They weren’t speaking to me, I know it.

Although fear of social failure drives me to believe so, when I inquire as to whether generic comments others make, in person or on social media, are directed at me, the answer is no; either they were talking in general or about someone else.

Therefore, I have no reason to believe anyone is talking about me.

In conclusion, no one talks about me and I am already dead.

I had once worried about reaching this stage in my life.

Like, you know, totally, like, for sure, what if, OMG, I was never ever famous or, like, umm, I haven’t accomplished anything, like, real, you know what I’m saying?

Let’s see, where was I?  Firefox requested a reboot to install an update and after it rebooted, it opened to the tab with an open Facebook account, where….sigh….the lovely, beautiful, smart Guin was promoting an upcoming event.  Dang it, woman, why can I not get you out of my thoughts?

So, although I was dropping into a meditative writing state, I’m in another state of thoughts, I’ll go with the thoughts I’m in.

Yes, I like to dance and when I do, I give my all to my dance partner. Admittedly, for those who open their bodies to me, receptive in a sensual, if not sexual way, I reciprocate probably more than I should.  It’s possible for both the dance partner and me, the moves we share on the dance floor, the connections we make, are better than any sexual act could, would or should be.

I’ve purposefully never shared a connection like that with Guin, nor she with me.  I feel like we’ve kept it above the neck, so to speak, making eye contact in a familial way, almost like sister and brother or father and daughter.

That’s why it’s so odd that another part of my thoughts imagine us raising a child together when I can’t imagine having sexual relations with her.

To make up for this mismatched thought set, I try to help her with her “child,” the local dance group/community she has formed with which she has bigger plans.

I step in every now and then like a distant brother, father, uncle or grandfather, knowing that I have a way of taking over a room and attempting not to take over the dance group when I get involved, sticking my nose in, stomping around with my clumsy feet and stirring up the mud, but that’s just who I am.  I’ve stopped making apologies for being my blundering self.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, rediscovering recent thoughts.

In junior high school, my sister, two years younger, told me one day that all her friends thought I was weird and that I had weird friends (“weird” at that time being a euphemism for gay), implying that she didn’t like it because it made me unpopular and interfered with her social status.  I asked her which friends and she told me a few names.  I asked those friends if they thought I was weird and they said no, meaning someone was a liar.  I trusted my sister and understood that people will talk about you behind your back and lie to your face.

Unfortunately, because of that incident, I grew to mistrust other people.

Deep down inside, I think all people lie in one form or another — to be polite in social settings, to save face, to close a dishonest deal, etc.

Rare is the person who tells it like it is and doesn’t care about the consequences.

I know I lie.  Like, for instance, tonight I took my wife to a local dance studio for West Coast Swing lessons.  I didn’t really want to be there; after the lessons were over, open dancing began and I made a false excuse to leave, in order to avoid dancing with other women and having to look them in the eye, leading me to want to seduce them on the dance floor and attract sexual attention just when I promised myself I would stop doing that.

Of course, my wife knew my lie — that I had a sore ankle — was probably false but she accepted the lie because it’s part of being a social animal, feigning an injury to avoid confrontation with another animal.

I haven’t figured out how to dance socially and avoid the sexual animal inside me [deja vu — how many times have I thought or written that?].  Does that have anything to do with my sister calling me weird?  There doesn’t have to be cause/correlation for everything, does there?

Anyway, back to my meditation.

Reaching down within myself, sensing no “fair” cause and effect in society/culture, letting go of cultural practices of imposing fairness rules (including government, sports and religion), knowing that I am who I am, which has recently included thought trails linked to social media posts, taking me away from living at a higher level of thought — more abstract, less personal…

Forgetting who I am for a moment.

Seeing how this solar system’s arrangement of sets of states of energy are progressing, looking “forward in time,” as the saying goes…

Without the trickery of religious miracles, scifi time travel machines, magic, faster-than-light-speed space travel…

Hearing the change in the tinnitus tones in my thoughts…

Feeling myself hunched over the laptop keyboard…

Smelling the mold that is in the sunroom after heavy rains forced water through sunroom roof crevices…

What separates a set of algorithms that can coordinate to rewrite themselves creating something we can’t recognise from what we call consciousness as exemplified by living creatures such as humans, birds, and forests?

If I remove myself as an individual from my thoughts, removing everyone as individuals from my thoughts, what do I see?

The patterns that emerge include the rubbish we create — in nature, nothing is wasted, there is no trash, no treasure, no rubbish, no junk, no landfills, no toxins — everything we touch, everything we create, everything we destroy is the same.

By embracing what others have called optimistic nihilism I have been able to see the future more clearly.

Global warming, high un/deremployment, massive species extinction — these are concerns of a single species on a single planet — the universe is benign.

The transportation of people, of goods and services, for the act of global trade between members of our species, essentially the movement of sets of states of energy, what value do we gain by decreasing overall the amount of transportation?  How do we change the model of the profit motive to accomplish such a feat?  What would Maslow have to say about altruism today?

Thoughts to ponder as I close this blog entry at 2:21 a.m. on Saturday morning.

Looking back through my files…

NASCAR always makes my redneck/good ol’ boy side shine.  In that spirit, here are two emails/letters I’ve written concerning Tony Stewart:


The Home Depot
Attention: Consumer Affairs
2455 Paces Ferry Road
Atlanta, GA 30339

6 September, 2002

To Whom It May Concern:

Enough is enough! After hearing about Tony Stewart’s shenanigans with the reporter earlier this year, I was ready to return some stuff I bought at Home Depot. After reading that Tony Stewart assaulted a woman in Bristol, TN, I am no longer shopping at Home Depot and will ask all my friends and family to refrain from shopping at your stores, too.

I received gift certificates for Home Depot for my birthday. I will be going to the local store to cash them out rather than buy another item at Home Depot.

I am also sending this note in a letter to the corporate office in Atlanta, GA.


Richard L Hill, II

Attachment: Yahoo! Sports story: Stewart accused of shoving Tennessee fan (see article at bottom of this blog entry)



PO Box 2875
Daytona Beach, FL 32120

18 February 2008

NASCAR Executives/Marketing:

One word to describe the Daytona 500 (and possibly the rest of this season) – boring. It used to be that my family would watch the Daytona 500 and call each other after the game to discuss it. Not this time. I don’t think anyone watched more than two or three minutes of the race.

There were no compelling stories. All the same old stories are there – the rough-and-tumble Tony Stewart types versus the corporate clean-boy Ryan Newman types – and the racing itself is completely uninteresting. I’d rather go watch the IndyCar race in Charlotte where a bunch of buzzing bees spin around in a bowl than watch another NASCAR race with the cars of yesterday…oops, I mean the marketing-hyped CoT.

Lately, my family has become interested in the races at venues like Mid-Ohio, Road Atlanta and Barber Motorsports Park. At least there you can see modern cars/bikes and real race drivers up close. Maybe you folks in NASCAR can learn a thing or two from them – the days of watching billboards go round-and-round in a circle are over. Time for mixed series racing, where fast cars (or bikes) have to dodge slow cars on the track, just like in real life where the Corvettes have to dodge Chevettes, taking left and righthand turns in the process.

Best of luck with the new Sprint and Nationwide series – the names of the series are as uninspiring as the drivers and racing on the track.


Rick Hill


Stewart accused of shoving Tennessee fan

Posted: September 07, 2002

NASCAR driver Tony Stewart has been accused of shoving a female fan following a race in Tennessee last month.

The unidentified woman was in the pit area at Bristol Motor Speedway watching the Sharpie 500 Winston Cup race when she claims she was pushed by Stewart, who finished 24th.

“We had one officer witness it,” Sullivan County Sheriff Wayne Anderson said yesterday.

Stewart, who was in Richmond, Va., for tonight’s Monte Carlo 400, declined to comment through a spokesman.

Mike Arning, a spokesman for Stewart’s Home Depot-sponsored race team, said team owner Joe Gibbs was expected to arrive at Richmond International Raceway today and would meet with reporters then.

Arning said the sheriff’s department interviewed him and five others at the track yesterday, but declined to give any more details.

The woman was authorized to be in the pits, Anderson said. He added that he would “rather not say at this point” whether she was injured.

Stewart, 31, is on probation with both NASCAR and the Home Depot, the sponsor of his No. 20 Pontiac, for punching a photographer who tried to take his picture following the Brickyard 400 in Indianapolis on Aug 4.


* Jimmie Johnson and Ryan Newman added a little bit of history to their impressive debut seasons last night, becoming the first rookie drivers to sweep a Winston Cup front row in the modern era.

Johnson earned his fourth pole of the season with a lap of 126.145 mph around the three-quarter-mile oval at Richmond International Raceway. He’ll start the Monte Carlo 400 with Newman on his outside. Newman and Johnson are the first rookie front row in the series since 1972.

* Bobby Hamilton will be out at least 3 weeks after breaking his left wrist and right shoulder in a crash Thursday night at Richmond. Greg Biffle will drive the Andy Petree-owned Chevrolet in Hamilton’s place. *

Book titles we can’t wait to read…

“I was tailor made to be a trailer maid”
“Novel naval navel”
“An astronaut and his pet rock collection”
“Ten easy steps to avoid death for less than 100 million dollars”
“My TV viewing diary for the last fifty years”
“A Messi divorce: the demise of a popular futbol player”
“The evolution of the selfie”

What dreams are made of?

Traum des Spiels: Wenn kleine Jungs nachts wachliegen, wenn sie sich sehnsüchtig hineindenken in einen großen Moment, dann sehen sie das, was Mario Götze in Minute 113 erlebte. WM-Finale, Verlängerung, schöner Pass von Schürrle, mit der Brust angenommen, dann direkt ins lange Eck gelegt – 1:0. Ja, ein Traumtor. Ein Traumtor von dem Spieler, der unlängst anmerkte, er lebe beim FC Bayern seinen Traum. Damals glaubten ihm wenige. Jetzt würde das jeder.

Albtraum des Spiels: Wenn große Jungs nachts wachliegen, wenn sie sich ängstlich hineindenken in einen schlimmen Moment, dann sehen sie das, was Toni Kroos in Minute 20 erlebte. Viel schlimmer als seine Kopfballrückgabe auf Neuer, die sich zum Steilpass auf Gonzalo Higuaín entwickelte, ist kein Fußball-Albtraum der Welt. Ob der Argentinier Angst hatte vor Manuel Neuer? Ob er überrascht war oder zu nervös? Alles das bleibt unklar. Bis auf das Ergebnis: Higuaín verzog den Abschluss weit neben das Tor. Auch eine Art Albtraum.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina

Deutschland über alles.  I figured out why Argentina lost the World Cup — their coach was Patrick Magee, who starred in “A Clockwork Orange” as Mr. Alexander:



Frank Alexander: Food alright?

Alex: Great sir, great!

Frank Alexander: Try the wine!


Frank Alexander: [hears knocking on the door] Who on Earth could that be?

Julian: I’ll see who it is.

[goes to the front door]

Julian: Yes, what is it?

Alex: [barely audible] Help… please… help… help.

Julian: [opens the door and Alex collapses at the doorway. He carries Alex into the house] Frank, I think this young man needs some help.

Frank Alexander: [surprised by Alex’s poor condition] My God! What happened to you, my boy?

Alex: [voice-over] And would you believe it, o my brothers and only friends. There was your faithful narrator being held helpless, like a babe in arms, and suddenly realizing where he was and why home on the gate had looked so familiar, but I knew I was safe. For in those care-free days, I and my so-called droogies wore our maskies, which were like real horror-show disguises.

Alex: [nervous] Police… ghastly horrible police… they beat me up, sir.

[sees Frank has a foul look on his face, apparently not believing him]

Alex: The police beat me up, sir.

Frank Alexander: [excited] I know you!


Frank Alexander: Isn’t it your picture in the newspapers? Didn’t I see you on the video this morning? Are you not the poor victim of this horrible new technique?

Alex: [relieved] Yes, sir! That’s exactly who I am and what I am, sir. A victim, sir!

Frank Alexander: Then, by God, you’ve been sent here by providence! Tortured in prison, then thrown out to be tortured by the police. My heart goes out to you, poor, poor boy. Oh, you are not the first to come here in distress. The police are fond of bringing their victims to the outskirts of this village. But it is providential that you, who are also another kind of victim should come here.

Frank Alexander: [finally remembering Alex’s state] Oh, but you’re cold and shivering. Julian, draw a bath for this young man.

Julian: Certainly, Frank.

Alex: [as he is being carried off by Julian] Thank you very much, sir. God bless you, sir.

A domesticated life

How many of you are nest builders/maintainers?

In 27 years of owning a wood-sided domicile, I spent the first ten years mowing grass, planting perennials, washing windows and picking up fallen tree branches.

I built a wooden deck, backyard water garden and rock path (the last two composed of three tonnes of rock I hand-carted three times, thus lifting nine tonnes in a matter of a few weeks (with knee and lower back problems bothering me for years afterward)).

We paid to have our roof shingles replaced once after a series of hail storms denuded the shingles.

But I don’t mow the lawn anymore.  Instead of grass, our lawn is covered with Vinca major, two versions including a variegated variety and the common variety as well as Vinca minor, poison ivy, Virginia creeper, honeysuckle, and tree saplings that sprout up in between.

Portions of our asphalt shingles are covered in moss which creates a heavier gravitational pull on individual shingles, resulting in chunks of shingles breaking loose and sliding into the gutter or onto the ground.

Missing shingles expose the wood underneath, leading to wood rot and water leaking onto the sheetrock ceiling of our living space, creating stains and eventually holes (one wet place in the sheetrock was bounced upon by two raccoons playfighting in our attic — much to their and our surprise, they fell through the sheetrock at four o’clock in the morning [Intruder alert!]).

I’m no Johnny Fix-it-on-the-spot.  I’m not Rip Van Winkle.  I’m more like the monkeys with the leaking roof who knew when it rained that they needed to fix the roof but when the weather was nice there was too much else to do than fix a roof that wasn’t just then leaking.

However, given enough impetus I can force myself into situations that require a modicum of handyman skills.

Yesterday, I watched a video online about how to replace broken roof shingles and felt like an instant expert.

Pulled our aluminium extension ladder from the hooks on the garage wall, leaned the ladder against the house, making sure it rested against the cathedral ceiling section for extra support, climbed on the roof and surveyed its condition.

Lots of dead leaves collected in the crooks between the cathedral ceiling eaves and the eaves of the ranch house roof section — swept them off (and for the first time in years, no raccoon poop in the leaves! Cutting down the 20-foot tall fig tree and 30-foot tall foxglove/empress tree, Paulownia tomentosa, last fall removed the raccoon, squirrel and roof rat pathways to our roof.) and looked at the shingle condition.

The fifteen-year life of the 25-year shingles has expired, I’m pretty sure.

Anyway, I located the spot on the roof where the water was leaking down into the front bedroom (a/k/a the study/office/storage/tinkerer’s/writer’s/my room) which has shown a widening paramecium-shaped area of discolouration in the popcorn ceiling.

I used a long crowbar to remove roofing nails on the shingles above the broken piece and the broken piece itself, removed the broken piece, slid in a new one (thanks to the roofer for leaving us a couple of half-used shingle packs) and nailed everything back in place.

Sounds easy, doesn’t it?

Well, while sweeping the leaves, I felt light-headed and heard blood whooshing behind my ears.  With the ambient temperature well above 90 deg F, little breeze and dark asphalt shingles, it gets hot on a roof.  The fifteen to thirty minutes up there and this middle-aged guy felt a heat stroke coming on, his core body temperature rising faster than expected.

Into the house I went, sat on the sofa with my house companion (wife, not cat, in this case), let my body cool and returned to the roof to remove the shingle.  In that five to ten minute period, my body temp shot up again.

Back inside for a hand-made popsicle (using a Zoku quick pop maker and Minute Maid Simply raspberry lemonade) to cool off.

I returned for the final stage of sliding in the new shingle and tacking everything into place.

I would have snapped a selfie up there but I didn’t want the photo to be my last.

Now that I know how to replace shingles, I’m practically a real man.

Well, I’d say that but as I drove through the neighbourhood, there was a man and his wife, he dressed in plaid shirt and denim jeans, she dressed in plaid blouse and denim leg-length skirt, working on their roof in the hot weather, not taking a break.

I’m still a real man, but now with extra skills.

My wife’s honey-do list might just get done, or at least shortened, if I keep up this skill-building feat.

Meanwhile, our second Cornish Rex cat, Erin, seems to have reduced his eating down to a few nibbles — his body weight is like a feather — don’t know how much longer he’ll live.

Germany plays Argentina in the 2014 World Cup final today — how many jokes going around about Germany’s sons playing the sons of the Boys from Brazil who immigrated to Argentina? We shall see…

I wondered why I had stopped writing lengthy blog posts and short stories — it dawned on me that since I got hearing aids I can spend time in the forest listening to the forest rather than returning to a computing device to blog about what I’ve seen and thought.

Speaking of which, now that the basic form of the cedar bridge is done, I can progress to the next phase of turning it into a kinetic work of art using my new microcontroller-based system, the Micro Python board.

Two dragonflies were mating in midair outside the sunroom window just now and somehow a squirrel found its way onto the sunroom roof. Life in the forest is never boring, much more fun than debating the [de]merits of recently revealed details of the the NSA spying program that exposes the fact freedom is illusory and privacy a luxury in the electronic world.