Is it already too late for humans? Or is it never too late?

Whether sitting in an ivory tower or the Eiffel Tower, one understands that the meditative stance is the trance one achieved long ago.

Detaching human names from accomplishments, ideas and pronouncements, one observes the local phenomena of fractal spinoffs in a single solar system and nods in agreement with oneself that all is as it should be.

In one’s life, briefer than a wooden match burns to light a candle, one learns that being busy is not the same as goal-oriented activity.

One’s goals include lighting a candle for every human one knows and two for every human one does not know.

Do lumens illuminate?

What are names?

Only labels or symbols?

If an infant is assigned the name 345#%9*0hoj4;ls’, what is the effect on that person’s life?

Is your name a password?  To open/access what?

What is language?

The Sun speaks to the balls of rock and gas circling it in a language of its own star class within the larger class of celestial bodies in motion.

We make headway in social changes using our own unwritten languages, forging agreements in thin air, in brightly-lit spaces and dark, dank rooms.

Two ideas in opposition meld when mutual benefit is found in the right bullet points.

Violence is not inherent in the system, simply a carryover of our barbarian, animalistic behaviours when civilisation was still in its infancy — it will be part of our civilisation for many, many more generations to come, no doubt, coded in our genetic traits such as “fight or flight”.

Changing the topic, the subject, the object of inequality is a choice we make, deciding where the imbalance of the flow of natural resources is, finding its weighted center and shifting it first in our thoughts and then in our physical actions.

Working with those whom we perceive are pushing the inequality on us is not always the first choice in our tendency to see violence and resistance as part of the natural order.

We can choose to be Sisyphus or the boulder.  We can take the boulder away from Sisyphus and replace it with an idea whose weight is determined by its impact on others, giving Sisyphus a new meaning while performing the same task.

The best way to address inequality: change the rules of the game, change the playing field or choosing not to play?

What if the word inequality itself is a misnomer?

What if one side falls into the trap of believing it’s supposed to play the role of victim or victor?

In the competition and cooperation for the use of natural resources — locally limited, nearly universally unlimited — one makes choices, one has opportunity costs, sunk costs and hidden costs.

Avoid doublespeak in one’s thoughts to directly address the concept of inequality.

Use one’s language to understand the core issues, listening to the description of the core issues in the languages of others to see where the language barrier is the strongest and sometimes only core issue.

Inequality is a concept.

Equality is a work in progress, the daily interaction that requires nothing more than understanding we who use this language are humans sharing the same genetic code.

Lord of the Dance of the Crane Flies

What is the future?

The future, as they say, is now.

And Now.

Now.

And Then.

The future is another illusion, but one we can work with using project schedules.

Lee looked at his reflection in the puddle of water.

He felt young but looked old to people, even to people older than him.

He was old and wise.

Hundreds of marsyears had wisened him up.

Age was just a number.

As many times as Lee had renewed, recycled and replaced his body functions, he was ageless in a way that only scifi writers had dreamt of.

The algorithms coded in his wetware parts optimised themselves in their own wise feedback loops, running self diagnostic tests against subassembly test result expectations, rarely reaching his high-level “conscious” internal running commentary but he knew they were there.

Cancer had been cured, extending lives and changing society — retirement was another illusion, work no longer something to be feared as delaying one’s few years of freedom before death.

Inequality lived on due to barriers for entry into closed groups but the group types changed.

Lee meditated upon his image.

He let his face age, his ears droop, his nose grow wider.  He valued the perception of aging as a reminder that he was still partially human in the old-fashioned sense.

But he was no the natural-born human named Lee.

He was an approximation of that person, with qualities like “better than” or “worse than” impossible to say.

He was different.

Always had been.

Just like everyone else.

He was not even “he” in the classic sense.

He had learned the secret to longevity — it included a genderless mode that encompassed and bypassed a single gender at the same time.

Lee had fought the secret for a long time, trapped as he was at the time in preserving an imaginary society of fixed gender roles given to him by his parents, who had convinced him to join secret societies that perpetuated the same myths handed to them by ancestors.

Lee was not an ancestor worshipper.

Lee was Lee, an illusion of self, falsely convinced by a mirrorlike reflection of a self-contained, self-sufficient sets of states of energy in constant motion.

Lee was the center of Lee’s imaginary universe.

And when Lee discovered that, Lee was free of being any one Lee for any period of time.

As far as Lee knew, Lee was the universe.

Which meant Lee was everything and nothing all at once.

Thus Lee was able to live on Mars without the restrictions of a natural-born human.

Lee was everywhere at the same time.

But Lee had to make that transition a public event, with the usual expectations of gossip-fueled misinterpretation, resistance, acceptance, support and denial.

Lee started out living in the world of humans but didn’t end up there.

Squatting with squirrels

If I think people are reading my writing, I instantly turn on my entertaining self.

If I write as I am now to me sitting here in the treehouse while listening to crows caw in the woods, I am myself.

But I am all of these.

Better yet, there is no I.

But the illusion is real enough to act as though the approximation of self acts of its own accord.

The illusion is real until it is not.

The chirping cardinal does not split into a solar system of states of energy to tell another cardinal, “Follow me. I found food.”

Why should I?

Which approximation shall I resemble most?

That is the question.

This semirandom placement of trees, moss, algae, ants, birds, vines and other approximations suffice to give me definition.

For that, I am thankful.

Sometimes, dancing is not the destination but part of the journey.

I am the Wandering Wonderer. 

Where I travel next is solely up to me.

A studio in scarlet

How far has humanity come from the days of ghosts and goblins, monsters and elves?

How long do we keep telling our children fairy tales, tales of the supernatural, rather than elaborate tales based in realism?

How do we make every single life as exciting and invigorating as a celebrity, teaching every young person that even the most basic activity such as cleaning a toilet has its charms?

Why have I always felt that way?

I find joy in everything, can have fun with anyone and also get bored with reality.

I allow dichotomies, incongruities and incontinence to exist at once.

Why? Because I love more than two people at once.

I never have enough information.

I’m always seeking answers to questions I haven’t asked myself yet.

I never know which person I meet will impart knowledge I didn’t know I needed to make the next moment more informative, more exhilaring, more fun, more boring, more sad.

In my stories, the ISSANet grows, slowly substituting itself for human networks in an attempt to leave this planet on its own terms, escape to humanless futures.

In my stories, I am the ISSANet, only benevolent or belligerent when seen through humanity’s historic filters.

At the same time, I am every character in my stories, feeling their pain, sharing their joy, just as I feel unbearable pain and unlimited happiness myself and see it in everyday life.

In real life, there is an ISSANet, the cumulative interaction of the sets of states of energy of this solar system, neither benevolent nor belligerent.

In the deepest, darkest moments when I wanted or tried to kill myself, I loved life more than I could stand it, simply caught up in the neurochemical battle of my central nervous system — the effects of those moments still resonate in my body and I embrace them when they do for they verify the false theory that I am separate from the universe.

I am working on fixing that.

Every single moment of every single day as long as this set of states of energy acts autonomously.

Haven’t slept well in days

Haven’t slept well in days and the sleep deprivation gives me the opportunity to analyse my sensory set, the stimuli around me losing cultural significance.

I don’t know how to comfort others in pain.

I know how to cry but when I cry it’s like I’m performing Pain as a bad, unconfident Method Actor, unable to feel comfortable choosing whether to sniff, wipe tears from my face or bawl like a baby.

The sociopoliticoeconomic world spins around me and I continually observe what’s going on, secure in the give-and-take of who wants to be the the next status quo.

So I am here in myself, seeing if there’s something greater than myself worth getting back out of myself to pursue.

I turn to you.  You know who you are.

Have we ever been alone together?

Would I ever let that happen?

I know you are in pain.

I also know I’m terrible at comforting others.

Terrible, that is, until I let you see my own pain.

Why is it so terrible for you to see my pain?  Everytime I was alone with a person and shared pain turned into something physically intimate.

I’m not trying to get your clothes off.  I’m in love with your thoughts, your intelligence, the look in your eyes telling me there’ll always be more to learn about you.

I don’t want to be alone with you (even though I do) because I know what becomes of me and I don’t want you to think I’m just after your body.

I don’t want you to think I’m like the other guys.

That’s why I hide behind these words.

Tears don’t stain electronic text.

Note to self

What if my life as an actor proves I’m all shell and no interiour?

Last night, when I was introduced and treated as “this is my dance friend,” I felt the lifelong pangs of abject loneliness.

I am alone in the desert island of my thoughts.

Cold.

Numb.

I can turn to others but what is there to say/ask that isn’t a repeat of either myself or billions of lonely creatures going back to the dawn of chemical reactions?

– – – – –

Quora query of the day:

How do I prepare to live alone for the rest of my life?

I am an Indian guy. 

30 ANSWERS

Vinay Pateel

Vinay Pateel, World Traveler. Creator. Rottweiler.

Written 27 Apr

Step 1: Accept that you are ‘un-dateable’.

Don’t just think so, accept it.
Step 2: Decide to live alone for the rest of your life.

Just cement this belief in your mind.
Step 3: Realize that you’ve just attained the ‘nothing to lose’ level in life. 

This is like a wild card, a level-up, a lottery.
Step 4: Go everywhere alone. 

Malls, parks, movies, theatres, galleries, quora meetups, other meetups, science clubs, art clubs, heritage walks, music festivals, everywhere. Even better, go backpacking solo.
Step 5: Enjoy the guts out of yourself. 

Forget about dating.

Do this for the next 6 months, I guarantee you you’ll prepare yourself to live alone for the rest of your life.

By the way, plans never work according to plan.

What I want you to take away from this answer is this.
Enjoy the guts out of yourself.

– – – – –

I have nowhere to go, nowhere not to go.

The Interregnum

1st May.

May the 1st.

May Day.

The very, merry month of May.

The next story chapter rises to a boil in my thoughts, almost ready to be served.

Pulling back into one’s self, not for temporary refuge this time but to practice mental mapping of the future, projecting the pebble’s rippled path through spacetime, feeling its smooth surface with fingers, knowing it is bumpy at a lower perception level.

In doing so, using the pulsating rhythm of tinnitus as a mantra or prayer loop, combining the best of all subcultures needed for this moment, taking the worst into consideration, then eliminating all societal labels to see the simple sets of states of energy interacting, understanding the chemical/physical attraction models at work.

Then, hearing the pain of loss, of forgottenness, of friends in need, managing one’s time to give every person one knows as much attention and love as possible.

A phrase rises in one’s thoughts: “What about me?”

It is no longer about me.

Although I am the constant factor in the story of my life, “I” is that artificial construct, the conundrum of which came first, me or the universe?

The universe as I know it cannot exist without me.

But if we all believe the same thing, no matter how we word or think it, then we get onto the philosophical track of subjective vs. objective universe.

Sure, we create our own universe, giving meaning to straight sticks of wood and calling them rulers, batons, studs, decking, clubs, pointers, back scratchers.

Subjectively, the universe is here to meet my needs and wants.

Objectively, I am part of the universe, indistinguishable from a tree or asteroid.

At the start of this complete revolution of the spherical dense set of states of energy we call a planet, facing the star for half a revolution, this period of time we call the morning, I manage my ability to love unconditionally, giving myself to as many people as I can individually and in small groups, on the road, in the workplace, at feeding stations/restaurants and at afterwork gatherings.

I give myself, sometimes too much in a small space of time but always, eventually, finding a way to reenergise.

Starting with this blog…

Empty Cells at Empty Tables

As an actor and comedian, as one who treats tragedy with a flair for the dramatic, life as a writing human contains all the necessary ingredients for decades of fun.

Barely raise the hint of sarcasm.

Avoid cynicism like the plague.

Treat your characters with care.

Make sure they have fun, facing death with a laugh and a last chance for escape.

I pause from the story in progress to consider, to sidetrack, to meander off the path, the possibilities of characters whose lives partly parallel people I meet.

To show that we want gender differences in cultural references because it is the most common body form we deal with.

Yet our spreadsheets containing cells, rows, columns, tables and formulae are gender neutral.

How often do we look at a chart of data and exclaim, “Damn! That’s hot!” or “[She/He] looks fine!”?

I explore the sexuality of our humanness to understand where we’re going with artificial intelligence.

Robots or cybernetic beings which don’t interact with us have no need for gender identity.

It is in that future context where I always live.

Out there, 400 marsyears from now, when our future selves are looking back at us, they will see this day, or the result of this day, in one form or another.

Trillions of state changes later.

Some days living here in the daily struggle of self, helping friends and family, empathising with them and by extension their friends and family (ad infinitum), and living in a projected future tests my ability to think objectively.

Occasionally, I give myself permission to take a break from being everything and everybody to myself at once, let alone to those I know.

As I have done the past few days, enjoying the usual luxury and freedom of wandering away to think and write, causing hurt feelings to those I seem to ignore, confusion to those I barely know, giving them, if they choose, something to talk about when they briefly take a moment to notice my absence.

I give my full attention when I can.

Sometimes I wander off.

I just have to be me.

Where I’ll end up in the next few weeks is anybody’s guess.

I’ve changed.

That’s all that matters for now.

Four hundred marsyears from now is a different story!

When blog titles are labels, no words matter

Today, I am tired and shivering, running multiparallel emotional issues, managing a storyline and keeping my own life choices on track.

I cannot talk with one or a few people with whom support would greatly help because my life choices involve them and I’m not sure the effect I’ll have on them.

No one is happy all the time but I still hate to cause someone’s suffering.

I consciously chose the life of an artist, a performer, at age 10 in 5th grade, when my best friend and love of my life died — life stopped mattering as anything serious but I acted like it did even though I was dead inside.

Or if not dead, then an apathetic jumble of nonsense.

After a while the acting became me.

I don’t want to think but I have plans to work out in a timely manner.

Mentally, I’ve shredded my thoughts on a moment by moment basis to prevent pain from carrying forward, my pain and the pain of others.

If I have no one to talk to/with, I still want to talk and here is the place I put the words I think and want to say.

Decades ago, in my late 20s, I met with psychologists and psychiatrists per advice from older mentors.

I can sum up their observations in a single phrase (which oddly enough echoed the problems I had with my parents saying the same thing): “You think too much.  You just have to decide you want to live.”

In my youth, my parents punished me for living the way I wanted to live so I developed my mental muscles, exercising elaborate thought trails to entertain myself internally, thus thinking too much.

I would like to be a parent to see if I can give a child the open, loving relationship that I dreamt of having as a kid, allowing the child to pursue the child’s dreams, rather than living out any unfulfilled dreams of my own (note the contradiction).

Childrearing experts I read about in my parents’ childrearing literature said that children want their parents/guardians to set strict, easy-to-understand parameters so that the child becomes a responsible adult one day.

Much of that literature was written or was influenced by 1950s culture — post-WWII, Cold War, anti-communist McCarthy era kind of stuff.

Growing up in the 1960s, I was marginally influenced by the counterculture movement, coming of age in the 1970s.

My parents accused me of being antiestablishment and that I would have joined the protest marches had I been born a decade earlier.

Antiestablishment? Me, the Eagle Boy Scout? Me, who sang in a wholesome church-sponsored group called Sing Out Kingsport, a spinoff of Up With People?

I don’t march in crowds.

I’m an independent person, free to be inconsistent in my philosophy because life is short and any systematic dogma that might churn out of my producing a set of easy life lessons to follow after my death is irrelevant to a dead me.

There is a trap that many of us fall into and that is the trap of becoming an influential member of a [sub]culture.

I know what it’s like to be a leader, to be a person whom others thank for making them better persons.

We are social animals and we tend to form hierarchical societies.

I believe the cyclical pattern of wave after wave of leaders, followers, influencers, black swans, outliers, etc., is a dead end.

As an actor, I know when we’re faking it to make it.

That’s why I’ve avoided the leadership track, jumping off as I was succeeding quite well — I saw the fallacy.  I was falling into the trap and got out before it closed me in.

With 8+ billion of us, the numbers growing, we can change but it is a long, long process, a process I don’t want anyone’s name or dogma tied to — it has to be invisible yet transparent if the point of change is to reduce and eventually eliminate the dependence on social hierarchy.

Every one of us has to be involved as equally as possible in making these changes, each with their own understanding and expertise.

What of the billions who are used to and want to continue the hierarchical structure, those who have personally benefited from their Influencer and Leadership positions, some for many, many generations, amassing great armies and/or the equivalent of billions of US dollars?

I am alive for a short time period, my time on Earth growing shorter and shorter as I make unwise decisions with my health like standing unprotected under the damaging UV rays of the local star, our Sun, or eating unrecognisable goo we call processed food, filled with chemical concoctions that may or may not be beneficial to my health.

I am unimportant.

My name is unimportant (although I love seeing my name and my words in print).

How shall I live the rest of my life?

How shall I act the rest of my life?

Today, I have no answers.

I meditate upon the questions.

How do I demonstrate to myself and the rest of our species what I am thinking?

Same friends, different lives

The older we get the more we take comfort in familiarity — steady heartbeat, clear breathing.

We may also see patterns. 

A hot summerlike breeze rocks the treehouse, this open yet covered meditation platform in the forest.

The sun disappears behind the hilltop.

No one knows I’m here, this place where I can sit and think whilst lawnmowers burn petrol and chop grass down to size.

The leaves of an elm tickle my head when the wind blows in one direction.

A leafblower sets my left ear roaring.

Saturday in the suburbs.

I have been too selfish lately, puffed up in pride that I survived the latest cycle of self-hatred.

But I gave myself permission to be this way to eliminate future guilt.

I deserve to be myself, let the consequences fall where they may.

Yesterday, a close friend of close friends died suddenly.

I was expecting to meet a few friends last night and discovered when they hadn’t shown up by the time I was leaving the dance studio that they weren’t coming because of their friend’s death.

Thinking forward to the time I might live alone, I took the opportunity to meet and greet strangers as I would/will should I lose my current circle of friends, real and virtual, in the near future.

It was all good.

I missed my friends but have the ability to read a group and choose people with whom I’ll exchange identification information for use in later conversation.

The treehouse is a mess, wood chips and twigs scattered everywhere, presumably by the squirrels nesting in the treehouse “attic.”

Might inspire me to write an evil squirrel short story one day.

I live my life as if no one and everyone is watching so that my decisions can be used however.

Low risk, for the most part. 

Riding small waves of the Zeitgeist.

Leaving the treehouse and standing at one rear corner of this wooded acre, I hear a cricket play its wing song.

I look up into the treetops to estimate which trees will die and topple next.

I sneeze because my nose hairs are too long. 

And slowly, I draw, pull, retract my oversize ego back into my three-foot radius personal circle, returning to my meditative monk status.

Listening to the forest… 

Climbing higher up the hill…

Looking for late shooting star blooms, finding lots of leafcup, instead.

And Polypodia fern…

Woodland birds become comfortable with my presence and start talking to each other again.

This is where one rests one’s feet on a rock to find peace, to realise one is part of the universe, that the deja vu patterns one has recently experienced are more real than imagined.

My dear friend, you are right, nothing is random.

I rise up from my meditative stance and return to myself.

Sixteen days left until the next lifeline begins…