An ordinary walk on an ordinary day…

Where shall one find peace in the midst of chaotic violence?

How shall one shed the labels and symbols of one’s youth in order to move into a comfort zone?

Should one consider questions such as “Am I better off now than I was four years ago?”

If the answer is no, then what?  If yes, what then?

Desperate times call for desperate measures, the saying goes.

What if the times are just so-so, not good, not bad, just malaise and blasé rolled onto bland dough?

What of the longterm plans to populate celestial spheres with Earth-based lifeforms?

What of other plans not documented here?

Where will the storyline take us next?

Mexican warlords directing drug mules to attack and destroy American police stations kamikaze style?

Roving gangs of rogue police officers no longer beholden to upholding the law, having no pensions or medical coverage to prop up their lack of loyalty to authority, using the disguise of their uniforms to spread chaos and violence in once peaceful sub/ex/urban environs until their demands are met?

What about advances in science not covered by pop culture mass media outlets?

How do we train a whole species to reduce consumption in order to push potential catastrophic crop failure effects farther into the future?

Order and chaos — the classic dynamic dichotomy.

Extra ordinary today and that is okay.

Ahh…there’s a tug on the leash.  Time to go.

Happy 26th anniversary to wife and self.  Hard to believe we met in summer church camp 38 years ago!

Paraphrased bumper stickers of the day

I think these are what I saw on the back of a vehicle:

“In a perfect world, a guy could fix his relationships with duct tape and WD40.”

“A real job interferes with my plan for world domination.”

Thus, my thoughts are swayed by ink patterns on a piece of plastic backed with removable adhesives.

Miranda and Angelique have slimmed their figures.

Melissa is tutoring.

And I, at 50, am trying to find a place in the world where I can sit back, letting the next generation figure out what to do with our species’ place in the universe.

I have decided not to vote in the next nor any following election that my political districts have available to me.

No longer do I care about political issues that may or may not affect/effect my existence as a node in a social network.

Public/social medical funding doesn’t matter to me.

Public military project funding doesn’t matter to me.

Oil/gas/coal extraction doesn’t matter to me.

Environmental caretaking doesn’t matter to me.

Political office seekers do not matter to me.

From my years of experience, nothing in politics matters to me.

The issues that concern me are outside the influence of politics.

The freedom to enjoy my freedoms is mine to call what I want, free from the wants/needs/pleas of others.

I cared about the environment because my grandmother was such a strong believer in flower arranging and the Federated Garden Clubs.  She’s dead so I no longer have to pretend to care about flowers, flora, fauna or environmental issues of any kind.  If my drinking water is polluted and I die younger than I might have otherwise, so be it.

I cared about the military and spy books/movies because my father and my father’s [nonbiological] father, as well as my seventh great-grandfather, served and supported the military.  My sister’s husband still actively serves in the military and my wife works for a military government contractor so my level of noncaring is lifted just above zero for their sake.  Otherwise…zip.

I drive/ride in motorised vehicles and use electricity at home (I wouldn’t be here without it) so, despite my nonplussed attitude, I support, through marketplace activities, the oil/gas/coal/hydroelectric/solar/wind/geothermal industries.  Otherwise…nicht.

My deceased brother in-law worked for NASA as a physicist so I supported space exploration for his sake.  As the pain of his early death passes from my current emotional state, my support of space exploration wanes.

These are the steps I take to free myself from the influences of my youth and the influences of the youth of those who’ve gone on before me.

I/you can see that as long as I participate in our market/economy, I physically support activities that I disagree with philosophically (or for which I’ve stopped supporting mentally).

Compromises are a regular part of who I have been and continue to be.

My death is mere decades away — let me enjoy my remaining days without interference from those with whom I no longer agree or align.

If you have a cause célèbre to advertise, feel free to pursue in front of someone else’s face — I am not interested.

I have heard enough of my species that I am happy talking to myself here day after day, sometimes imagining these stories are written for the raccoons in the attic, the squirrels chewing on the side of the house or the spiders in the front seat of my car, even if they’ll never understand a blog entry I’ve written.

My mother’s motto, if she has consciously thought of one, has always been along the lines of “Don’t do anything that’ll make the neighbours talk about you.”

My father is dead but my mother is still alive.  It is time to give attention to her unofficial motto.

Let me find some quiet place where I can read a book, watch TV, surf the ‘Net and relax here in obscurity.

I first voted in 1980.  The last time I ever voted was in 2010.

Happiness is being happy with myself in this moment.

Happiness is an imaginary set of thoughts.

I am happy; thus, I am a figment of my imagination, a physical fact, a fragment of this corner/center of the universe.

Just like labels on a piece of plastic plastered to a plastic bumper.

13,772 days to go, give or take in the give-and-take of a tree bending with the wind, its roots slowly dying.

If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands…

If you are a salmon swimming upstream, a grizzly bear tries to take a bite out of you, you slip out of its mouth and die before spawning, would you think your life had any meaning as your body parts decompose and feed multiple non-bear lifecycles?

What about the soldier who committed suicide before reproducing himself?

Or the young girl ridiculed at school who steps in front of a subway train?

Or the farmer who died of a heart attack in the field with ten children to feed?

What about a planet full of fossils but no living beings at this time?

In other words, do we have to give meaning to or put everything in context with our current civilisation?

I have added seven more books to my collection, books which belonged to my father and my great-uncle:

  • The Armored Forces of the United States Army, (c) MCMXLIII by Rand McNally, foreword by Brigadier General David G. Barr, General Staff Corps
  • The Coast Artillery Corps of the United States Army, (c) MCMXLIII by Rand McNally, foreword by Major General J. A. Green, President, U.S. Coast Artillery Association
  • Recruit Handbook, published and distributed for recruits at the Naval Training Center, San Diego, California, 1941 (?), owned by G.T. Green 567-70-46, a word of welcome by R. S. Haggart, Commodore, U.S. Navy Center Commander
  • Mathematics, Volume 1, Basic Navy Training Courses, NAVPERS 10069-A, published by United States Government Printing Office: 1951, owned by Porter (rank unknown)
  • Watch Officer’s Guide, by Captain Russell Willson, United States Navy, published by United States Naval Institute, Annapolis, Maryland, 1941
  • Same as above, formerly owned by Ensign Paul F. Glynn, given to my father
  • The Bluejackets’ Manual, United States Navy, 1940, Tenth Edition, published by United States Naval Institute, Annapolis, Maryland, 1940

Everywhere I turn in research of my father’s material, I find war memorabilia.

My father never let WWII out of his thoughts.  Further, his Army service during the Cold War gave him fluency in the German language as well as a group of lifelong friends.

My father read spy novels and enjoyed watching John Wayne movies, which reminded him of his youth, going to the theatre on Saturday to watch serialised cowboy movies.

Soon, I will run out of Dad’s material to rummage through.

Then, I will have my mother to spend more time with.

I will not worry about dangling modifiers or prepositional phrases that my father, a professor of 20+ years, taught me to pay attention to.

Days spent with my father are as gone as living beings that became fossils on another planet, with no one to tell their tale.

I only have this moment to call my own.

My nieces and nephews will have a few memories of their uncle that became part of their narratives they pass on now and in the future.

Every day, I gain a bit of wisdom, creating an insight from my observations.

What have I gained from today?

My grandfather and his brother in-law (my great-uncle) both served in the U.S. Navy during WWII — the former remaining a career sailor, the latter returning to civilian life as a U.S. Postal Inspector.

My father, a youth at that time, had plenty of heroes to call his own — war heroes, film heroes — because he was, in part, making up for the lack of his biological father.

In my youth, who were my heroes?  Richard Nixon and his staff, my father, my Scout leaders, some of my teachers, actors who played James Bond, Euell Gibbons, Alfred Hitchcock, Robert Rodale, Red Skelton, and others.

I didn’t have any war heroes.  The Vietnam War was not the type of engagement that the mass media used to create heroes for kids.  We learned about heroes of other wars like George Washington, Sergeant York and General Patton.  We watched protest marches and heard about European terrorist groups like the Red Brigade and American criminals like the Symbionese Liberation Army.

The battle for my set of thoughts was fought not in terms of Axis vs. Allies but cocaine-filled discotheques fueled by bands like the Bee Gees and Donna Summer vs. Boy Scout campfire songs and summer church camp singalongs.

The clash of subcultures continues unabated.

In 1,000 years, the fossilised remains of today’s subcultures will be studied for the minute traces of continuity between one time period and another.  Genealogical institutes will try to connect heroes of the past to common people wanting a feeling of blood-related significance.

The cycles go on and on.

What kinds of songs are we teaching our children?  Singalong songs that were the pop culture tunes of their day or modern songs that reflect the tastes of today?

More importantly, are we creating heroes that our children will continue to admire in their senior years, long after we’re gone?

Do we have to have heroes to give meaning to our lives?

Do we have to have children to leave a legacy and/or do we have to leave a legacy at all, knowing we’re always part of the multiple lifecycles of the universe?

Do Corporations Feel Pain?

During my status as a member of the corporate world, I observed behaviours that are grouped under the heading, ETHICS (imagine big echo in a cavernous chamber: ethics-ics-ics-ics…).

During my status as a person contemplating the universe from the comforts of a cabin in a suburban forest, ethics have become meaningless.

Banks feel no pain when they pay fines for bad ethical behaviour.

Same for monoculture crop dominating corporations when they allow food prices to escalate due to poor seed/crop/farm management practices.

We know that being a politician is a life of questionable ethics to begin with.

These — all of the statements above — are meaningless statements in the ever-evolving global economy.

People of marginal moral behaviour are acting to stay ahead of societal/cultural curbs on borderline criminal activity.

What are ethics?  I do not know but I can guess.

Is it my duty to require those around me to conform to a specific set of characteristics in order to interact with me?

If a corporation is not a person and cannot feel pain (or any emotion tied to our species), how can I train, educate, convince or coerce the corporation to put my species first and profit second?

The people who run and/or work for corporations are responsible for the activities of the corporation.  They may convince themselves that phrases like “code of ethics” and “corporate citizen” protect themselves in the name of the corporation.

We may convince ourselves that the marketplace regulates corporate behaviour, if corporate citizens do not or government agencies cannot, due to lack of jurisdictional authority, for example.

While observing life on another planetary body, I laugh at the ways we’ve convinced ourselves we are an advanced civilisation because we’ve found/reinvented new methods to teach each other to conform to so-called standards of behaviour in the form of ethics and morals.

We are puppies chasing our tails, going ’round in circles, too dizzy to see what’s really going on in our quest to perpetuate the species.

When I run out of things to do on this planet but there’s no easy way to leave, what’s next to occupy my time?

Observing our behaviour in order to impress my father is no longer an option for me, personally.

This transition in my life is hard to describe in a blog entry without resorting to childish habits of lashing out in pain and anger.

Instead, I sleep long stretches of the day, not worrying about whether I wake up, happy to see sunshine, rain, clouds, heat and cold in equal measure.

To see the past, present and future as one has taken me to this point.

We live in one galaxy — there are thousands, millions, billions more galaxies to imagine how semi-autonomous beings like ourselves live.

We can imagine that other beings are more advanced than we and have solved (or not solved) ecological resource allocation issues, assuming a level of behaviour we call intelligence.

Every part/activity of the universe may be said to have had its moment to exist in a unique condition — hydrogen, helium, water, fission, igneous, comet, cupid, tree.

My life, no matter how long, is the briefest of time.

I exist in comparison to everything else that is distinct from the stimulus/response barrier that separates me in the moment from the rest of the universe.

I cannot see my breath.  I cannot see my skin cells dying.  I do not see the change in my brain’s set of neuronal pathways.

“I” is a limited observational machine, neither omniscient nor omnipresent.

Therefore, I do not know everything even if I can assemble a team of people and a large set of resources to compute probable futures based on possible pasts.

Words that are meaningless today: I, corporation, morals, ethics, time.

Without meaning, pain does not exist.

Without pain, we do not exist.

Existence is a made-up word.

The illusion of this blog entry ends now

A good quote is like a good wine — a matter of good taste.

“Between safety and adventure, I choose adventure.” — Craig Ferguson [recently]

“If God made us in His image, we have certainly returned the compliment.” — Voltaire, Le Sottisier

“Faccio sempre le mie stesse strade” [I always make my own roads] — Coleen Monroe [recently]

“Peter Higgs, the British physicist, who, as you’ve no doubt recently become well aware, was himself the originator of the concept of a particle now known as the HIGGS BOSON.  Mr. Higgs was once married, to an American Linguistics lecturer named Jody but, after he became somewhat famous, she divorced him, feeling that he was excessively absorbed in his career. My contribution to this story is the thought that she didn’t want to become known as the HIGGS BOSON’S MATE.” — Ashleigh Brilliant

Ai, Ai, cap’n!

There are many ways to starve an opponent and almost all of them require patience while the opponent burns through reserves.  Who is your opponent, what is the opponent’s reserves and do you have patience?

When one has millions of years to make a single decision, all the local noise becomes nonsense, even when one is dragged into the drama, the trauma and the “je ne sais quoi” of so-called daily living.

The rush from the crib to the bridge where one can feel the ship change direction when one turns the wheel, and thus the rudder, is such a tiny space of time that one forgets details that were important at the time.

The next storyline begs for its entry from offstage.

Droite?  Gauche?  Les notions de droite et de gauche renvoient à une opposition en politique mais, aussi, le théâtre et la scène.

Two suitors compete for the same target of their affection.  Who will starve whom?  Who is willing to bow out, to lose graciously, to achieve the goal of which one’s affection is just a stepping stone, a waystation, a port of call?

When a goal is more important than one’s happiness, emotions are removed from the equation.

When the equation is free of emotion, one can see variables that may or may not play to one’s advantage.

When one cares not for advantages, the equation reveals its answer, how it balances, what it means when time is irrelevant.

The same way that one double quotation mark makes no sense without a second, completing the set.

They are just symbols, are they not?

What does this mean to you?: “=”

Emoticon? An equation? An ironic statement of what the equals sign means? ASCII characters? One of the world’s simplest quotes, translatable into just about every language?  A nonsense statement?

Time for another nonsense story…plenty of time before the next decision has to be made and revealed, which opponent will starve in the process.

If only predicting the future was the same as making the future…sigh…the subtleties…he who laughs, lasts, and that’s all that matters, n’est pas?

How many Finns have finished fins päädyssä “le fin”?

While I wait for an inspiration to hit me or simply rub up against me and go, “Me now!,” I wait.

I wait for a style, a period, an influence, to work its magic upon my video clips of a trip to Alaska.

I have given up wanting a lead candidate to get my vote, now that the two leading candidates for U.S. President have declared themselves alike and equally adept at being either a wolf in sheep’s clothing or a sheep in wolf’s clothing as the situation requires.

C’est la vie.

I had given up reading books when my mother in-law got real sick and died.  I resigned myself to not reading a book again after my father got real sick and died.

The complexities that I wished to weave in brainwave pattern matching/synching/syncopating have dissipated.

My vocabulary shrinking.

My wry, sarcastic sense of humour intact, mild but biting.

My automatically-correcting grammatical radar falling into disuse.

‘Tis me, here, though, isn’t it?

Not another.

Time…time, time, time…time to consider new possibilities.

My country is no longer my own — it belongs and has always belonged to the wealthy alpha leaders.

My sights are set farther, out there in space and time.

I want to go further.

See a furrier.

Tell PETA, “Look, I slowly squeezed the main artery to the brain so that the animal went to sleep and died before I skinned it for my wife’s warm coat to wear to the opera, a more humane death than being eaten alive in the wild, or hearing your ranting chants.”

Look through my “complete” collections of National Geographic, MAD magazine, the New Yorker and other desk reference volumes.

Read my father’s copy of Pyle’s “THIS IS YOUR WAR.”

Stop thinking while this moment of memories with my father rushes through my endocrine system.

Stop feeling this pain.

Stop wanting to lash out and attack others for their successes, knowing death gets us all, no matter how far or short we got relative to fellow members of our species, dead or alive.

Your struggles and successes are not mine.

I slow down, soaking in the mixed emotions, the son standing here in place of his father, regardless of historical significance one may have or may not have had more than the other.

I cannot eat memories but they can eat me.

I can rewrite memories but not the events on which they are based.

The molecules, atoms and subatomic particles have moved on.

Why can’t I?

The animated graphic novel will have to wait.

So, too, the Alaskan travelogues, new and old.

I have only myself at the centre of this known universe in this current version of a dream/illusion/fantasy I try to get you to align with, just like everybody else.

How can I be different from and yet the same as you?

I wait for an inspiration.

Earth spins on its axis.

Our solar system spins around the centre of the Milky Way galaxy.

Toward or away from what are we expanding?

When time is meaningless, what are dreams about a future on another world?

I can crush the crystal ball with one hand, the shards opening fissures, wounds, tears in the fabric of spacetime.

We all know we have to eat.  Most of us reproduce.

The moments we spend in-between, here, there, any/every where, what are they?

…so this is what it’s like to float in weightlessness…how long can I stay here?…do I have to leave?…there is no waiting when there is neither time nor space that waits for the me that is not-me which does not exist…

German private industry vs. American military industry transportation choices

The beauty of a brain in retirement is letting one’s thoughts wander.

For instance, as I was driving back and forth from unrestricted territory down a long road into a restricted American military base, I looked around me.

I remembered when I used to commute via airplane and taxi from the U.S. to Germany on business.

In Germany, I noticed that some companies, such as Fujitsu-Siemens in Augsburg, offered large covered parking areas nearest buildings for people who commuted by bicycle or motorbike.

Here in the U.S., at the local military base called Redstone Arsenal, those who carpool (more than one person per vehicle) are allotted spots to park nearest one of the buildings but motorbikes were allotted uncovered spots in the middle of the carpark.

Which got me thinking…

When are we going to design our infrastructures to optimise the mix of devices we use in our transportation systems?

In other words, if we make token efforts to promote efficient means of transportation, then people will continue to pay for the convenience of inefficient methods.

Only when we make it difficult and/or inconvenient to use relatively expensive transportation vehicles (cars/trucks/SUVs) will we change our habits.

For instance, what if people had to use mass transit to get onto a U.S. military base, with tiny carparks and large bicycle/motorbike storage facilities located at mass transit pickup points throughout walk/bike-friendly [sub/ex]urban neighbourhoods?

Would we encourage people to walk or bike to work rather than the majority piling into their one-person occupied metal-and-plastic contraptions lined up one-after-another in traffic jams morning, noon and night to get on the base?

Would we worry less about the dangers of large carparks full of uninspected vehicles on military bases?

Would we find better ways to spend our time than wait on crowded roads for our turn to drive through traffic-light controlled intersections?

Would we have more time to spend with family before and after our workdays are done?

Makes an argument like the one cited here at wired.com moot, doesn’t it, when you eliminate the need for the motorised/EV transportation devices altogether?

Shadows at Noon

Of my species, of our particular combination of states of energy, I know plenty.

In fact, I am no longer “I” but the illusion is hard to shake.

I don’t have a problem blaming this one on my parents, who made me the centre of attention plus the fact I was their firstborn.

Of these thoughts, I have retread.

I have followed and I have led.

My vocabulary access system tends to find like-sounds to connect the end of sentences and lines.

And now my thoughts wander, like characters in the film “Slacker,” off to internal conversations about a word I can’t remember that’s like synonym or antonym but means “sounds exactly alike,” similar to alliterative but not the same.

The poseable wooden mannequin on my desk has its head turned, as if watching what I’m typing.

How can pieces of a tree connected by metal hinges have the ability to observe me?

This day, I meditate upon the future that looks back at us, will reveal, to our interpretations, its wonders, its glories, its shockers and its disappointments.

The future has no feelings, no personality, no hopes or dreams.  It is.

We are.

And we are not.

Shadows do not exist.

Instead, look at photons of the Sun encountering a temporary confluence of states of energy that prevent the photons reaching through or around.

When I have nothing to say, no reason to extend the circle of influence of these states of energy outward, I cease to exist and let myself blend in with the environment around me, nearly anonymous.

The way all of us are seen from the Moon.

The way all of us are seen a million years from now.

The way we are meant to be, temporary temporal illusions to the contrary.

“But couldn’t I be a fossil or mummy that is discovered in the far future one day?”  A fossil may be what some entity labels the outline of a few mineral deposits that appear to form a cohesive object of some kind but it won’t be you.

To have two thoughts such as “I exist” and “I don’t exist” are simply sets of symbols stored on a computer, itself a set of symbols which are meaningless to most of us.

A way to notch a virtual piece of wood, slap paint on a cave wall, or erect an edifice in which our sets of states of energy scramble in and out of everyday.

I am not-me.

I have no shadows.

I simply block the rays of the Sun from passing all the way through me.

Neither I nor the Sun know(s) the other exists.

My set of states of energy is attracted to bulkier sets of states of energy nearby.

We flow in and out of one another without noticing.

That’s all the past told us.

All that happens in the present.

All the future will reveal.

All a shadow at noon is doing.