attacks.

Meanwhile, SpaceX has announced that, contrary to popular belief, Miss Baker‘s cryogenically-preserved body had not been fused with the DNA of Merkozy to create the lab specimen Francois Hollande allegedly planned for a secret launch to the ISS for the first orbital celebration of a French citizen taking office without getting elected or giving rivals the guillotine while smoking nicotine and drinking Ovaltine outside the Oval Office.

On a personal note, thanks to the cast of billions supporting my father’s health change adventure.  May the moral of this story (or the storal of this mory) be a tale worth regaling with humorous (or “humour us!”) afterthought, aftertaste and a sweet aroma of eau du backwash.

More as permits time (or Kermit mimes).

because i am speechless, i’ll let history tell its own story for now…

A Bit of Sports History from Lou Gehrig, himself:

“Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break I got. Yet today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

 

“I have been in ballparks for 17 years, and I have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans. 

 

“Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn’t consider it the highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day? 

 

“Sure I’m lucky. Who wouldn’t have considered it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert; also, the builder of baseball’s greatest empire, Ed Barrows; to have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins; then to have spent the next nine years with that outstanding leader, that smart student of psychology, the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy?  Sure, I’m lucky. 

 

“When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice versa, sends you a gift, that’s something. When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in white coats remember you with trophies, that’s something.

 

“When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles against her own daughter, that’s something. When you have a father and mother who work all their lives so that you can have an education and build your body, it’s a blessing. When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed, that’s the finest I know. 

 

“So I close in saying that I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for. Thank You.”

I have a lot of people to thank, commend, comment on, analyse, etc., but now is not the time for written words.  Now is the time to live them!

When an artificial hand cuts off your finger…

Wow!  Now I know what it means when the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.

I was tweaking some code in the Arduino servo subroutine to pull a thumb and forefinger together, totally missing the fact that the artificial hand had decided to pick up an X-ACTO knife on its own initiative.

Well, you can guess what happened.  I’m using my one-handed keyboard from Matias to complete this blog entry.

As soon as my iPad 3 arrives, I’ll download the half-keybd app to write the next blog entry while my scientists regrow a pinky finger for me, with nearly identical prints to the one that’s no longer attached.

But now is not the time to count the number of confessed Democrats who switched sides and voted for Rick Santorum in the Tennessee election yesterday, led by famed anarchist XYZipper, a part-time paid volunteer for pharmaceutical test labs, whose intake of every failed drug has turned the anarchist into a genderless zombie unable to feel sympathy and thus willing to vote willynilly, as the wind blows or the politicos crow.

I exchanged texts with him earlier this morning:

ME: Yo, it’s me.

XYZipper: Yo, me. is it really me or are you someone else?

ME: It’s me.

X: Whoaa…i’m tawking to myself again.

ME: Maybe. Say, you voted yesterday?

X: I did?

ME: That’s what local news outlets reported.

X: Kewl. What does voted meen?

ME: You got in line with people and selected names on a ballot.

X: Oh, yeah.  Did i win?

ME: Win?

X: Yeah, that was lottery ticket, right?  Powerball’s up to $300 m, ain’t it?

ME: A lottery to some, not you.

X: I didn’t win?

ME: No.

X: So thinking I selek names insted of numbers don’t werk in the lotto?

ME: No.

X: Bummer.  Hey, u wanna score some weed?  I gotta pay rent.

ME: No thx.  CU later.

X: Bye.

What can I say that XYZipper didn’t say already?  With his mohawk haircut and totally tattooed body, he could probably win any number of elections, except where adverts blast the airwaves with “I’m more conservative than myself.”

Gotta go.  The scientists have rigged my solar-powered pinky with a laser cutter and ad-hoc wireless hub that I requested.  Let’s see if it fits!

Flashback: Forever Lost

Forever Lost

I will always be attracted to someone like you. At the same time I will be repelled by your inadequacies, your humanness. I sit down to write, though, and I only think of you, you who is a reflection of me, a human, yet never completely like me because you are human. How can I ask you to be perfect?

If you stood in front of me right now, I would consume you like a can of soft drink, sucked dry and discarded. You would only provide temporary relief from my thirst and then I would want another. I consume you now, burning my thoughts of you to fuel the writing machine within my head.

You have lived a thousand years in one moment. You blinked your eyes and Rome fell. In one heartbeat, your children gave birth to a hundred generations. Yet . . . yet, yet, yet . . . yet you have one life to share with me, one life of remorse and forgiveness, regrets and love, a life filled with pain unbearable to look at. I want to have all of your pain, not because I want to relieve your burdens but to squeeze them in my hand and watch stories drip out one by one. I am mad with desire.

And don’t think you can run away from me. Once I have reached you, and you know I have, you will always cart me along with you like a monkey on your back. I won’t weigh you down but you will feel my presence all the same. You’ll cringe your neck muscles every time my hot breath creeps down you like a tentacle, feeling for a limb or appendage to grasp. You’ll relax your muscles when I whisper in your ear that I love you. You will love me and hate me.

I never worry about losing you because you are always there for me. Your name is different this time but I don’t care. You will give me what I want – a fleeting moment of humanity – and then I reduce you and our relationship to mere words. Don’t underestimate the humility of words, either. If you think you can escape unscathed then you have not lived. After all, life is painful.

I never lose you but I will miss you when I have used you and our shared moment of humanity is gone. Even now, I sense the emptiness inside of me swell up and beg for escape. I have to fill the emptiness or I have no choice but to die. I will not allow myself to die so I must take a part of you.

I cannot allow myself to live. Other people deserve to live their lives without fear of people like me, a leech.

“I believe we’ll have to commit him indefinitely this time,” the examining doctor told her. “He seems unable to separate fantasy from reality.”

“Can you snap him out of this?  He still has moments where he seems normal.”

“Only time will tell.”

Time stands still at the corner, waiting for the bus. Cliché walks up and asks how long Time has been waiting. “Seems like forever,” he says, shaking his head. Cliché decides to walk on, he has had enough of the watered down years of standing on street corners and telling tall tales.

In the end, we’re all clichés for living.

I cannot help myself. I reject you with one sweep of my hand because I can never have you. I have nothing and hate myself for thinking any different. I am but a collection of entropy states swirling together.

Stratford-on-Avon

Or is that Anon[ymous] on Stratfor?  We aren’t telling!

We, the hackers who work for the Committee Chairman who usually authors these blog entries, have figured out his lame password (as if MostAwesomest#1EnglishWriter isn’t one of the most common passwords out there!).

While he’s off moping about lost loves and such emotional crap, here’s our funny picture of the day, titled,

SCIENTISTS CREATE ZOMBIE, MAKE HER A MEMBER OF THE U.S. CONGRESS

In science news today, a rogue lab released secret information that it had successfully created the world’s first verifiable political zombie and posted this image as positive proof:
The White House has sent staff from the NSA, TSA, DHS and Hamburger U to affirm or deny this amazing story.
 
Meanwhile, the esteemed constituents of Maloney’s U.S. House district wonder if they’ve been fed baloney, instead of the official meat byproducts they’ve learned to eat without tasting and call it delicious pastrami.
 
Little do they know the meat byproducts are actually the ingredients of an ancient voodoo recipe used to create zombies the old-fashioned way.
 
The Centers for Disease Control will release a statement as soon as its advance team can get past all the hot air and piles of [bleep] surrounding the U.S. Capitol building to investigate the start of what appears to be a scientifically-created zombie invasion.

Flashback, courtesy of my father, Dad

Real football -- no pads!

What do you see in a photo?

My father sees his 1966 Chrysler station wagon.

I see my racing bike which could leap over dirt ramps.

A doctor sees my broken wrist and cast.

Who sees the fashionable pants?

Who sees the helmet and cleated shoes?

The brick wall?

The potted plant?

The cracked sidewalk?

The jersey?

The window shutter?

The type of photo paper?

The date?

What else do you see in this nine-year old boy staring back at you, unable to play football because of a plaster-of-paris cast?

Usted es un colombiano experto en SEO, ¿no? Por lo tanto, hermanos, os encomiendo.

Here lies an outlier

As we get to know more and more about each other, we will grow more comfortable accepting each other’s subcultural differences, appreciating how the definition of success can vary so widely that it almost seems impossible seven billion varieties point to the same thing: our species’ survival and growth.

Yes, it includes fear, crime, ecosystem disasters, economic failures and myriad ways in which the universe we live does not always point toward our survival and growth.

Dust particles — small fibers, short hair, unidentifiable tiny, twisted objects — seemingly oblivious to gravity, float through a beam of sunshine propped up between the writing desk and the dirty window.

A few days ago, I visited with some friends whose father recently died.  My friends and I had spent a few years together in primary and secondary school over 30 years ago.  One friend I hadn’t seen in at least 35 years.

Needless to say, we knew little about one another except what we have seen in the past couple of years while sharing space on a computer server farm spread across data centers around the world dedicated to an online social media website called facebook.

In other words, we had little to say to each other in person that we didn’t already know, or should have remembered seeing in our online personality profile.

The moment was there for comfort at the time of loss of the family patriarch.

Soothing words.

Fond memories of our youth spent under the guidance of a chemical research/sales engineer and literal/figurative father figure.

I cough, sending dust particles on a swirling dance out of and back into the sunlight, which then disappears with clouds passing overhead, reappearing a few minutes later at a new angle, attached to the bright, yellow glob amidst the blue-painted dome high above.

An airplane swoops and circles the patch of sky nearby, making the sounds of the television playing a movie called “The Longest Day” seem live and in real 3D viewing/listening closeness.

After visiting with the friends, my wife and I returned to her mother’s house, continued our sorting through physical reminders of my wife’s mother, father and brother, all deceased.

My wife’s nuclear family is no more, except in her memories.

Her brother’s widow and children still live.  She has cousins spread around the globe.  And her family by marriage — my blood relatives, including nuclear family (father, mother, sister), as well as extended family (nieces, nephew, cousins, aunt, uncle, etc.).

My friends’ father lived for 84 365-day, 24-hour cycles around our local star.

As the planet spun, my friends’ family influenced those they met, all of them tied to Earth by gravity, the curvature of spacetime, we surmise.

We can see the familial influence through the eyes of the intersection of sets of states of energy, adding meme upon meme, including the word “meme,” to build physical representations of ideas like “idea,” to arrive at the point where schoolmates meet 30+ years later to reminisce about a few years spent in growing up together toward adulthood.

Did any of the dust particles floating in the air at the church where, due to one death, we met to talk about good times in childhood attach themselves to me and then re-enter the airspace in the sunbeam not far from this computer?

What about the particles I can’t readily see, such as water molecules, bacteria, dead skin cells or other microscopically miniscule minutiae?

We are connected in ways we rarely take time to notice, if we can see the connections at all.

How do I explain a blog post composed only of pictures to a blind person who uses a Braille keyboard and automatic audible reader?

How do I explain wireless radio pathways between a notebook computer and wireless router to people who can’t feel or don’t communicate signals at a wavelength of 0.125 m or about 5 inches?

Although… you know, some people say they can feel 2.4 GHz radio waves and other phenomena they claim causes them radiowave/EMF sickness.

But let’s get back to the global story of our lives, where financial gurus want to prop up a system that is no longer a viable connection between the macro and microeconomic levels…