My Braynz

Stuff and Things, Thoughts and Kings

2008-07-10T12:09:00.000-04:00

As I sit today with a puppy curled up next to me, I ponder my future and all things green. I think about houses and cars, sewers and mars and I wonder why we are the things that we are.

I'm sure that in the instance of light and show that to the naked eye the cosmos seems so close. Am I suffocating? Am I really alive. Do I think or does everything seem blue and pink. There I come and here I go and then we dance on the rich sea sand... under glowing red moon.

I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.

2005-03-09T19:04:00.000-05:00

I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.

There are times like now when I wonder to myself if ever I will amount to anything. And then I say to myself, “Self. No, of course not. Because in the cosmic scheme of things, no one ever amounts to much of anything anyway.” Of course when I say this to myself I have to wonder what in the hell it is that I am saying. The cosmic scheme of what things? And what do I mean by “amount to anything?” I suppose that I amount to whatever I do. And for that matter I amount to whatever I think.

Imagine for a moment that the Universe is a closed system just like my mind, which I believe to be, essentially, “the stuff” of my brain (e.g. its matter and configuration and processes and existence in time—a functioning neural network). Now, if the Universe is a closed system then my actions (e.g. what I do) affect only the elements within it. And because my mind is a closed system, what I think effects only the elements within it. So therefore what I amount to is both what I do and what I think since my mind, a closed system, is fully contained with the Universe, another closed system.

Therefore I could simply do nothing but think and amount to a great deal affecting an incredibly complex yet closed system and no one would know it. Of course I could do a great deal of stuff without necessarily too much thought and have very little effect on either the Universe or my mind. Or I could expend a tremendous amount of energy both thinking and doing and still have little effect on the Universe, yet take my toll on my mind. Of course to effect the Universe in any significant way is currently unfathomable. Although as thinking beings we've certainly managed throughout our entire history to do both a lot of thinking and doing, affecting adversely as well positively both of our closed systems, the mind more so than the Universe—we are supreme egoists first before we are anything—just what would it take to actually affect the Universe in any noticeable way?

One cosmically insignificant accident, such as a bunch of planet sized asteroids one day slamming into our planet or, for example, wiping out the solar system, would end any potential I (or any thinking being) might have to affect change to the universe—assuming this were to happen before we found a way to live out in space away from earth.

Dusk

2005-03-08T20:43:00.000-05:00

Can one be content with merely doing or is it that we seek fulfillment, hollow though it might be, by doing so that others might praise us?

Constantly these days I struggle with the feeling that I will accomplish little before I die and I feel as though I am rushing toward it, toward death, and I a feel like I still need to hang on so that I can accomplish something, something wonderful for all to see so that my name will be placed among the rest of those few whose names any child can recall. How foolish a thought is this? And how common a thought in the mind of any man reaching a certain point in life?

Do I continue working for someone else, working among my piers so that (as a mentor) I can help them become better engineers so that perhaps they might also help me to improve... as a designer, and engineer, a human being?

I used to loath contact with people, but not so much anymore. Sometimes when I listen to those with whom I work speak to one another about such happiness in their youth, the conversations inevitably centers around their friends or family. When I, in turn, speak of youth I can recall only the silence of my bedroom. I almost always recall in my mind my ugly shag carpet and how the light in morning would cross the far wall as it coursed its way from morning through evening. Evening was my favorite time, just before the sun had set, because the sun would eventually become an emblazoned burning orange as it was being swallowed by the western horizon, and my room and I would be cast in its deep orange-umber glow as we sat alone together, waiting.

Grand Cycle (or a lot of rambling nonsense)

2004-11-20T00:17:00.000-05:00

Home alone again and listening to Hendrix and drinking white wine and red wine, having spent more than a week sober, and with good reason. The back was terrible last Sunday, and I screamed, screamed, screamed in pain, to myself, and I couldn’t lie still. I had to sit up, and days after I kept waking to the feeling that I was drowning, or something. I couldn’t breath, it was awful, and I’d find myself waking up, gasping, choking sometimes, at two in the morning, and I’d turn on my little nightstand light and I’d sit for a while, maybe twenty minutes or so on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor, at my feet, at my shoes a few feet away, then I’d glance outward towards the rest of the room and look about, and all I’d see was the stillness of things and all I’d hear was the god damned air condition clicking on and then eventually off, and I’d hear the occasional strange noise, the house creaking, settling, and then I’d grab whatever book was sitting on the nightstand beside me, and I’d read. I’d read for a half hour sometimes, and then several hours other times, until I could read no longer, and until the breaths I took replenished my tired blood, when I felt as though each gasp of air was not in vain…when I felt that I might survive sleep…might wake up the next morning, although groggy, dizzy, yet alive to face another day, to see my wife, to be once again… to be me. That’s all I asked. For despite whatever depression might accost my mind, whatever physical ailment might attack my body, I still yearned for one more day, for life, for the breathing, in and out, in and out, and to hear my frail heart beating against my soft chest. I yearn always for this feeling, for while death may be imminent, just around the fucking corner, I want to keep breathing, keep feeling, pain and all… I want to keep going, to see what happens next, to feel my lover’s breath once more against my naked body, to traverse the aisles of the supermarket and purchase food… glorious fucking food. I don’t want to die because I know, I feel it in my bones, that there is nothing… nada... nyet… nothing after this fucking life, and so be it. No Heaven or Hell… no Hell, for God’s sake, for while Hell might be the last place you’d wish to find yourself, at least it was something and not nothing. At least there was fire, brimstone, agony… feeling, for fuck sake. There was that. No matter how bad it was, how bad could Hell be compared to an eternity of nothingness, of lifelessness, of listlessness… of void… of never knowing, never wondering, never contemplating… unending darkness, but that doesn’t matter anyway because you’d simply cease to exist and with that ceasing you’d cease to understand, to comprehend, to be conscious. No dreams, no nightmares, no bright white light at the end of that seductive tunnel that pulls you towards it non-stop. Nothing. Nada. Nyet. You would be alone, and you wouldn’t know it. No one would, for everyone else would continue on, grieving, getting over it, meeting new people, other lovers and that would be that. You’d be nothing more than a picture on a mantel, a memory in someone’s failing mind, your few scribblings left behind, perhaps in a trunk in some dusty attic, a house for spiders, and for mold and mildew. Your work, your life, crumbling away, yellowing with time, and that would be that, until someone, some kid, some little girl, might discover a scrap here and there, some bit of wit, some serious sentence, some piece of you, still crying out, yearning to be heard, and then nothing but kindling perhaps, or some cool kind of ancient wrapping paper for some child’s birthday gift, or to the trash where your words, your thoughts, might wind up in a heap, a heap of garbage rotting, disintegrating, like your shell of a body, deep under the dirt, becoming again one with the earth, the universe, pieces, parts, down to the molecule, the proton, disintegrating… down to the electron, the nucleus, the sub-atomic particle… disintegrating, breaking away, fast, onward through the universe, congealing somewhere by some heavy, heavy force of gravity, pulling you back into substance, something, matter, renewed again, into light, heat, energy, matter, hot gases, molten rock…rock forming, lava flowing, cooling gases, water condensing, raining upon another world, ready to begin anew. Ready, ready. The primordial soup, readying itself, barring any catastrophes, and the single celled animals erupt, and then more, and more, growing in a soup green, gray, cloudy, fresh water and minerals, pouring down and in, replenishing, and you grow again, again, and the specter that you once were now hints of tomorrow, the primordial thoughts sparking in your simple cells, your new yet someday ancient DNA, and one day you will grow into something, something small, something potential, something slimy, extracting gas from liquid, oxygen from water perhaps, and then you might eventually crawl upon the land, then back to the water, then back onto the land, which maybe less harsh this time, and you might rest your weary body, your weary legs, appendages, things, under the shade primitive leaves of some kind of primitive tree, trembling as the wind blows and wondering what next to do, and you make your way back to the water, then back out much, much later, more robust, and take to the trees, which are different somehow, different and new, oh the glorious, tall, reverent trees, then back down to the land, then fighting off the insane, deadly creatures, fighting the insane, deadly diseases, believing eventually in spirits, looking up to see the sun and the stars and the moon and ascribing some primal meaning, something ethereal, other worldly, spiritual perhaps, for you have no explanation as you witness the grass growing in the warmth of the sun sometimes, and dying in the dead cold other times, and eventually you sense cycles, patterns… and one day you discover eventually the wondrous thing that is fire, like the sun, but closer, hotter, more effective, and you learn to cook your food, fend off beasts more easily, and eventually make your own clothing to warm you from the elements when fire isn’t around, and you hone little tools of stone, wood and plant at night by the light of your fire, and you carve, and cut, dig and chop, and grow, the intellect growing, too, ever onward, upward, and you fear others who might know more than you so you gather your people and conquer the strangers with your tools, and you take their tools, and you learn, learn, learn, and you become the leader, for you lead your tribe, your small group of followers, mostly inbred kin, towards victory, and while it might not have made sense at first, the spoils… oh the spoils… strange skins, strange vessels, strange tools… strange foods, perhaps preserved, strange images on stone, strangeness all around, and you accept some and discard others and fear yet some other things, for some reason, for no particular reason, you fear and you make up stories of danger, death, gods, spirits, and then you move onward and upward, and civilizations come to pass and with it clothing, and manners, and things, all manner of things, and food is easy to come by and work, too, for now you find yourself employed, wanting more, making more of yourself and you move onward and upward and you find yourself once again drinking the beer, the wine, feeling better and better and poorer and poorer, writing words down onto something, perhaps paper and with a tool, perhaps a pen, perhaps a keyboard, perhaps dictating into something artificial, whatever that means, that might take your very words and transcribe them into the writing of the day, of the age, and then you marry and are happy… And then one day your find yourself home alone again and listening to Hendrix and drinking white wine and red wine, having spent more than a week sober, and with good reason…

Christmas List, 2004

2004-11-18T21:30:00.000-05:00

I thought for my first journal entry that I might share my Christmas list. My wife and family insist every year that I provide them with one, and each year it's similar to the last. Only the titles and the names of the authors change (mostly).

1.“Alfred Tarski: Life and Logic” by Anita Burdman Feferman and Solomon Feferman
2.“Faces in the Water” by Janet Frame
3.“Janet Frame” by Janet Frame (autobiography)
4.“Freethinkers: A History of American Secularism” by Susan Jacoby
5.“Java Cookbook, 2nd Edition” by Ian F. Darwin (computer programming)
6.“The Selfish Gene” by Richard Dawkins
7.“A Short History of Nearly Everything” by Bill Bryson
8.“Dark Age Ahead” Jane Jacobs
9.“The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell” by Bertrand Russell (note: do not confuse this with his second volume, one that I already possess, “The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell: 1914-1944”)
10. “Bertrand Russell: 1921-1970, The Ghost of Madness” by Ray Monk
11. “On Intelligence” by Jeff Hawkins and Sandra Blakeslee
12. “The Origins of Totalitarianism” by Hannah Arendt
13. “The Art of Computer Programming, Volumes 1-3 Boxed Set, 3rd Edition” by Donald E. Knuth (list price is $164.99 but can be ordered from Amazon at a 24% savings for a total of $125.39, no including shipping, of course. You might also be able to find a used set at Amazon of via eBay. Also make sure that it is the 3rd edition and not 1st or 2nd edition.)
14. “Daniel Dennett (Contemporary Philosophy in Focus)” by Andrew Brook (Editor), Don Ross (Editor)
15. “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath” by Sylvia Plath, Karen V. Kukil (Editor)
16. “Half a Life” by V. S. Naipaul
17. “Fearful Symmetry” by Northrop Frye
18. “Complete Essays of Montaigne” by Michel E. De Montaigne, Translated by Donald M. Frame. Published by Stanford University Press, June 1, 1985.
19. “Samuel Johnson” by Walter Jackson Bate. Published by Counterpoint Press, Jun 1, 1998
20. ”Samuel Johnson: The Major Works (Oxford World's Classics)” by Donald Greene. Published by Oxford University Press, July 1, 2000.
21. “Goethe: The Poet and the Age: Volume I - The Poetry of Desire (1749 – 1790)” by Nicholas Boyle. Published by Oxford University Press, September 1, 1992.
22. “Goethe: The Poet and the Age: Volume II - Revolution and Renunciation” by Nicholas Boyle. Published by Oxford University Press, July 1, 2003.
23. “The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson (Modern Library Paperback Classics)” by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Brooks Atkinson (editor). Published by Modern Library, September 12, 2000.
24. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume II : Within A Budding Grove” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, November 3, 1998.
25. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume III : The Guermantes Way” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, November 3, 1998.
26. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume IV : Sodom and Gomorrah” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
27. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume V : The Captive & The Fugitive” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
28. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume VI : Time Regained” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
29. “Civilization and Its Discontents” by Sigmund Freud. Published by W. W. Norton and Company. Reissue edition, July 1, 1989.

Fear and Self Loathing

2004-09-01T20:31:00.001-04:00

I sit here nearly paralyzed from hopelessness and fear for I know not what to do. I have no clue. I took down as many books of poetry as I could find in my library—I have no order, rhyme or reason to my library—and have intended my study of poetry in order that I might master it and become myself a great poet. Hah! But alas I have lost interest and cannot find it again. It's gone. Somewhere. As if it fell out of my head last night whilst I was sleeping. I am paralyzed, as I've said. I sit here listening to music awaiting my wife to arrive home from work and alas I can do nothing. I cannot read, I cannot write except in this pathetic journal; I have no words of encouragement for myself. I am nothing. I am shit.

Why am I all the time filled with nothing but self loathing? And fear? I used to fear a lot of things. Perhaps it was the medication. Now I am full of disdain for people and for myself. I read the news and I am so much more disgusted with the world than I had been while on medications. When on medications, at least on different medications, I could cope better. Perhaps it was because I was just numb. More numb than I am now. Now, I am not numb. Not really. The current meds (little more than placebos, I think) barely do anything to subdue the mental anguish. I feel more like a raw nerve. Exposed. I want to lash out at people. I snap at Sherri more now than I ever had. Mikhail has upped my topamax and so that has helped a little, I suppose. I think she needs to up it more, though. I think maybe I need to try that welbutrin again. Something. Anything!

Ethics and G. E. Moore

2004-05-21T23:56:00.000-04:00

I’ve learned today from Moore that in ethics, ‘good’ is indefinable, but what is good can be defined, e.g. pleasure is good. But pleasure is also indefinable. But something like ‘chocolate is good,’ is a definition about chocolate, good describing the sensation. Yet still we cannot define good, although we know what it is—well, I would think that Hitler, somehow, didn’t understand ‘good’ in any sense.

This has led me to think about other things that cannot be defined, but that define other things, such as pleasure. For example, the massage was pleasurable. We can define a massage, yet we cannot define pleasure. So there are words that, like atoms, are basic units of definition. ‘Quality’ is another word. Quality can be used to define a certain property of some thing. In this case a quality seems to be synonymous with property. But when you use quality in the following way, “This item has quality,” or “That extremely flawed diamond lacks the quality of this flawless one.” What then is quality in this sense? It describes a grade of excellence, but then what is excellence?

If Ethics has to do with what is ‘good,’ then it must also have to deal with what is not good, or what is ‘bad.’ Again we know something is bad when we experience it, but how do we define bad?

Idealism, Realism and G. E. Moore

2004-05-21T23:54:00.000-04:00

I read G. E. Moore’s Refutation of Idealism. I’m almost certain that his assertions are a refutation of Idealism as I understand it. But the text is dense and sometimes I got lost and couldn’t tell whether or not he had convinced himself. Idealism, as I see it distilled to its essence, is the phrase, which I had to learn, esse est percipi, or to be is to be perceived or experienced. Essentially, nothing exists that hasn’t been perceived. Thus Idealists, I think, believe in an ultimate Self, or perceiver, which is where a God or something metaphysical comes to play. Which is why an Idealist can meet someone who he’s never met because something greater has already perceived this new someone.

Now, I could be all wrong here, but this is my take on it. Now, I probably need to go back and read Moore’s refutation. While it made some sense as I read, I didn’t study or read it well enough because now I forget its essence. I think what he was partially saying was that there is an intractable connection between the perceived and the perceiver such that the perceived need be perceived in order to be. Yet things continue to be (and I’m sure his argument went to kind of prove this) after I’ve stopped perceiving it (e.g. I look skyward and perceive the color blue. I close my eyes and only perceive in my mind the memory of the color blue. When I open my eyes a moment later, the blue shall still be there even though I stopped perceiving it). Now, here is where I get wishy-washy in my thoughts and I need further study because I think I might have misunderstood some of Moore’s fundamental points.

Professors, Ph.D.s and Friends

2004-05-09T01:48:00.000-04:00

Although I am not a television freak, I do watch a few regular shows, including some sitcoms, and tonight is the night that they’re showing the Friends final episode. It’s two hours long and it’s supposed to be very good. Apparently this will be one of the most watched programs in history. Apparently commercials spots were going for two million a pop? Maybe more, can’t recall. Anyway, two hours of my time this evening will be wasted in front of the television, and of course if Sherri has anything to say about it I’ll also be watching the season finale of E.R.

I wrote an email message to a professor (the head, I think) of philosophy at the University of Pittsburgh to tell him that I was interested in pursuing an advanced degree in philosophy. I asked if I should get an undergraduate degree and then try graduate school or just take the GREs and go to graduate school directly. He told me the following, which I thought was an interesting idea:

"I think the best plan is to begin part time with one or two upper division philosophy courses. You will be able to assess your needs and plans from your work in those classes. Your work will also give you a basis to apply to graduate programs.

Good luck,
Michael Perloff"

Anyway, I might look into this. I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to go back to school, get a Ph.D., work in academe, maybe research. I like to sit and think and to write and what better job than to be a tenured professor at a university somewhere. Not sure about the teaching, but then that’s where graduate students come in.

Reading his email I began to think about the kinds of work I might do in these classes that would help me decide on various graduate programs. I suppose he was saying simply that if you like it and can do it well enough then you can probably get in to a graduate program. I don’t know. I have no confidence. I know I will never go back to school and it will be my biggest regret. I am an idiot.

Ever Growing Medicine Cabinet

2004-05-06T11:04:00.000-04:00

I’ve noticed that as I grow older, and perhaps this is a general truth about people in modern societies, my medicine cabinet grows fatter. When I was young and living on my own I had toothpaste, a toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin, maybe some cold medicine, and that was it. Now, however, I need two medicine cabinets and space in cabinets under the sinks of two of my bathroom to hold all the stuff my wife and I need.

Just for me I have a plethora of prescription medicine: one for my high blood pressure, one for acid reflux, three for depression, one for social anxiety and to help me sleep in the evenings, and one to help me have sex with my wife because the others, while they help my depression, keep me from getting an erection.

There is also the non-prescription medications such as cold medicines (plural), flu medicines, allergy medicines, medicines for diarrhea, medicines for constipation, stuff for heartburn, stuff for gas, and of course one that does it all. We also have cough medicine and just in case the cold and the flu medicines don’t do the trick.

Also as I age I’ve noticed various problems with dry, cracked skin and so I have lotions and potions and petroleum jelly products and moisturizers of all sorts. I also have stuff to fight foot and nail fungus and painful anal itch.

For my mouth I have, of course, mouth wash and plaque remover, toothpaste and whitening strips, several toothbrushes, toothpicks and of course the much neglected dental floss.

As for grooming there are the various and sundry instruments. have a beard trimmer and an electric razor, a n electric nose hair trimmer and an electric eyebrow trimmer (my wife’s idea). I have tow nail clippers and finger nail clippers and cuticle tools and little scissors, the function of which I have no clue. I also have several hair brushes, both my wife’s, actually, and I use one of them. I think I have hair gel and hair spray that at one point seemed necessary as did the original bottle of Polo my wife bought me four years ago and that that I still possess. I also keep several bottles of spray cleaner for my glasses.

Free Thinking

2004-05-05T07:49:00.000-04:00

There is a book I’d like to get entitled “Freethinkers: A History of American Secularism,” by Susan Jacoby. The title is good, she’s a talented writer and was once nominated for the Pulitzer. From an interview, here are Jocoby’s words when asked what is a freethinker.

"Freethinker and freethought are terms that date from the end of the 17th century. Freethinker basically meant someone who did not believe in the received word of the bible or the authority of religion. Freethinkers have often been described as people who didn't believe in God, but it's more accurate to see freethought as a kind of a broad continuum, ranging from those who really didn't believe in God at all to deists who believed in a God who set the universe in motion but afterwards didn't take an active role in the affairs of men."

By the end of the 19th century, freethinkers even included liberal Protestant denominations and Unitarians. Even though they believed in God and in some form of Christianity, they did not believe in any hierarchy of religion. So there was a spectrum of people in the freethought community, but all were opposed to the religious orthodoxies of their day.

Because I am an atheist and language regarding young earth science, creationism and dogmatic Catholicism drives me up a fucking wall, I like to read about things I believe in, which is nothing. Well, I believe in nature and all that surrounds me and the sense data, the sense experiences that I, myself, experience. I believe thought and freedom to think for oneself is vastly more important than any religious dogma. Sure, if in thinking and exploring and in question I come to believe that creationism and young earth science are true and that Darwinian evolution, no matter the immense amount of proof we’ve found to validate it, is false, than so be it. I will still question my assumptions, still try to understand the world, the universe, etc. I would hate to think that a God who created us would create us in such a way that seemed antithetical to free thought.

But if there is a god, then he seems to have given us the choice to believe, to not think, or to think and not believe, or to think and believe, etc. Any combination is possible. I suppose he gave us this “free will” to be who we are. And I ought to embrace those who believe the complete opposite of what I believe. And I do. Well, I try. If I could read somewhere (and I’m sure there are sources) the science behind young earth science and creationism and see that it is empirical, that there is physical evidence for it, then I would be very much happy to embrace it, but also, like nature herself, to scrutinize the data and the results. I mean, to believe in something wholeheartedly that you would die to protect it seems foolish. Of course there are a lot of suicide bombers killing themselves and people simply for this reason. Perhaps the moment just before they press the button they think to themselves just how silly it all is. Perhaps a moment of clarity enters their fogged, brainwashed mind and for an instant they see life and somehow realize the answer to everything. But still, the button gets pressed, for what else is there to do?

Speaking of buttons and bombers, I wonder if there is a mechanism in the bomb that is strapped to the moron carrying it that allows someone to remotely detonate it. The reason I ask is simply because what would happen if the bomber got cold feet? I suppose being in a car some safe distance away keeps you distanced from the reality of the mothers and the children and the men and young women that you’re bomber is about to wipe out in an instant. Being distanced, detached, etc., would make it easier to push the plunger, don’t you think?

I downloaded and was playing the demo of Unreal Tournament 2004. It has a third person view which helps keep me from getting motion sickness. I was doing pretty good after a while. I was playing some AI characters. The action is so fast, though, that at times I didn’t know what was going on. One moment I’m being shot at, and the next one of my AI buddies gets me out of trouble by shooting the AI enemy that had me in its sights. Cool stuff. Of course you sit and play all day because once you make a kill the character killed can resurrect himself. It’s like instant gratification, over and over and over.

Sherri is bringing back subs from Subway. I get my usual BMT and she gets, I think, the cold cut trio, or something like that. Anyway, I’m hungry, but on these fucking meds, I am always hungry.

On Writing

2004-04-26T02:04:00.000-04:00

There is a certain lack of style that seems prevalent in general journalism these days. I even sense it in creative non-fiction writers who write essays, for example. I’ve even noticed it, albeit in small amounts, in the works of David Sedaris, which annoyed the hell out of me because I hadn’t expected it. I guess with word processing its easy to write and keep what you write and to not think about how what you write will sound before actually writing. It’s as if we’re now simply used to pulling down our mental pants and just shitting whatever is in us onto whatever is under us.

Now, I don’t recall specific writers except perhaps Martin Amis, who have such a unique and beautiful style when they write that I wonder if more people who actually write are simply ignoring them. I suppose even in E. B. White’s days, he was unique among writers. And then there is H. L. Mencken. I often wonder what White thought about Mencken.

Of course I’m no literary critic. Either I like something or I don’t, and I seem to never be able to say just exactly what it is that I like or dislike. I suppose I think in general terms. If a piece flows smoothly and sounds elegant to my ear, then I like it. Well, I like how it was written. Then I judge the content. But I’ve read some pieces that have been horribly written (mostly by academics who seem prone, if not actually forced, to write in such a way) where the content was very good, thought provoking in fact, if you could stick with the prose, which tends to be difficult. But I suppose that those types of writers are expected to write in such a way because their peers expect a certain level of dryness to be achieved before it can be considered “well written” and authoritative.

Horrible words

2004-04-22T18:43:00.000-04:00

I've recently been reading in various online magazines the words filmic and filmically (the adverb form) instead of the once, more dramatic, cinematic and cinematically. Why do we have to have such an ugly word as filmic and why are we doing away with cinematic? It seems that people who write today, the young, I suppose, have no ear for words and interrelationships therein. Certainly there is no sense of style any longer. Where are all the E. B. Whites?

Random stuff

2004-04-18T22:54:00.000-04:00

8:40 PM
The peacekeeping rages onward, Americans and Arabians trying to help one another as well as kill one another. I hate hearing about hostages and I hate hearing about Americans dying while trying to help people who appear to need it.

10:49 PM
Sometimes I imagine that I am young and am over there as a soldier or perhaps an officer. I imagine myself either fighting or designing strategies for urban warfare. I know it would scare the fucking hell out of me, but I imagine being there helping the Iraqis that need help. But then I get this sense from reading the papers and online news sites that they don’t want our help. There is certainly a number of them who don’t because they keep firing rocket propelled grenades, and strapping TNT around kids and sending them to where the coalition soldiers are.

Fundamentalism is to blame, partly I imagine. Blindly following someone who spouts dogma, perhaps even warped dogma to suit his own needs. I suppose leaders, especially those who seem to us to be evil, have an agenda and so they bend reality and scripture to fulfill that agenda. I hear about how the Islamic religion is a peaceful religion and in fact there is apparently no where within the Islamic “bible” that mentions the inferiority of women and the subsequent treatment—as if they were not human. I could be wrong, and probably am, but if this is true then you have to wonder just what did some woman some many centuries ago do to some leader? Castrate him with a hunting knife? That would piss me off, of course.

I don’t really know what fundamentalism is. I mean, it does seem apparent. Yet is the fundamental part of a thing its base, its foundation? So isn’t fundamentalism just getting back to basics? I then don’t believe that there is fundamentally anything wrong with fundamentalism. It’s how the base or foundation of the Islamic religion (for example) is interpreted. But then, if some holy leader (or evil bastard, we like to say) reinterprets the scripture, or the foundation of his religion to suit his agenda, would it not then just be called progressivism rather than fundamentalism? To reinterpret is to put a ‘new’ spin on something, or so I would imagine.

Variety Hours

2004-04-04T22:27:00.000-04:00

12:45 a.m.

It’s late again, or early if you prefer. I am up and not so very tired. Sherri was in a very bad way today. She had been on Zoloft for her depression (her rheumatoid arthritis doctor prescribed it for her) and she seemed to be fine, but this week the doctor took her off it because we want to try to get pregnant again. Today she was like a zombie, almost. She was depressed most of the day, and she cried this evening as we lied in bed together. I spent all day with her helping to do things around the house, and it helped a little. We even played a game of scrabble and a number of rounds of an online game called Lexibox (a word game). I hope she feels better tomorrow—she has to work a long shift, though. She’s taking off next Sunday. She thought my mother would be celebrating her birthday then. But we’re doing it Saturday. So Sherri and I will spend Easter together, and alone, and with a ham… because of my sister’s husband we all have to suffer through every fucking holiday meal with a pork roast… not that my father does it badly. In fact he does make it quite well, but it’s all the time, without change. Anyway, we’ve already made plans. We’ll go to the store at some point to buy a small ham, some sliced pineapple, cloves (but I think we have these) and brown sugar (which we also might have). I haven’t had ham in so long (well, you know, leg of ham) for a holiday meal that I can barely remember what it tastes like.

I was supposed to be driving my father to the hospital on Monday for knee surgery, but he’s been taking an anti-inflammatory and says that they are working fine and so he decided to not go in for the surgery. This is a very dumb thing to do, but he must have his reasons. Of course he, my mother, sister and brother-in-law are supposed to be heading down to Disney World in July. My father, unless he gets the surgery and the physical therapy afterwards, will not last long walking around that place. He’ll be completely miserable, which of course will make my mother miserable as well as my sister, which in turn will make Tom (brother-in-law) miserable and the whole vacation will be shot. But for some reason he won’t go through with the surgery. It seems that when it comes to the Clancy’s and vacation, something is always going wrong. Had he decided to go through with the surgery, some other tragedy would rear its head and cause them to have a miserable time. Then again, maybe it was only when I was young and going along with them that these tragedies happened. Maybe I was the one who made everyone miserable? Could very well be. In fact, I have little doubt.

3:28 PM

I once mentioned to somebody, perhaps my brother or sister or both, or it could have been an acquaintance from work, that my favorite moon in our solar system by far had to be Io because of its color and its surface violence (I went on to explain the active volcanoes on its surface). The response I remember getting was, “I didn’t know that you were supposed to have a favorite moon.” Or something like that. I seem to recall afterwards a feeling of being absolutely alone, even though I was among people—this happens a lot anyway, and so I learn to deal with it.

8:54 PM

I took a nap again and woke up just about a half hour ago. This damned medication I am taking for depression is wearing thin. As soon as my new insurance is worked out I need to see the shrink and have her get me off of some of it.

My thought scatter like cock-a-roaches when the light goes on. I stop to think about something, grab any thought a-fleetin’, but to no avail… when I sit to write I got nothin’, nothin’, not a fucking thing. But the music helps soothe the soul. So I play some music that I got on my PC. It soothes pretty good.

The Darkness, a relatively new band (to me, anyway), has an interesting tune out that I was able to download from iTunes with a code from a bottlecap of diet pepsi. The song is “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” It’s strange. The singer has this poppy sound that goes from tenor to soprano in an instant… It’s like he’s singing and then someone grabs and squeezes his balls right in the middle and up goes the octave! Makes for some interesting music.

I sit here and look around my room and see all of my books and think to myself that this is my life. When I die, other people will look about my room and see my books and think how sad, this was his entire world. There are worlds in every book, but none are mine. I want my world to be out there among the worlds of the rest of them. I want to be of those writers who are of the world. I want to be able to go out into the world unafraid and to finally live. To have a chance to meet wonderful people. To not feel hatred and fear toward humanity. Any world I would create now would be a very lonely, empty world. Perhaps it would be a claustrophobic world, the entirety of it narrated by a person sitting alone in a one roomed apartment.

Animals in Iraq

2004-04-02T17:03:00.000-05:00

Horrible, horrible, horrible… I imagine this happens, but to have seen it on film.

"FALLUJA, Iraq, March 31 - An enraged mob attacked a group of foreign contractors here today, shooting four people to death, burning their vehicles, dragging their bodies through the downtown streets and then hanging the charred corpses from a bridge over the Euphrates River.

Three of the victims were identified as Americans, a State Department spokesman, Lou Fintor, said today, adding that work was continuing to identify the nationality of the fourth."

I saw those animals (Iraqi men) pulling the charred bodies from the car and mutilating them with shovels, dragging them along the street and then hanging the bodies from the top of a bridge nearby. Amazing the fury that one feels inside, like me right now. Since a lot of it was caught on film I can’t imagine nothing being done. If I were the military I would mount a full assault on the people of the town nearby. Gather up all men and match faces to faces on film, then just shoot them in the head. No, we don’t do that. We cannot sink to that level, but how can we let this crap happen and let it go unpunished?

My main question is why the hell don’t we just pull on out of there and let internal struggle straighten out the problem. Let neighboring countries move in and do their thing. We got Sadam out of there and took with him a lot of his officers, killed his sons, etc. Now just move on out. Don’t let anymore people die. When they want our help, let them ask for it.

Becoming a Narcoleptic

2004-04-02T17:02:00.000-05:00

This damned depakote is turning me into a narcoleptic. For some reason when I wake up in the morning, which is very hard to do, I eat my breakfast, check out my email and then start falling asleep at my desk, at which point I sort of stagger off to my bed, undress and fall into it. And I don’t sleep, not really. I’m kind of in and out of reality. I dream, but I’m certain that I am mostly awake. It’s kind of like I am resting, but not quite asleep. And I toss and turn a lot, which is something that doesn’t help. I figure that maybe I didn’t get enough sleep during the night, but shit, I seem to sleep well, and for at least eight hours. What’s odd, too, is that I take the medicine at 6:00 along with my effexor and I feel fine until late when I take my Seroquel, which is when I go to bed. I am beginning to think that it’s not simply the depakote, but a reaction I am experiencing from the mixture of Seroquel and depakote. Man, this all sucks. I want out of all this medication!

Tomorrow I am meeting at Peter’s Place a fellow named Mick who is a recruiter in Pittsburgh for a recruiting firm called Sapphire. Anyway, we’re meeting one another at 1:00—I apparently get a free lunch, but I probably won’t order anything. Or maybe just a salad.

Up Late, Story Idea, Still Unemployed

2004-04-02T17:01:00.000-05:00

Up late again. Usually I sit up and read until 2:30, sometimes 3:00, then take my Seroquel and head to bed. I am currently reading Dostoyevsky’s “Crime and Punishment,” so far a very good read. I want to read more Henry Miller. I’ve only read Tropic of Cancer and one titled “The Books in My Life.”

Sometimes strange thoughts come to me. Like I was sitting here earlier, could have been yesterday, although I am fairly certain it was earlier while I was in the bathroom, in agony, shitting fire from the rear (for what reason I know not—could have been the pizza from last night). I was staring intently at a clock that an old friend, Rick, bought me for Christmas. It’s a clock embedded in a porcelain scene of a lighthouse in Maine, which is on a rocky ridge with billowy clouds in the sky. But I began thinking of a story in the second person, which I normally don’t like, but then it seemed kind of neat. I then began to rethink it in the third person and then the first person. Second and thirds sounded the best to me. Here goes:

It was dark out, near midnight and it was damp from the rain. A fog was rolling in from the coast and up ahead some distance away over a hill you could see the pulsing light of a working lighthouse. You’re walking up a gravel road surrounded by woods on either side and you’re wet and shivering and strange thoughts accost your mind. You’re wondering how you came to be wandering. You remember having stopped in a diner to get in out of the rain, but that was hours ago and you used a dollar to buy a coffee.

You pull your collar up closer to your neck as you feel the wind pick up and the chill air cut across your face and neck. You’re wearing a black woolen cap and torn black gloves. Your coat is old and worn. You hear something behind you. A car coming up the road from the distance, you think. You look behind you and see light dancing about the fog and you’re gripped with fear. So much so that you freeze and watch as the light comes closer. You cannot see the headlights yet, but the light cutting through and bouncing around in the fog seems to be getting brighter. You look to either side of the road and see only the trees that are at the edge and you’re not sure if there is a drop, but you jump to your right and grab onto a tree and slide down and realize that your lying almost vertically on wet dirt and decay, holding onto a root or perhaps the bottom of the trunk of a young sapling and you realize you’re covered in bush, but if you let go you might plummet a hundred feet. Who knows?

10:17 PM

I find it amusing, and this hasn’t happened recently, but rather just popped into my head, that when the simple minded hear something that sounds vaguely interesting coming from, say, a song you’re playing or some line from a book (something you might consider entertaining at best), they call it deep and say things like, “You like all that deep stuff.” At which point I raise an eyebrow and say, “Huh? Deep? Like the ocean?” I just don’t understand some people. Perhaps these peoples’ apparent shallowness is too deep for me to comprehend. Perhaps I am the simpleton. Well, look at my words, my works. Very simple. Nothing astonishing or earth shattering, just thoughts, random and dull.

Sometimes I shake and I noticed that I sometimes speak aloud (a mumble, or my lips move) the words that I am thinking. Sherri noticed a few times but I played dumb. So, perhaps the madness is slowly coming… in bits and pieces my minds are fracturing further. I don’t know.

I was thinking that I ought to try to discover the nature of the universe, perhaps divine some answers by steeping my brain solely in the pursuit of mastering the game of GO. And why not? Fuck it all. I’ll become a professional Go player. I’ll write a Go playing program that’ll beat a 10 dan player, and why the hell not? Get me that million dollar prize! It’s a plan, stan.

Book recommendation by Dmitriy. Remarque’s “All Quiet on the Western Front,” and “Three Friends.” Sounds good to me. Perhaps next time I make it out to the used book store I’ll score it lucky. Last time I didn’t find much of anything. But that’s how it goes when you take a chance at the Half-Price. It’s hit or miss. And then you wander around all day in a dumb stupor, a melancholy haze of misty blue, some green and red thrown in for the hell of it. Everything sucks until you get back to your pad and sit your ass into your well worn reading chair and face the shelves of books and then all seems right with the world.

Odds and Ends

2004-03-28T16:58:00.000-05:00

Since I’ve been unemployed, now for a little over a week, I’ve been trying to write some pieces, essays on the state of affairs of our economy and how high tech jobs are moving overseas to places like India. But my writing seems just awful anymore. I look at it while writing and think it’s pretty damned good, but truthfully it’s all mostly trite bullshit. I don’t know what’s going on, not really. I read some pieces online and in trade journals about India and overseas outsourcing and I got nervous and wondered if I’ll ever be able to find work again. So I thought I might try my hand at writing. Maybe get into some big magazine somewhere. I wouldn’t mind writing like David Sedaris. He’s damned good. Maybe I should stick with introspection and fiction. Deep thoughts, struggling to make a name for myself. All the while living poorly, my wife and I, scraping for scraps. She working overtime, me writing on fragments of paper with stubs of pencils, sharpening the points with my finger nails, pulling away bits of the pencil wood, staining my already stained and greasy fingers with pencil lead, my beard getting longer and greyer, the hovel (a small apartment) cold in winter, hot as hell in summer, cheap plumbing, rusty water, a fridge that barely works and is rarely filled. Oh the life of the struggling artist. My god, what I would shrink to, how I would appear. Madness lurking around the corner, under my desk, in my beard… ha ha… laughing at me this madness, threatening to take over, to come to the surface of my frail mind, and then split me, fracture my personality into little shards, bits and pieces. Christ what a mess.

11:29 PM

I believe that no social problem can be solved. I believe that there are partial solutions to a given social problem, but not ever a single, universal solution.

The problem of bigotry. Unless we can send out some kind of mind ray that turns everyone into a joy-filled, non-hateful, loving and caring person, there will exist intolerance. But is tolerance always the correct thing? Should we have to “tolerate” something? Does not toleration imply some pressure we’re forced to not give in to? And if so, what pressure is this? Is it entirely learned? I can certainly say that my mother holds prejudices about lesbians and gay men and I’m pretty sure about black people, although she seems to admit that she likes the black people in the Virgin Islands, a place where my father often goes on business. She says that aren’t the same as blacks in the United States. Now, having grown up with this you’d think that I would also hold prejudices. But I neither tolerate blacks nor am I prejudiced. For one, there is nothing to tolerate. They are human beings. I am a human being. I have nothing against them and in fact there is no them, there is only we, us, all. I hold no prejudice either. I don’t know why, but it could be that, unlike my mother, I grew up in a community consisting almost completely of white people. Whenever a new student would enter my school, whether Indian, Black, Chinese (essentially, not Caucasian/White) I would be always intrigued and curious. Even today I am still drawn to people who hail from places not anywhere near where I live. I’ve made friends with Russians, Indians, Greeks, Chinese, Koreans, Japanese (I think), and have made acquaintances with two fellows from Mexico (when I worked at SmartOps). Oh, and also I made acquaintances with a fellow named Kaare at SmartOps, who is from Norway.

It’s very odd, but in all of the jobs I’ve had as a software developer, I think that I’ve only worked with one black person and she was fresh out of college. She was a junior programmer, with some attitude, who didn’t like me too much, even though I recommended her highly after my interview with her (I somehow intimidated her during the interview, but not intentionally). And as I suspected she turned out to be a good employee and very smart. I am surprised, however, to not have seen more black people in technical positions, well at least in a software engineering capacity. I don’t know why.

But to get back to some original point I was attempting to make, unless everyone thinks as I do and possesses those qualities I mention above, we’ll never really have a society free from bigotry and prejudice. And of course there are partial solutions. But these won’t work for everyone. There are people who just hate and there is little anyone can do about it. Hate for hate’s sake. And I don’t mean serial killers or shit like that, but people who hate, period. Like those people who seem completely delusional who think that anyone except a born and bred “white man” from the U.S.A., is worthless and only good when dead. What’s funny is that they seem to all forget that their own heritage doesn’t stem from these lands originally. But from somewhere deep in the heart of what one might call Africa. Stupid men who don’t rationalize but rather use sheer hateful emotion and incredibly twisted interpretations of the bible cannot ever know peace in themselves or out in the world. It must be a horrible existence.

Unemployed Again

2004-03-20T16:56:00.000-05:00

I am once again unemployed. I was working for Netspoke as an independent contractor for the past five months and doing quite well. I got the chance to work from home each day and to collaborate with Andrew remotely. But after completing the project, the Archive Viewer, and having it successfully released to our customers, all new development had been put on hold and so I was no longer needed. Jake called to give me the news, but he did say that he hoped tat sometime in the future they could call on me to help again, moonlight, as it were. I said that I had no problem with that and so we parted, over the phone, on friendly terms.

I have been preoccupied, mentally, these past few days. I’ve been distant, and Sherri has noticed and is worried. We’ve been trying to have a baby. This evening I couldn’t keep an erection but we did manage to make love the last night and a number of time early in the week and the week before. We’re hoping that she’s pregnant this time around…we’ve been using the fertility monitor, which helped out the first time she got pregnant. I don’t let on, but I am very worried about Sherri getting pregnant again. I would certainly hate for her to have to go through the horrendous physical and emotional pain of miscarriage. For me it was bad enough, and while I was with her at all times, I couldn’t imagine the pain, even though I could see it on her face or in her crumpled body as she lay on a hospital gurney in a fetal position, the cramps coming every minute or so.

I am fairly certain that I qualify for unemployment compensation. I’ve spoken now with two people from the PA unemployment compensation department. The first time I called to talk with someone who turned out to be a very nice gentleman. The second was a rather pleasant speaking woman who called me today to get some details that apparently the fellow I spoke with the day before had forgotten to ask me about. Anyway, after answering her questions she said that the computer indicated that I was indeed eligible. Of course with my luck it might turn out completely opposite. We shall see.

With the money I’ll make getting unemployment I can certainly pay the household payment. Sherri’s pay will have to go toward the car and other expenses, and she doesn’t really get much money. I’ve been trying to write some software on my own, some useful things that I might be able to sell online. But I’m not sure yet. I’ve also been tossing around ideas for essays and articles—but although I have this overwhelming desire to become a successful writer, I get blocked the minute I try to think about what it is that I want to write. It’s really fucked up.

To save money, we were thinking about dropping the cable (or just getting the standard cable) and going to DSL (a phone-line alternative to Cable) for our internet hookup. DSL is a lot cheaper than the digital cable. And although Sherri and I enjoy the various channels that only digital television provides, basic cable will gives us the main channels at least and besides, I do more reading or working on this PC than I do actually watching television. I just feel bad for Sherri who really enjoys the television. Still, although we got the complete cable package, I can say that we really only ever use 15, maybe 20% of the thing. What use we get from cable television certainly doesn’t seem to justify the ridiculous cost.

Rock and Roll Evolution

2004-03-14T16:54:00.000-05:00

There was a distinct evolution between the rock and roll of the 80’s through the modern, alternative rock of the 90’s, which has come of age in the early 21st century. No doubt because my mind works in a vastly different way, I am probably stating the absurdly obvious, but I think it is interesting to note some of the differences that I’ve noticed.

In the rock and roll in which I grew up to love and then, unfortunately, to grow out of, there is a distinct point within a song’s progression when the lead guitar becomes the blaring center, perhaps once, or like, for example, Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb, twice. Even with Metallica today we can here the remnants of the at one time, universal rock and roll, lead riffs set down by the maestro guitarist (axe wielder).

I’ve noticed that with “alternative” rock, which seems to now have become mainstream and no longer an alternative but rather the de-facto rock and roll standard, the guitar lead riffs have been pushed back and enveloped by the melody and harmony. You can still hear the lead riff, but it has now joined the ranks of the once inferior rhythm section, or might we say that the rhythm section has been moved up to a place of honor with the lead guitarist? In any case, I see it as not only a change in style, but a social change. The very grain of the “kids” who form new bands today seem to drive this lack of inter-band ego. [the mind wanders and goes off into infinity…this tangent is now lost… I hope it didn’t mean anything too important…someday, perhaps, I shall return.]

Living Poor

2004-03-09T16:52:00.000-05:00

I feel like I am living poor. My wife is now managing all the finances and any mention of money (like may I have some to buy a book) is often met with a scowl and a lecture. It’s gotten to the point that if I want to purchase music online, I have to wait until she’s has had a pepsi whose cap contains a secret code, redeemable at iTunes. Well, that’s not too bad. I now have two purchased songs in my library now (live version of Pink Floyd’s “On the Turning Away,” and Nickelback’s “Someday,” from their Long Road album).

Last weekend, or perhaps the weekend before, Sherri allowed me to go to the half price book store where I purchased six used books (all in good condition). It actually felt good to buy books again and I suppose there is some feeling of accomplishment if you can go for a while spending no money in order to pay off bills and then be rewarded for your perseverance. Still, I feel as though she treats me like a child. Perhaps she is correct in doing so. I don’t know. But sometime it gets annoying.

Set Theory

2003-12-09T01:07:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been studying set theory, but unfortunately the symbols do not show up in HTML so I don't know how to post here my findings and thoughts on the subject.

Life After Death and a Hi IQ

2003-12-09T01:04:00.000-05:00

Although there is no evidence either way to suggest that there is life after death, I certainly believe that there is not. Of course this is simply a belief, which is perhaps just as valid as someone’s belief in heaven, reincarnation, ethereal plains, etc. One thing is certain from observation and that is that if there is life after death, if something of ourselves persists beyond it, it’s certainly an existence that requires none of the treasure with which we’ve buried our Pharaohs, nor the terracotta armies built to protect our dead emperors. It certainly doesn’t require the clothing on our backs, or the hair on our heads or the very brain within our skulls. Perhaps life after death is a place or a time or a state that requires only our consciousness, our pure thought.

Is this place where our consciousness goes a place of free will and universal enlightenment, or is it a trap, our minds ensnared, buried in darkness forever, deprived of all senses, consciousness without embodiment, no input or output, only our lifetime of thoughts and memories to relive time and again for an eternity? I don’t know what frightens me more, the thought of death itself or what might come after it.

Regardless, it is a question that is particularly interesting to contemplate I suppose.

The other day I was searching around the internet for puzzles and came across a site that advertised a number of very difficult IQ tests. I found a link from that page to a list of what are called Hi IQ societies, which are societies such as Mensa (a society that I used to dream that I could get into). I found a link to a society from that page called the International Hi IQ Society which had a number of tests you could take online, and for free. So I took one of the tests and scored a 150 and was immediately invited to become a member—you can apparently only become a member by scoring in the top 95%. I joined for a lifetime fee of $79.95, and I am going to apparently receive a certificate, a t-shirt, etc. And I must say that thus far the discussion groups have no been boring nor has their online journal. It does seem like a legitimate society for smart people, and now I’m doing all that I can to keep my head from swelling any larger than it already is. I just wish it had a catchy name like Mensa, which to me is like the ultimate Hi IQ society to join, if you can pass their test, which is proctored by a member of Mensa and which costs $30.00 to take.

Work, Sculpture, the Mind and What is Mathematics?

2003-12-05T16:53:00.000-05:00

Up late again, but tomorrow I have to work. I don’t have to go into the office, but I need to work on a Qt client on top of the Microsoft RTC stuff. On Wednesday I have to go into the office to discuss some ideas on how we’ll accomplish streaming of archived conferences. It should be very interesting. Well actually, it probably won’t be so interesting. I’m just skeptical, of course, but I’d rather be working on the RTC stuff and leave the rest of the archive player to Andrew. He thinks that my design was unnecessarily complex. I kind of like the ideas I put into it. But then I tend to think too abstractly perhaps for my own good. Of course I apparently don’t think abstractly enough to be a mathematician or logician.

I’ve been getting a hankering to sculpt. Not clay sculpture, but rather just material sculpture. Like pieces of wood and stone, for example. Or metal. Perhaps even polymer clay—make little creatures and things for Sherri. I should have stuck with the polymer clay for her, but for some reason I became discouraged. For one, I have no permanent work place to do any art or craft. Maybe when the basement is finally finished I can have a corner with a drawing board, some tables, etc.

I often wish that I could find a way to make my mind young and nimble, like a child’s, so that I could absorb such concepts as mathematics, logic, and geometry. Alas, but as I age so does my mind and while I tend to read a lot and to think as much as I can, nothing original ever comes to mind and I feel as though my brain is decaying faster with each passing day. Brain decay… brain decay.

I’ve ordered a number of gifts for Sherri from QVC. I also purchased her favorite perfume which Kaufman’s no longer sells (you can still get it online at discount places). I need to get her a card, too. I should do this sometime this week when I’m out. I have to go to the shrink as usual this Tuesday so maybe when I’m picking up my medications I can also get her a card. There is a Hallmark next to the to Giant Eagle where I get my prescriptions filled, which is at Donaldson’s Crossroads.

Wouldn’t it suck if you found out that the sports you love, such as, say, Football, were all scams? You know, like WWF wrestling, for example. Where the outcomes are decided by the wealthy elite seasons before the games are ever played. Man, what suckers we’d be then, eh?

What is mathematics? I have a book with this very title sitting on a book shelf just above me on my computer table’s hutch. I attempted to read it thinking it might enlighten me. But, I was more confused about what mathematics is after trying to read it than before I’d started. Am I just stupid? Yes, I think so. There are times when I really think that I am.