A thinker with a drinking problem…

…or the other way around?

This is one of the hardest blog entries to write, a passel/gaggle of beer, Unobtanium style, wallowing in my stomach juices, leading the way.

There is, in this moment after watching “seeking a friend for the end of the world,” another moment within a moment, when cold medicine leads the way toward a tunnel vision where honesty meets the highway, the Internet highway (Al Gore not included with the likes of Vincent Cerf or others of cyber-hyper byways), that is, Celtic flutes warning me of moments stepping off the road, where in this silent moment of movie soundtracks I find myself leaning against a notebook PC writing words that’ll haunt me forever and a day afterward.

There is a muse, a dancing muse, by the name of Guinevere, who follows Thrush and Monica and Karen (a/k/a Janeil) along with Sarah/Sara and names that’ve paved a highway, pre-Internet (or post, depending on date of invention of the snippet of an idea of an inventor in someone’s womb), where sounds make no difference except in a language, or a discipline of savings, where neither Mandarin or any other makes any difference when one is focused on making, rather than spending, one’s labour/investment credits in a single species’ definition of survival traits on an indifferent planet in an unsensing solar system in a galaxy of possibilities of fermented improbabilities that Edgar Allan Poe would declare a likely story of insensibilities about lost loves and pickled livers.

There is, if memory serves, also Monasha, Sheree, Stacey and others at a diner in the burgh of Huntsville, Alabama, USA, who serve their customers with kindness without reserve.

Deeper still, there is this moment of silent contemplation, where a niece, Jana, and her deacon-ordained husband, Brian, celebrate the discovery of a gender we assign to newborne babes climbing out of wombs and into the worldwide web of the solar system beset by asteroids, solar flares, and traffic incidents recorded by friends such as Nathan who sees perps in every person who displays abnormal behaviour attributed to personality quirks unassigned to basic training in police procedures on policies approved by popularly-elected politicians.

All written in the fog of war.

Or sequestration.

Let me set the record straight.  I see the repetition of a species in competition with itself, in companies vying for limited government resources, who shall get the post-reductorio oratoria of the fat lady singing the swan song of uncompetitive companies incapable of getting the last brass ring of a merry-go-round and round and round of diminishing returns on the global scale of middle-class salesmenpeople telling you what’s best for your family as government coffers compete with private companies for your undivided attention.

As spinning/talking heads babble on unceasingly — baubles, bangles and beads [you know the melody] — one more time we’ll give you the mondo-rhythm, the hidden beat in the religious upbeat of a Bible/Bhagavad Gita/Islam oldtime religion (ignoring the new religion of Darwinism/global “One World Order” business) — let us divert ourselves one more time from our prime directives and tell it like it is.

A muse.

Amusing.

A Spanish dancer, a rocket guidance system expert, a missile thrust enthusiast, an Appalachian Trail hiker, a food lover (if not a liver player), a flautist, a Singapore Sling, a duck pond inhabitant, a person of independent means…

The list goes on and on.

We return to the story once again for the very first time, neither handwriting nor typewriting nor electronic interface getting in the way…

The cave stains leaving a mark immemorial…

Silence adds a break in the musical score for emphasis.

PDQ Bach, specifically.

Turning bad dancing into satire for fun’s sake.

In the light of the sun.

On a pretzel bun.

With mustard.

And extra salt.

Wax paper not included.

Rinse and repeat.

If you can follow the words, you’ve arrived here.

If not, avast virus database has been updated.

You are now back at the beginning.

AOL email and Amazon Kindle Singularity subscriptions not included.

Return to your dream, uninterrupted.

Good night!

A lack of secrets is freedom?

Now that more and more evidence appears to show our subcultural leanings are tied to genetic differences, is it wrong of me to say that I’m glad to leave well enough alone, live and let live/die, try not to convince those comfortable in their subculture(s) to read/believe anything I have to say?

And, similarly, don’t put down or belittle those unlike me because we are who are we, thanks to our parents and our environment?

If a person wants to be in control, let that person lead?

If a person is a paranoid schizophrenic type, then let that person have delusions of adversarial conspiracies to play back in thoughts/mind?

If a person is happy shouting religious statements, let that person enjoy the euphoria, no rationalising necessary?

I have been an empty vessel, willing to breathe in a new personality for the sake of feeling that person’s life, expressing that person in words that simulate actions such a person might take, given a different scenario to play out in the future, based on our habits of repeating the past by redressing the old to make it new again.

The habit of mine of appearing here almost every day follows the habit of writing down records of my thoughts and actions from about age five, much of it thrown away in 1985 for reasons I say are due to an unhealthy lifestyle at the time.

Otherwise, I am at peace with myself, never wholly satisfied but such is the life of a person who is a body that demands food, sleep and social contact as long as it is alive and relatively pain-free.

I end this meditative prayer of a blog entry for today, no longer pretending to have secrets to share/hide, secret/shadow organisations to pretend to perpetuate, or storyline to stretch across this virtual piece of paper.

I have come to the point in my life where I am content sleeping most of the day and waking up to dreams too strange, weird and fantastic to spend my conscious time writing about.

When one’s dreams are more fascinating than reality, regardless of electronified augmentation, then one like me has reached his state of self-actualisation, out of reach of retail shopping therapy, all-day social engagements, enemies to fear and/or galactic territories to conquer.

A happy little boy once again, safe in the thoughts of the sheltered life his parents provided during his formative years.

Amen. Peace be with you.

The hacks, they keep on coming — are you a “one hack” wonder?

When you want honey, do you make the bees angry before you pull out a piece of the hive?

The universe is here because I am here just like a paper cone is only paper until it is a speaker and what is a speaker without an audience?

Take two groups:

  1. The first group believes in the open and honest discussion of scientific methods.
  2. The second group believes in the civil discourse of sly competitiveness.

Both groups believe in the betterment of their respective societies/[sub]cultures.

However, a little problem occurs when one group uses the other’s subcultural norms for advantages within their own group.

Is it miscommunication?  Misappropriation?

How do they, together, benefit our whole species?

Because I believe the universe is here because I am here, I want, as long as I am happily able to think so, the species, our species, within our Earth-based ecosystem that has nurtured us for thousands, no, billions of years, to use this brief period of peaceful coexistence with the rest of the solar system to expand into the galaxy.

When I am gone, the universe is gone and none of this will matter to me because my set of states of energy as a recognizable entropic confluence will disperse but remain temporarily as memories in a small number of members of our species and even smaller number of members of other species, barely a footnote in the yellowed pages of old newspapers.

Does the universe make me happy as is?

I have learned that very few people change their behavioural patterns when allowed to wallow in their sorrow or anger, let alone convince other, happy, people to join them.

Yet, happiness for its own sake, like art and humour, does what, exactly?

If burning down a forest makes me happy, there will be a lot of people and members of other species who disagree, adamantly so.

If destroying an economy makes me happy, there will be a lot of people who agree as well as a lot who disagree.

What kind of happiness should we attain?

After all, we are a competitively cooperative species, sharing and hoarding, fighting and loving, all at the same time.

Our lives are short in length, some brighter and louder than others, some sadder, some happier, some kinder, some meaner, some in-betweeners.

Is there a shortcut to happiness that makes the universe beneficial to us all, regardless of our physical/mental condition(s)?

We are a nearly-fully connected species, the fractal spinoff of rudimentary central nervous systems, remodeling ourselves on bigger and bigger scales because we have no other workable model against which we positively compare ourselves within the known universe.

We talk about revolutionary and evolutionary changes in our socioeconomic activity on sub-sub-subcultural levels when the grand scheme hasn’t changed one iota: a species competing against itself because of a myopic view of the universe.

We realize, in rare glimpses, that we are part of the universe rather than living in an us-vs.-them scenario, “them” being you/self/God/universe/other.

Rather than bemoan, bedevil and punish people who hack computers/life/universe, let us look at the hacks from a species/universal perspective.

What am I gaining from those who circumvent my subcultural norms, the rules, both states and implied, that define me and the people happily living and perpetuating the subculture?

What am I losing, instead?

Can I turn the circumventers on their heads and reverse any damage they’ve caused?

How do I absorb the lessons they learned while they took/stole/[ab]used information from my open society?

Some people like clover honey and some people like sourwood honey.

How we get to the honey without disturbing the bees is the first step for any one of us to feed our wide variety of happy tastes and preferences.

Meditative Moment

As the fresh, raw feelings of loss subside, more days between now and the death of my father than a week or a month ago, as I grow stronger because I savoured and relished the emotional states that passed through my body, I face the future in these words, more than in drawn images or recorded sounds.

As ethnicities spread across the planet and mix, their subcultures subsequently subsiding, the global culture defines itself spontaneously.

How do languages and their speakers survive in a homogenising dough machine, the yeast rising, the bread ready-to-make in the oven of a world in transition?

Do you like the flavours in an “everything” bagel full of wheat, pepper, curry, onions, potatoes, garlic and salt?

Where once the survival traits of one’s gene set ensured early death due to birth defects, lactose intolerance and gluten allergies, the current cultural fixation is to cure us of our genetic abnormalities when normality is a moving target on a Möbius strip of the toroid of life.

One may feel full of God’s love and empty at the same time — the louder one has to shout the words of one’s religion, the less one is believed to have internalised their meaning.

Thus, one may hate the world and love the world simultaneously.

The intersection of subsets of thoughts may clash but innovation and invention arise from the need to mate incongruities into harmonious patterns.

Humour is a single part of an artist’s palette if one is free to express oneself free of coercive commercial interests intent on generating more income than debt.

When a population is mostly freed from survivalistic needs, can the population long survive while pursuing selfish interests in opposition to population [re]generation?

Where are the protectors of the faith that the world is full of purveyors of the emperour’s new clothes that must be declared unsavoury and unhealthy to sustain a population which wants to be around thousands of years from now?

Humour for humour’s sake is a fool’s folly.

Art for art’s sake is a loser’s game.

An uninformed populace will obey the uniformed police without reasonable cause to question authority.

What are we producing to improve our future?

Every day, I wake up and ask myself, “What am I doing today that I’m here for because I didn’t die or kill myself yesterday?”

Some days, I don’t have a good answer so I research the reasons and ask again, knowing I’ll find the tiniest part of me that I improve that day to better answer the question tomorrow.

Some days, I state a plain ol’ platitude, let it sit for a day and look at it from a different perspective the next day, learning most often that I never know everything that I think I did the day before.

One day, I’ll die if I don’t kill myself first when I’m an old man whose tunnel vision prevents him from seeing the car heading into his path as he turns to drive across oncoming traffic on the way to his favourite watering hole, assuming I’ll be driving an antique automobile not retrofitted to stop me from making a traffic mistake in the first place.

There are a lot of days in-between to see how I, despite the errors of myself within the subcultural training I received along the way, can get from here to the Moon, Mars and beyond, one set of states of energy in a population of seven billion and growing.

Last night, my team of subsubsubbasement scientists showed me a new gun they had invented that senses the emotional wellbeing of the shooter and locks the trigger until one’s emotional state of misplaced anger has been subdued with neutralising pharmaceuticals embedded in the gun’s grip, thus preventing many murderous acts of passion by firearms.

As my blog fades into obscurity…

[Thoughts after watching the movie “Robot and Frank,” which portrays a depressing image of my future?]

As my blog fades into obscurity, I go back over the sensations in me right now…

…the emptiness…

…the muscles and tendons shivering…

…the joints aching…

…looking at a clock which indicates 13,593 days until whatever I want to say is supposed to happen in that 24-hour period…

…glad I am happy being me, observing and reporting in an online diary the same way I have talked to myself since I was at least five years old…

…retiring at age 45, ready for my life to end at any moment, no more mountains to climb, or impossible dreams to make real.

I am a tired, old man, weary of the ways of our species, always left with just me to entertain myself in my thoughts at the end of every day.

If the universe is supposed to be a projection of my thoughts, then I can close down this movie theatre of my mind and say the show has run its course.

My desire for social engagement is limited by the boredom that quickly seeps into hearing yet another combination of people talking about their lives that I have experienced or heard in one form or another for over 50 years.

Why live any longer and watch my mind disappear, my body decay and my life at the mercy of professional caretakers, human and/or robot, who we can plug into each other’s lives as needed in socioeconomic interchange because our wealth, not our thoughts, define us?

If I’m merely the combination of trillions of cells, sets of states of energy in synergistic, symbiotic relationships temporarily, how do I let go of the “I” and disperse these states of energy into other sets and combinations?

If we can legalize abortion, then by extension we should legalize murder and suicide, should we not, because there’s nothing sacred about life anymore, is there, the wonders of the universe fading into the simple facts of rational scientific methods and erasable memories?

I am tired of participating in the competitive marketplace of ideas, tired of finding no one who agrees with my thought patterns, tired of being tired, tired of being tired of being tired, and ready to close this blog except I’ve pretty well memorized its location as a globally-accessible online diary I can get to just about anywhere so I might as well keep writing here in obscurity.

Out of obscurity and back in again — the definition of life?

Noting presence in the present

Today is a day when simply noting the presence of a self via a blog entry is sufficient.  Else, the self is unnecessary for the universe to exist — selfless, blameless, emotionless…happiness, content, at peace, more or less, saying neither hello nor goodbye to a set of states of energy in endless fluctuation.

Focus on what increases your happiness rather than what makes you mentally unhealthy. If a musician, politician, business/political leader, friend or family member bothers you, release your negative thoughts about that person and move on toward positive actions/goals that’ll make all of us healthier and happier in return.

Swapping Shop Talk at the Slop Shop

I sit alone upon a hill, green grass overhanging rock outcrops, a row of fence posts marching down the slope, their steps frozen in single file, held together by wire.

A few spring flowers push up out of the dead brown patches where cows once grazed and left their marks.

Hieroglyphic lichen patterns hold the landscape fast.

Cloud shadows flow across the hills and valleys below.

I am home.

Home am I.

Happiness and freedom far from the cabin in the woods.

Wandering the countryside.

Alive.

This is my universe, my place of rest, the activity of ions and atoms busy out of sight right here in front of me.

Relaxed.

A sunny breeze tickles the tops of grass stalks.

My steps disappear behind me and reappear in front of me.

Miracles.

Farmhouses in the distance.

Mirages.

When there is a world of choices, what in the world do I do?

[Personal notes. Feel free to skip.]

My mother turns 79 years young tomorrow, her first birthday without her husband nearby in 55+years.

When I get down to it, I have hundreds of social network connections, mainly revitalised via the Internet, but no one (no human) other than my wife with whom I communicate daily.

I verbally communicate with my mother on a weekly basis just as I had communicated verbally with my father and mother weekly when Dad was alive, although he and I communicated more frequently through email, trading “did you know…?” facts and jokes back and forth (with me having to remind him not to send NSFW jokes to my work email account or check Snopes before forwarding inaccurate “this is the truth because a friend of a friend told me so” emails).

My sister, her kids and my extended family communicate by randomly posting comments/photos on social networking software but I wouldn’t always call that a conversational form of communicating, somewhere between email and voice calls.

I have always enjoyed writing and was often accused by my employees of bombarding their inboxes with more email than they could read so they’d set up a special folder called “Rick/Boss” that they knew were emails from me they could read at their leisure.

I guess I was a professional email composer if not a professional writer/author.

After retiring from an office job as an engineering manager, I sat down and completed a few books that had grown or festered in my thoughts during business trips around the world.

I finished writing the books I wanted to publish before I died, one of them reaching the “Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award” semifinal level along with a review by Publishers Weekly, achieving my goal of a professional book review, no matter how good/bad (or somewhere in-between), and ended up here as a journalist/diarist in the form of a daily blogger.

Now, I have reached a point, well into the second half of my life, where exploring writing styles is of less interest.

I am comfortable writing at a level understood by those proficient in reading a variant of the English language.

Could I sit here the next 50 years of my life and do this day after day?  Yes, I could.  Possibly.  But do I want to?

Well, that’s why I’m here today.

I have played with computer technology for most of my life.  My formative years, not so much, unless you count battery-powered electromechanical toys as rudimentary computing devices because computers were mainframe monstrosities that my father used at work and I saw on television so it influenced my thoughts but was not part of my everyday life like kids today with computers in every room of their house as smartphones, smart TVs, smart appliances, smart homes, smart cars, smart toys, and PCs/tablets.

I tinkered with open source software, programming computers like a handbuilt Intel 8085 system in the 1970s, the Timex-Sinclair 1000 in the 1980s and so forth up to the Arduino in the 2010s.

I’ve played with a variety of operating systems in the process.

I post blog entries from iOS, Windows, Linux, and Android, for instance, but not in that order of frequent use.

I am used to a QWERTY keyboard but have tried a one-handed Matias keyboard and the DVORAK keyboard layout.

I am not used to thumb typing on a smartphone but have grown accustomed to swiping and pinching on a smartphone/tablet screen.

I observed the set of shorthand acronyms that first grew popular in BBS chatrooms and moved on to SMS but I never used them extensively myself.

I’ve watched minitrends of communication styles come and go in social media on the Internet over the last two decades, just like they bloomed and died in newspapers, pamphlets and magazines for hundreds of years, and wall art/graffiti for millennia.

With less than 50 years of my life left, statistically at this point in the affordable body rejuvenation market, what do I want to do with the rest of my life?

Do I have any skills the world wants and/or I want to share with the world?

Are there any new skills I want to develop?

Can I conservatively live on my accumulated wealth within the socioeconomic web I have financially supported and expect to be rewarded in kind as I grow older?

My days of listening to and buying [into] every pop culture product out there are behind me or fading away.

Or so I think because I look around me and see that the food I eat, the clothes I wear, the bed I sleep in, the computers I use, the cars I drive and the TVs I watch are covered with labels of commercially popular brands.

In other words, either I am comfortable with the brands I use or the brands are neutral/unimportant for the types of products I buy at a reasonable cost for my lifestyle/standard of living.

I am frugal to some extent but not extremely so.

I am content eating a banana and a handful of potato chips for lunch but I will just as easily go out and spend $100 on a meal if I’m in the mood.

My wife and I average a new car every 10 years for her daily driver.  My primary vehicle is a 1995 model, a BMW, not a Kia.

The fact that we own and drive cars says a lot about our standard of living and expectations, along with a digital cable TV subscription, Internet data subscription, landline phone subscription, wireless smartphone subscription, and monthly bills for food, entertainment, electricity, water and garbage pickup.

We don’t pay country club or homeowner association fees.  We don’t belong to a wellness or exercise center of any sort.  We don’t rent furniture or appliances on a weekly basis, either.

We are two people, two cogs, in the wheel of life we call civilisation.

Soon, we shall have no more responsibilities for my wife’s ancestral connections, leaving my mother as the sole responsibility for a child to his/her parents, although my sister shares the responsibility.

If I throw everything away in this room — from the computers (TI-99/4A, Timex-Sinclair 1000, Macintosh II, Mac Plus, Macintosh 6100/66, iMac, Kaypro 2000, etc.) to the toys (model rockets, balsa wood airplanes, plastic model car kits, Hot Wheels cars, Pinewood Derby cars, stuffed animals) to the books (college textbooks, novels, comic books, business books, instruction manuals, how-to guides, coffee table books, ruled notebooks (both empty and used)), posters, photo albums, framed pictures, furniture, boxes of miscellaneous junk, etc. — will my wife and I be free to lengthen our list of choices?

When there is a world of choices, what in the world do I do next?

Go Criticize Your Own Subculture, S’il Vous Plait!

From an anthropological standpoint, every subculture is important to me because, as we know, it takes a group of dissimilar subcultures to perform more genius activities than a single genius or group of subculturally-similar genies (of course, not every genius is a genie but is every genie a genius?).

Therefore, it behooves me to celebrate the diversity of subcultures of our species on this planet rather than put down or try to tear down subcultures that are not like mine.

Subcultures, like languages, will languish if not nourished or nurtured.

I add value to my belief in a positive place for my subculture in the future by showing rather than telling.

On to the future!!!