Station Skepticism

 

        Alone, with no external encouragement or assistance, a toddler does something novel.  New neuron connections are electric-vibration-ally "made".  With repetition, the toddler's memory causes neuron-pathways to become "strengthened".  Since this toddler exists in the constantly new moment where every thing is a first thing; they, consequently, spend no time congratulating themself for stumbling their first step or mumbling their first word because they'd intended to walk across the playpen or ask to be taken out of it.  So—from their perspective—they failed to accomplish their goal.

 

        Spin that smallish human's odometer.

 

        Everyday becomes every week.  Months turn into years of almost or just-barely accomplishing the goal-at-hand while continually doing something novel.  On your own.  With no direction or help from others.  And then you stop.  And ponder the 'no instructions' label.  Is the reverse side of the label a space for you to scrawl notes to your future self? 

        Can you recall deciding to explore what the no-path direction had in store for you?

        When was your first foray into breaking brush?

        How soon did you teach yourself to only advance in a safe, terrain-hugging, instinctual manner?

        Where was your punishment training self delivered and self enforced?

        What made it become (eventually) self desired and self endorsed?

        Who's eventuality caused your inundating disdain tsunami to ripple, falter, and fall apart?

 

        This bench was installed on the side of the path, facing in this direction, by some one (or group of someones) who considered there would be others—future others—who would appreciate a rest at some point during their hike.  The bench installer(s) decided this location would be optimal for that.  Assuredly, they-themself(ves) once sat here (or still sit here).  And.  Even if the bench was built by conservation corp students, the benefactor(s) and the builder(s) must-have all sat here, for at least a few relaxing seconds to mentally congratulate themself(ves) on their just-accomplished goal.

 

        A different goal became an accomplishment for you, today, because you successfully climbed walked all the way to this bench without having to stop and catch your breath.

 

        This only feels like an memorable accomplishment from your perspective.  To you.  Not to the zen-hiker ahead, who's never had one un-synchronized breath go awry.  No, not to them.  And.  Never to the hoard of beyond ear-range delivery-drivers, unaware of their unawareness, streaming along the congested highway far below.  That contented multitude never thinks about the motivations of the odd few who catch up to their breath.  On a bench.  Along a steep path.  Out of earshot.  Surrounded by birdsong, tree-breeze and slowing heartbeats.      

 

        Still.  The reverse-side of the manufacturer's no-instructions label, belonging to the aged human with the still-spinning odometer, now bears a few handwritten notes.  Cryptic ones (except to yourself).

 

        Countless believe their odometer measures solar or lunar cycles.

        Some claim everyone's odometers will keep clicking even after they roll-over.

        Many still advocate for traditional ancestral beliefs—that odometers just measure distance travelled—because spacetime is not a concept their ancestors were aware of.

        You're pretty certain your odometer measures breaths.  Because you've learned to watch it slow.   And you've taught yourself to catch it.  At times, on a path bench. 

 

 

pretty sleepy; but now-me has a few moments of lucidity

 

         I've struggled with behinding-me from the personas and personalities of those who met the past beforing-me.  Some felt-expect there must-exist an [un-felt by always-me] emotion-obligation that they were the superior-queen and could-will-would treat me as a subordinate-serf.  Those people (mostly family) expected beforeing-me to pass this paradigm along to my spawn and they to theirs (with a wink to Z; the judge of that successful-failure?).

 

        Others chose to become friends with an introverted-nerd, which did not always mean that they recognized something of themselves in beforeing-me.  Introverted-nerd "friends" rarely remain lifelong-close in my book (outside of fictional stories and overlapping common interests).

 

        An inordinate number utilized the "subterfuge cloak" of their covert narcissistic persona (or that of their partner) to "become friends".  Those emotional bullies had already taught themselves (or were taught by their own superior-queen) that the persona most useful for a superior-princesses is a subordinate-serf who grew up under a superior-queen. 

        The one last persona, who struggles to come to terms with now-me, are those who struggle with using imagination.  I almost wrote 'their imagination' but that would imply they have constant and easy access to the ability to run their own mind-movies for entertainment and self-instruction.  The name for that trait is [insert sciency word none remember after reading].  People with [word] do not know what it means to "use your imagination" any more than a colorblind golfer 'knows' how to see an orange Titleist in the fairway.  What the imagination-less can understand is blunt directness.

 

        [pause for effect]  But here is the rub:  They were taught by someone to interpret blunt directness as rudeness.  Which it is—to those who understand metaphor.  Since analogies are "lost on them" and bluntness has always been "taken the wrong way," today-me finds itself between a proverbial rock and hard place.

 

        On The One Hand:  I tell no-imagination-nation that the persona you once interacted with has left the building.   My intend interpretation is for those few people who think the before-me and the today-me are the same-me (because I look the same and my voice is similar) to think about the original cliché, "Elvis has left the building!" (Which was said to every Elvis concert-audience so they'd stop ovation-ing and go home) and interpret it as the most harmless communication available to today-me.  My previous experience expects that they will just negative emotion-obligation interpret it as me, condescendingly, going no contact.

 

        On The Other Hand:  Is it possible "going no contact" is only difficult (for always-you) because of your own emotion-obligation interpretation?  Recognize, if you can, the impulse steering/driving you away from even the appearance of thinking of yourself, as superior?  YOU?  You Are A Serf!  Behave like you were programmed!

        Do do do da da da is all I want to say to today-you . . . it's meaningless . . . and all that's true.

 

        Always-you doesn't need to always make yourself feel the impulse of negative emotion when your behavior might cause someone else to—maybe—blame you for making them feel a negative emotion.  This emotion is only a safeguard.  You can (from-now-on-and-forevermore) recognize the safeguard as related to 'behaving condescendingly' and choose to sometimes allow it.  There are going to be more and more future times (as today-me improves itself to become a better tomorrow-me) when your future-selves possess a superior state of awareness compared to your today-self.  Allow always-you to grow beyond any and all wrongfully instilled safeguards.  

 

        On The Third Hand:  Today-you has every responsibility to think of your today-me, and all potential future-me's, as superior to every-all of your before-me's.  When today-you avoids actions (and decisions leading to future actions) which would be rationalizations-of, or excuses-for, future actions that tomorrow-me would definitely consider hypocritical—you are remaining aware of your self-drive to be better.  For yourself.  Every instance where you prove, to yourself-in-the-moment, that you aren't a hypocrite is one more reason to feel superior to the you that you might have become if you weren't able to remain aware of your self-drive guiding today-you toward a better future-you.

       Your 'creative persona' (which seizes control whenever it is allowed) directs your attention to focus on the quantity of positive qualia present, as well as it's (your) ever-constant self-goal-challenge of striving toward a noticeable improvement in quality until satisfaction eventually becomes contentment.  [A prerequisite of this self-goal:  Possessing the capability to imagine what satisfied-and-contented would feel like; recognizing the satisfied-contented experience while it is happening; and evaluating satisfactory-contentment as a memory (which is what recalling what it felt-like feels like).]

        Future-present-past would feel-feels-felt is an invaluable measuring tool to teach yourself.  If there is one thing to take away from these paragraphs, this is it.  Pick a thing that you imagine you would feel if that thing were to occur in your presence.  Orchestrate events so it happens.  Pay close attention to how your emotions react in the moment.  Reflect on those emotions.  Rinse and repeat (with refinement in expectations, reactions, and reflections as needed and desired).

Response to Well-Wishers

 

        When wishing someone a pleasant weekend it is "taken as a given" that they (like everyone, the well-wisher wrongfully assumes) must look-forward-to and enjoy experiencing the days of not laboring or of working to earn their living more than they enjoy their workweek.  Those who are comfortably retired—or that rare-someone who greatly enjoys the passion of their labors more than the the painful days spent away from their work—are still capable of understanding the glad-tidings as they were intended; and replying with a perfunctory 'thank you, you-too'.

 

        However, my autism gets rattled when receiving a "Happy Thanksgiving!" demand, or a query of "What are your plans for Turkey Day?"  

 

        Because of a difficult to explain state-of-mind (ever-present in always-me) I find it extremely difficult to accept these glad tidings in the same manner.  

 

        Before-me replied, years-ago, with words of this nature:

        "We don't celebrate the fourth Thursday of November.  My partner is Native American.  My ancestors tried really-hard to genocidally-murder all of her ancestors.  Then, after my ancestors didn't completely succeed, they forcefully subjugated, second-class citizen-ed, and supported many institutional prejudices, all of which were inflicted upon every single one of her surviving ancestors (up-to and including her and her immediate family).  Celebrating Thanksgiving Day was created by, and for, the sons and daughters of former colonizers and slave owners.  It's an entrenched institutionalized prejudice. 

        So...it seems...?...that this would be a hypocritical thing for anyone to turn a blind-eye toward.  For me.  For her.  For you.  And for you to indoctrinate your kids into.  Or, do you 'choose not to think' of the holiday in this manner?  Because that intentional choice is you behaving intentionally as a hypocrite.  Full disclosure: I didn't celebrate it before I met my partner; just one of many reasons we're simpatico."

        Now-me, this year, replied, "We don't celebrate" full stop.  I now understand that elaborating (with intentionally spiky "reasons") was pushing buttons and stirring the pot, but was mostly something I had once said in order to make then-me feel superior.   That former behavior of mine was ineffectual, conflict-causing, and behavior which in-itself was a hypocritical way of behaving.  I didn't know then what I know about myself now.  

 

        By writing this here, in my journal, it's up to you.  All of it.  I have no designed-ability to feel superior and don't have any way to know who—if anyone—reads this and then makes a lasting decision to find a reasonable restaurant owned/operated by fellow non-celebrants (at time of writing, it's mostly Asian food) which is willing to remain open on the last fourth Thursday of November, and reply with a 'we don't celebrate' of your own.

past beatings of a dead horse:

 

Harvest Festival

The Blessings and Curses of Tim "Meanie" O'tae

|  Open a new tab  |

|  U-Tube Simple Math by Manchester Orchestra  |

|  Come back to this tab  |

|  Read this creative non-fiction essay  |

|  As the words of this allegorical allegory flow  |

|  The sounds selected by the algo-rhythmical algorithm form  |

|  A combination of uniquely new experiential mental information  |

|  Which algorithmically aggregates into your each unfolding moment  |

|  Accept  |

 

 

        Meanie's mother divorced his dad before he could form any memories (of him).  Depending on who you asked, it was:

• Occasionally referred-to as "both a blessin'-an'-a-curse".
• Would never even be contemplateable to ever think of those circumstances in that manner.
• The foundation upon which Meanie learned how to become who he would and would-not become as an adult.

        Meanie's mother's performance of June Cleaver (at Marble Meadow's Centerfield Playhouse) was how she convinced Meanie's future stepdad (who played Ward Cleaver) to marry her.  Depending on what year you happened to talk to any of them, it was either:  The role she was born-an'-raised to play; A convenient lifeboat (of sorts); Much better than her earlier role as the clumsy, baby-trapping, waitress (at The Inn's Mainhouse on the Hill); Or, it was "just another port in the storm (for all involved)".

 

        After taking their renditions of June and Ward Cleaver on-the-road—and dragging Meanie along—Meanie's mother's new husband's character encouraged/caused/magnified Meanie's mother to develop/create/accelerate her increasingly authoritarian retinue in order to (punish Meanie for being an O'Tae) find a reason to keep Meanie in a constant state of uncertainty.  Consequently, some oddly vague things were referred-to as sins and Meanie was beaten-down for some random (other) oddly specific things.

 

        Even though those vague-specifics changed as Meanie grew, their absolute-forbidden nature was something of which Meanie's mother was always 100% certain.  Her highlight-reel included various levels of physical and mental punishments for:  riding bicycles; playing with dolls or action figures; not talking and just staring when being scolded; always asking 'why' (called talking-back); crying for any reason; accusing any grownup of deception or of being wrong; playing with 'unapproved-of' neighbors or schoolmates (within her vicinity) or (on the rare occasion Meanie was permitted to leave the yard) playing with any 'unapproved-of' toys belonging to others.  ["Hey Timmy, wanna come over an' shoot at GI-Joe's with my BB-gun?" . . . "Can't. I'm not allowed."]

         'He raped me' was the foreign-sounding sentence his mother readily unsheathed after Meanie was old enough to wonder, naive enough to expect a logical explanation, and bold enough to ask why she had left his dad before he could remember his face.  Meanie had nobody to request another explanation from.  Step-dad was too comfortably-afraid of losing his ready-made facade-family and Sunday school teacher's, pastor's, and adult neighbor's (murmuring *ask yer parents*) would always report Meanie's queries (resulting in an excuse for more or additional punishments).  And since he was still too young for elementary school, Meanie had no older kids to ask what rape was.

 

        Meanie never actually knew that was his nickname.  He thought what he did with other boys was "teasing" and that it was funny, entertaining (and felt a little exciting).  He had no idea that his behavior was called bullying (or that he was doing it to the other boys).  He did, eventually, realize—once he was privileged-enough to earn his own personal bully (who's knuckle-rap-punches to Meanie's head were never hard enough to bruise and never witnessed by an adult).

 

        In order for middle-schooler little Timmy O'Tae to avoid his mother's worst emotional-torture, he never informed any adult about the daily assaults and constant fear-of-the-next one . . . *when's he gonna catch me again?*

 

        By the time he reached puberty, Tim Cleaver (never mistakenly called O'tae because the Cleaver's were always moving to a new state, new classmates, new neighbors) was an expert at camoflaged-hiding (in a living room or a classroom) and reading the vibrations in every environment with the goal to fine-tune his 'early warning signal'.  Tim was always refining it—that was automatic-mandatory.  Primary mission (think: Captain Kirk's voice) to better-identify the hidden intent of the sharks in the water before they get within striking range.  And most of the sharks have camouflaged themselves to the point that you forget that everything is one form of shark or another.  Hammerhead to Nurse; Whale to White.     

        Jobs after school and during school-breaks (for under-minimum-wage cash) became Tim Cleaver's only way to spend every possible waking hour away-from the Cleaver home and out-of his mother's vicinity.  She punish-enforced half of Tim's paychecks into a college savings account; the blessing and curse of which (depending on perspective and when you asked whomever) was that:  He never had enough money for socializing or for himself - and - 17-year-old-Tim had compiled the ability to graduate high-school and immediately escape to the cheapest in-state college available at that time.  Thanks Mom, he never said; thanks-to-me, she always said.

 

        Late-teenager-Tim Cleaver's mask began to fit less uncomfortably once he transferred to an out-of-state university.  He could go daze or sometimes almost unmemorable weaks before forgetting to remember that he still had it on.

 

        Because the Art of Presenting a Low Profile was all Tim's every memorable experience in his entire crib-to-college existence had ingrained/trained/practiced, joining a huge faceless organization and becoming just another small knuckle-joint in the machine (disappearing) was The Best-Only Available Option, behaviorally.

Imagine yourself seeing this from Tim's perspective:  He was thinking of a mind other than his own mind.  And this other mind has the ability to run a diagnostics report of it's internal function system and a diagnosis can be made—by Tim about Tim—in a way that Tim *thinks* he is behaving/believing in an objective (switching to subjective) manner of the "good shark".  Everyone is a good shark inside of themselves.  On their own stage.  Of course, for every one of us, some form of internal regulator must be built up from a chosen "baseline" value-system (full disclosure: default-mode is the one instilled/reinforced by adult-guardians).  As awareness of the rational combines with the sometimes-arbitrary emotional—in a chaotic shark-soup of cause-and-effect—the intended-state to remain in a 'remind myself to never forget' frame-of-mind, clashes with the 'I'm now-and-forever anchored to a point of consistent evaluation of itself/myself,' which exists only in this moment.  Evaluate and compare those impressive wavelengths of qualia (in-of a *musical-scratch-sniff postcard*) to all prior un-informed states of previously-held ignorance/naivety . . . drifting . . . forgetting . . . you've lost its leash . . . is it now-feral and should it not-now be thought of as apart from chaos?  It's not simple to imagine Tim's shoes on your feet; or is it?

         All if-of who Tim has experienced to-date was aided/abetted as well as informed-formed by [list the ever-growing spectrum of consciousness disorders] . . . CPTSD/Asperger's/Autism/Personal Logic-Honor System/emotionally programmed by punishment(s) . . .etcetera . . . Tim was (still, unfortunately) perfecting the art of presenting a low profile (even though the reasons to do-so were less-necessary).

 

        Preliminarily accepting the uniform-role of follower; Encouraging people to never think about you when you were not in the room; Never blaming anyone besides yourself and your own failings:  These were a slice of Tim's behaviors (depending on who you want to believe).  And, at the same time, Tim's early warning antenna became even more finely tuned (any hint of unrest on any horizon was immediately met with fawning and acquiescent attention toward whomever caused that unrest).  This was still the case even-though he was associating with (or thinking about) his mother and step father less and less-often.  Then death.  Then estrange.

 

        Then.  Eventually, or some later when, Old Timothy O'tae changed who he was.  By legally returning to his preferred name and starting to fulfill the life he was determined to desire.  As Timothy fully embraced the truthful manner of living without hypocrisy, he recognized (for the first time in his relatively long life) that he was:

 

No longer able to fully bully himself

Shamefully shameful

Shy-fully selfish

Willingly holding-to-held himself up

To the standards required of him by himself

Dealing-to-dealt with each of the selvwe's

 And all our my me's

I know that only I kin ken

But only because I allow myself

Certain get-away-with's or -without's

Which side-step all forms

 Of need for self-recriminating behaviors

So, no longer vexing myself with shame

Or allowing any self-blame to ricochet around

And never permitting vitriolic self-effacement

Allows the bliss-happy-neutral to root

And it - then - becomes the dominant

Mood-tone personality theme-song aura

Which Emanates from the baseline level grasp

Of the areas in front of and adjacent the occipital lobe

As longer experiences rest between 8.5 and 10.5

Tempered-to (not-to) all the way to eleven

Forming unobserved-waves which enlighten while

Lengthening love's amplitude  |  Rinse-repeat

As the selves dance in every best-imagined

And the crest of a wave continues floating

Always crossing here

At some point

h e r e

      

It Matters Not The Terrain

Chosen By You Or For You

As Long As The Destination

Reached, Then-Them Valued

 

Step Up, Step Down, Crouch,

As Long As The Next Moment

Falls Within Your Future Grasp

And You Can Understand Why

Control Needs Beyond Reach

Accept Your Own Assistance

Experiment Strengthen-ing

Yourself As Long As You

symbol transliteration

 

         〰ミ᯾          

                                        Explanations for The Double-Slit Experiment (DSE) can be found where most explanations are commonly located.  Although most would prefer a science communicator to distill the results of these experiments down in a simple TicTok, any level of brevity or synopsis removes most-of (all) the crucial-for-understanding details (e.g. quantum probability, electrons, protons, mass, gravity, particles, waveform interference patterns, and information measurement). 

 

Spend any amount of time studying the DSE's results and their outcomes (of novice and quantum-physicist alike) results in either confusion and/or disbelief.  Because, of course, how else could the phrase, 'The particle—once measured—goes back in time to its point of origin and subsequently appears as if it was always a wave and never a particle' be thought of?  If you aren't confused, what you don't understand is that it's not just an experiment which appears to reveal particles of light-energy travelling backwards in time, but that those particles are doing-so at faster than the speed of light.  Two impossibilities in physics at the same time is, normally, reason to conclude an huge error in the experiment. 

 

        ᯣ ᨟ ᦒ

                                        The neuron cells of everything with a centralized collection of ganglia (or a brain) collects "experiences" which were correlated with an emotion that was "felt" by the body.  Emotions are caused by a mixture of gland-releasing chemicals in the organism's nervous system.  The stronger the emotion, the stronger the memory; strong memories are easily and readily recalled and subsequently reinforced (and re-reinforced).

 

The brain's subconscious (mistakenly referred-to as its right-half because the speech-center is located in most human's left lobe) is capable of making connections, contemplating ideas, weighing options, and making mental, non-verbal "suggestions" (at all times, not just when the conscious-brain is resting).  Most human's conscious-brain can not "recognize" their sub-conscious "at work"; instead, we source those ideas as coming from our intuition.

 

 

          𐩘𑁍𐩕

                                        Each spermatozoa and every ovum contain one strand (a half-strand of DNA) comprised of a random portion of that individual's DNA.  Consequently, spermatozoa and ovum are each "coded" for a slightly different combination of characteristics.  Every fertilized egg divides exponentially as each of the cells grows according to the combination of that random portion's "coding".

Evolution (mistakenly referred-to as survival of the fittest) can be easily identified when an animal's society (or culture) incentivizes specific characteristics over others.  If a specific eye-color or body-size or strength or wing-span is favored by enough of a species, for multiple generations, those selectively chosen-for traits or characteristics are said to have "evolved" to become dominant.

more or less:

spock-hold mind-meld

you build your personas

  

⬒ Mark Rothko ⬒

 

The magnitude—on every level of experience and meaning—of the task in which you have involved me, exceeds all my preconceptions and is teaching me to extend myself beyond what I thought was possible for me.  For this, I thank you. 

 

⬒

 

        Mark Rothko is the name of an artist whom I chose to admire after my eye discovered his frames in combinations of colors on the walls of some museums where my professors worshiped.  This was while I was attending classes (paying these professor's salaries) because everyone I'd trusted, watched, read or obeyed said, "better humans were graduates and the best graduates matriculated."  So, after college, when I chose to wring my income from the other lobe of my puzzle-solving grey matter, I succeeded in failure.  A mark I branded onto me at the behest of everyone I'd . . . except I today-now know how to no longer see things as a main quest and side quests.  I'm this currently-held collection of values.  Still, one of the artists I admire:

        Mark Rothko wrought a living creating colored panes of light while his life spanned world wars and he weighted his involvement in both American industry and the boom in commerce that it caused (and deserved) against the autumnal strife of his personal theosophical coda . . . is quite a sentence.  And, if I failed to italicize the 'Mark...coda' portion of this meta-paragraph: my apologies; but, you understand (or you should—by now) what I'm attempting to accomplish here, don't you?

 

        Mark Rothko is the open, opening, closing or closed window between my best friend and I [she loves him] and that's an opinion people are allowed to possess, is what I re-iterate.  She sees the size of blocks of colors which inform her of the type of instrument used to impart that color onto the surface and the deliberate strokes of fluid which must have dried into a slightly lighter tone near the edge where the collection of tones is more direct but not brighter and thinks about how this type of dissociation is leaving another comfortable impression in the after-image when she blinks.  While I admire other artists who communicate with more visual complexity, which translates into requires more time (both, for me to fully appreciate the task accomplishment, and for the artist to create it) she derides me by asking, "What it-is about . . ."

 

        Mark Rothko marked his logo in your ego and labelled it the happy baby.  Remember?  When you watched the ceiling while listening to now become then and then remain now until someone said by bye or nite night and then the streetlights washed the ceiling thru the window's shadow with your contentment of what this all, really, was about.  And, was still happening with every prenatal breath?  preternatural-questioning breath?  conscious breath?  We no longer think about the times anchored by tears; those buoys are easy to locate.  There were years of happy and decades of content spent inside closed colors shadowing ideas returned to tackle the successes and delineate what exactly the satisfaction sense "felt like".  Try this.  While keeping in mind the over-arching decision to compare or equate-to cashmere:  Imagine being relegated to the chore of picking up all the spilled pumice and putting their fragments in burlap coffee-bean sacks.  Now.  Create a cashmere equivalent which holds a specific forceful feeling that stands in opposition to that of the gravel-grit abrasion. 

 

        Mark Rothko's "magnitude thank-you note" quote was him trying to relate thanks to the art patrons who afforded his ability to find the desire to become [insert word which means best version of one's self]. And he accomplished what he did not know he wanted to accomplish when he started, thru self motivation into experimentation and toward existential realization.  Because nothing else matters (a stanza from a Metallica song).

 

If I have a superpower, we'll know in the next...

 

        Thirteen years.

         

        Umm, eh, what's that?

         

        I've learned about a superpower that I might have; it takes about thirteen years for results, so I'm currently testing to determine if I can strengthen its severity and reduce its lag-time.

        Oh, wow, Ok.  Explain, please.  And. ahh, just hit the highlights.  I don't have room for tangents or deep explanations in my head anymore today.

        Twitter became the "first big thing" to reduce communication quality.  Thirteen years ago, I created this artwork, titled:  Kill Twitter, Kill It Dead  after recognizing it was harming more than just the previously addled.  Those who once possessed humor and contemplative insights were slowly (but not imperceptibly) communicating as if they were all self-lobotomized stoners.

 

        Impaired awareness had caused as well as cauterized their brain damage.  Consequently, they continued to blindly self-harm.  For hours.  Everyday.

 

        As one of only a few audience-members who recalls admiring their expertise—as skilled aerialists and trapeze artists, net-lessly soaring thru the highest circus tent peaks—I felt dismayed to recognize them intentionally stumbling around the center ring, as they cheerfully climbed into and out of tiny clown cars with a growing crowd of others.

  

        After thirteen years, Twitter was beheaded and arrow-shot thru the spine.  While it does still exist as a "formerly known as" entity, its existence possesses a musky MySpace flavor.

        Right, soo, yea, your superpower was to predict or to cause this with a cartoonish sketch?

        And now, to determine my efficacy:  

Kill the GOP, Kill it Dead

        If you are reading this after 2035, and the GOP is still a viable US political party, then my superpower failed (or did not exist).
 

 

similar:

 

your tired... 

 

Final Words

֎ spock-hold 🤝 mind-meld ֍

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ᛉ Ⲷ Ⲷ ⴸ

 

〰ミ᯾   ᯣ ᨟ ᦒ   𐩘𑁍𐩕

 

〷ᳶꕆ   ᨆ෴ᨕ   ꤂ᜯೞ

 

⚇ ⍹ ⚆    ➲ ⨀ ↈ    ⚲ ⍾ ⎎

 

  ✺⛰⛊   ▼∎ ⬢   ⚰ ▢🔘

 

𖤈 𖤒 ⛆    𝞝 𖤅 ┋    ⛡⸙ ␥

 

 

 

reluctant-translators:

floating toward pupil

 

entusk musk trees

What Difference A Year Makes

 

 

Mystery may be mysterious, but it always causes curiosity in the curious

 

Thoughts are those things inside us, which exist before we say them

 

Thoughts become cogent ideas the longer one contemplates them

 

Us our-cells and we:  Non-Essential in Forming the NonDual

 

 

 

 

 

whelmax zipless tightsoft darksilent 11Ksec drypump up-level {90∆8-1/4hhc-30+60ⓒ}

 

 

 

watershedate:

 

Spring Queen

 

Neosporing (05)

Blindxpot

[Say:  Blie-N-sz-Paht; Go On Glossary, Appendix 𝈂]

 

    Within the "Every Thing is a Mind Thing" realm:  a blindxpot is considered the mental-memory equivalent of the mental-vision's blindspot (at the juncture of optic-nerve and retinal visual field).

 

   Blindxpots are normally caused by glitches in long-term and working-memory.  Since almost all memories are stored in both brain hemispheres and across multiple lobes, blindxpots occur almost exclusively in memories which were supposed to be stored in one lobe of one hemisphere.  (This suppose-ing is normally done because of one or more associated memories located in different areas of the brain.)

 

    The neighbor's name was saved when they introduced themselves.  Later: the neighbor's face, voice, stories, vehicle, odors, and behaviors are easily recollected by you.  Their name is nowhere to be found.  Label names are stored in one specific lobe.  This blindxpot exists because it seems easier (for most of us) to adopt the: sorry, I'm terrible with names behavior, than to spend several deliberate seconds, or a couple minutes, focusing on:

    ⚜    stop all engagement (including active listening) 

    ⚜    take the mental label maker from long-term storage (blow the dust off)

    ⚜    lock-in this new label with this new item -

            ⚜    if new label is already associated with an existing item (beige name)

                        ⚜    identify "hook" to hang it on (e.g. Greyhound Charles)

            ⚜    if new label is novel, confusing, or multi-syllabic (e.g. Veach name)

                        ⚜    identify reason for confusion ("¿spell that for me please?")

     ⚜   recall and confirm new label after a relatively significant quantity of time lapses

    Just as it's possible to "find" your blindspot (with one eye open and a pencil eraser held at arm's length) "discovering" a blindxpot, will always be accompanied by the unexpected "surprise" of the naïve—every time.  Someone considered 'always too optimistic' may have a intellectually incurious blindxpot for challenges, pitfalls, and faults.  Similarly, constant angry pessimist's may have a serendipitous advantage blindxpot.   

 

        Identify an irritating behavior disliked in others—even though it's a behavior observed in oneself:  I denounce those who ____blank____ more than I do.  {I've chosen 'stare at their phones' as an example.} 

    

        a)    Continue to hold a critical opinion of others, while rationalizing away all self-criticism.  {Solid blindxpot.}

 

        b)    Evaluate the behavior and its accompanying hypocrisy and decide to accept it in everyone.  I'm not proud that I always stare at my phone just like everyone else.  {Good first step; you are no longer a hypocrite.  But, look around.  Are there ever people you might interact with (or who would interact with you) if you put away your phone?}

 

        c)    Change the behavior.  Treat it like a taboo or a disapproved-of vice.  I erased Apps or I leave it (in airplane mode, off, home, or in my pocket) unless I'm totally alone in private.  When no longer alone, I immediately close my phone.  {Blindxpot removed.}  

 

    Each eye's blindspot is "covered" by the other eye, with binocular vision.  Accordingly, we rarely remember that our blindspots exist and never explain (or recognize) our failure to see something as caused by it being in our ocular-blindspot.

 

    Recognizing one's blindxpots is best accomplished during contemplative meditation.  

 

        a)    Set a timer (on your airplane-mode device) for one hour; sit somewhere comfortable; close your eyes.

 

        b)    Ask yourself, "Do I have a blindxpot, which—if identified—I might decide to change?"  Ponder the thoughts which arise from your prompt.

  

        c)    Once you realize a blindxpot, ask yourself, "If I remove this blindxpot will I and those around me be happier?"

 

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fodder for fans:

 

Unnecessary Noise Prohibited

 

a blindxpot of mine

 

blindxpot of a story character

Vermont Car Show (people watching)

 

    "What's class number twenty-six?"  asked the man who had just read the official 66th Annual Vermont Antique Car Show document, displayed on the dash of my 2015 smart fortwo.  (The card read: Class #26: Display Only, special interest groups 1989-2023, not judged.)  I did not stand up from my lounge chair to greet him.  Instead, I merely said, 'not judged' from the comfort of the portable screened gazebo I'd put in the back of my stall, behind the tiny car.

 

    He walked with a stiff posture, carried around some permanently crinkled face muscles, and talked with a bully's 'searching-for-someone-who-deserves-it' demeanor.  "What's with this snapperhead?" he indicated towards my license plate.

 

    "That's related to my artwork."

 

    His sneer-scoff was just noticeable as a nose-twitch-lip-curl as he came towards the gazebo's zipper-door and said, "You're an artist.  What kind of art do you do?"

 

    I got up and said, "Like this image." As I exited the shade, patting my chest, he stared at me too long because (I think) he couldn't tell if I was holding eye-contact, because I was wearing ultra-dark mountaineering sunglasses with side-shields (which relaxed my Asperger-desire to look away from faces).  He could, however, read my smile, easy attitude, close-trimmed full-white beard, and colorful hat.

 

    He glanced longer than necessary at the abstract splash-type of shape (the color of faded-blood) on my hoodie.  "Some weird shit.  Don't get it.  I guess it's not..."

 

    I intentionally cut him off:  "New England.  It's the outline of New England."

 

    "Bullshit."  He batted my statement down with a waist-level flap of wrist.

 

    I tipped my head to the left and said, "Not everyone can see it."

 

    "Oh, I see it.  It's just.  That's not art."

 

    "Not everyone likes what I create.  That's their prerogative."  I said, turning and zipping myself back inside my bug-free shade.

 

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     "I would like to thank you so much for being here today.  I love-love-love that you've displayed it all.  And done it this way.  I love it so much!  It looks almost like the car might fit inside the pop-up?  Is it one of those tents that goes up in seconds?"  The energetic lady, comfortably dressed, comfortable in her middle-age, asked as she took out a phone and photographed the black-on-grey trademark logo [Quick-Set by Clam].

 

    "Thank you.  Yes, it does only take a couple minutes to put up.  The car might fit inside, but the front-end will stick out a foot or so because this is the six-foot gazebo."  As I talked she leaned inside the top-down convertible and said/asked what everyone says/asks: ...Didn't know they made a convertible; more room inside than imagined; thought all smart cars were electric; are highway-speeds safe; how much would a used one cost; is winter driving feasible... et cetera.  I answered questions and thought I recognized a fellow-Asperger's by her obvious non-conformist streak.

 

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    Not all of "us" are intentionally non-conformists.  Some of "us" are unaware of certain types of "unspoken" societal or cultural norms (pertaining to behaviors, dress, attitudes, or appearance).  "We" can't choose to intentionally not conform with something in "our" blindxpot.

 

    As an example:  I was in the National Gallery of Art in DC when a distinguished professor (whom I had previously recognized as one of "us") laid down on the floor next to a series of Giacometti sculptures being displayed on several large, shin-to-knee, coffee table level pedestals.  He then raised his voice to a shout, proclaiming that the curators were idiots to have made it impossible to see these tiny, thin, bronze artworks without sitting or lying on the floor.  Docents descended on the shouting man dressed in crumpled disheveled as if he were a member of the unhoused-population.  He calmly explained himself and was steered towards a suggestion box.  Professor Carmody's protest was not rude non-conformity; it was just that: "how to behave in a museum" occupied a blindxpot.

 

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     Before displaying my smart subcompact vehicle at a car show, which predominantly contained trucks, muscle cars, racers, hot-rods, and museum showpieces, I thought it would be admired as something very few people here, in Vermont, were familiar with.  I was parked not far from a pristine '91 Nissan Figaro (also a class #26; even though it looks like it's from the 1950s).  My blindxpot:  I had no idea there were so many people (predominantly male) who hate the idea my subcompact car suggests by its existence.

 

    I was booed with thumbs-down and middle-fingers up.  More than one person exclaimed they thought it was visually ugly.  A man my age (red hat with four white letters) shouted as close to my face as tent-screen permitted, "WELCOME TO THE 21st CENTURY!!" (confusing; maybe he meant 20th).  It was referred to as a "nostalgia buzz-kill."  A child said, "we don't like this, do we Daddy?"  I received more than a handful of: "Well, don't you look comfy?" (oddly demeaning, but I was very comfy).  Another said in my direction (while pretending they were talking to the person they were with): "...more like a seedling-hugger, 'cause it's too small to hug a whole tree!"

 

    That last one was so good I intend to print a version of it on next year's hoodie.  Because (as regular readers don't need reminding) I am an intentional non-conformist.  While I enjoy exchanging ideas with the intellectually curious, I'm especially proud when my lack of conformity hits a nerve in conformists and their incurious comrades.

 

Don't get too comfy:

 

cute or ugly?

 

shirt:  artists are terrible

Mark The Date: Monday, 8 April 2024

    "Be somewhere in the path of totality with me."

 

    The next total solar eclipse is going to be almost 4 minutes in duration (according to NASA).  It will possibly be witness-able, in the afternoon of April 8th, during next year Vermont's Mud Season.  This means it has about a 50% chance of being hidden by clouds and/or rain here.

 

    This is something I would travel to witness.  It was so overwhelming in 2017, I am willing to travel to see it unobstructed; if weather forecasts, as the date approaches, indicate it would be more-probable to see in:  Rochester, Buffalo, Cleveland, or Indianapolis. 

 

 

 

For Consideration:

 

Reminiscence Bump

 

a song I fuckin hate

 

... Per•son•ae ...

 

᠇

    What follows may seem like an abundance of questions.  Answers are unrequested.

 

    In the non-place labelled  future this letter is a piece of detritus, caught in the allegorical dune fencing at the edge of the always-warm path, which cuts deep between the sand reeds to the shore.  For those few who encourage free-roam curiosity, this may provide them some ponder fodder.  Self evaluation.  A reason to step away from the thoroughfare and stir thru previously collected idea-fragments crumpled in a mental cubbyhole or naïvely tossed-away as irrelevant by the persona they once built from scratch.  Without instructions.    

Every non-specific individual (a 'people-in-general' term, but not EVERYou) begins to compile their personality as an adolescent when they emulate certain traits and choose not to emulate others.  By early adulthood, those who were once constantly-bullied have adopted a completely different demeanor, future outlook, and baseline empathy than those who were once consistently-adored.

    Do you recognize your own persona?  Maybe it's easier to describe the personality of someone other than yourself?  When considering the collection of behaviors considered relevant-enough to include—when briefly describing the "normal behavior" of someone to someone else—there's no pocket sized rule-book to act as a guide.

    Although it is uncontroversial to state everyone "has" a personality, it's less acceptable to allege that everyone possesses a persona (as I'm doing here).  Jungian's consider the persona a false façade or mask, presented to the external world as a defense mechanism or engaged to manipulate others.  In the psychologist's belief-system, "healthy" individuals have no (need for) personae.  That was never true.

    Some evidence: on-duty/work persona; online persona; frat-boy/rorty-gal personae; authority's watching persona; circle-of-trust persona; seductive persona; guardian-parent persona; team-member persona; implied-threat persona; dissociated persona; aloof persona; grand-master persona; sage persona; ingénue persona [¡this's but a mere fraction!].

    Someone you only met briefly, once, may have successfully displayed a persona which would be considered drastically at-odds with the default persona their friends-and-family recognize.  Another person may have already spent thousands of hours curating "their image" and, consequently, they are careful to present the same façade to everyone (or, at least, everyone they are willing to introduce you to).  Your persona wears your costume, quotes from your script, displays your approved characteristics, and performs the role of "you" in your external every-day routine.

    There are other personae on your tool-belt and still others you store on a back shelf.  A common back-shelf persona:  Dragging your carry-on behind you, boarding pass in hand, mental checklist ruminating: did I takeout all liquids over 3oz?  You take out your authority is watching persona.  Your heart begins to race.  "take your driver's license out of ..."  "Yes, ma'am." comes the reply from your persona.

During their growing phase, some personae receive constant-criticism, consistent-disdain, or systemic-abuse.  Accordingly, some of these burgeoning personalities decide to reinforce certain characteristics or cherished behaviors into convictions.  And, (in an attempt to thwart these real or supposed, ever-looming, adversaries) these personae may resolve to permanently portray with absolute certainty that their convictions are righteously true.

    In the persona that is adamant about loudly trumpeting their strong convictions, either they don't realize their act of fanatically pretending to possess unquestioning certainty paints them into a corner, or they are incapable of placing significance on the ability to recognize the difference between rational and irrational behavior.

    The ability to recognize sanity is innate; in the sane.

    If you began what was presumed (at-the-time) would be a routine exchange of pleasantries with someone at a bus stop.  But came to realize that this someone, you were - now - addressing, was definitely not in possession of any societal guardrails or norms (relating to shame, decency, propriety, violence, or personal autonomy) and then—as the sinking feeling along your nape begins to chill-trickle: ¿how did my intuition fail to recognize a feral human animal from a distance?—this someone reveals that:

          They are mentally-disabled and, therefore, not able to recognize the society of laws with whom they are a member.  They are incapable of understanding abstract concepts (like reading).

          Their persona chose, years ago, to believe they are not a member of the society surrounding them.  They're adamant that, "...your spurious laws don't apply to sovereign people like me." 

    Do you draw a distinction?

    Is it a distinction in the empathy you imagine feeling for these someones?

    Is there a distinction in incarceration / hospitalization they deserve (assuming the same crime)?

    If no distinction:  how does "intent" factor-in to your discernment?

    Can you switch "roles" and picture predator's POV and then prey POV and back?  Again?

    Do you recognize a preference?  

    Why do you prefer? 

There are those who intentionally hold no convictions.  To the conviction-less, remaining aware of uncertainty indicates a versatile 'open-to-listening' persona.  Being always open-to-agreement with those open-to-discussing any-and-all topics, which anyone else is equally open-to—requires active listening.  Which requires asking questions.  Which requires practicing asking questions.

    Holding convictions is detrimental; no different than accepting any premise without first evaluating and questioning those who advocate for it.  As a direct consequence of this foundational truth, many non-specific individuals (the conviction-less EVERYou is one exception) are wary of all questions.  Or, too many questions.  Or, complex theosophical questions.

    For personas stocked with convictions, every query has the potential to expose their hollow value-systems and empty characters.  Those filled with various convictions are aware that they can never provide complete answers relating to why they behave the way their convictions instruct them to behave.  Also, all non-superficial conversations bring forward a substantial risk in alienating or damaging their relationship (or some as-yet-undetermined potential future relationship).

    A friend once told me this hypothetical (which is quite relevant):

"If I had been good-friends with OJ Simpson in the 1990s, and he took me aside and said, "I just snapped when I saw them together and went fuckin crazy!"  I'd have said, "Cool, wanna go golfing?"  But if he took me aside and said, "I sure hope they catch whoever did it."  I couldn't have remained friends with him."  - fan-fuckin-tastic quote of R.P.B.

    If people don't want to discover who their friends and family members truly are, because they're afraid to learn they stormed the capitol on Jan 6th, or refused mask wearing, or (flipping the script) want Trump sentenced, or Clarence Thomas impeached, is it because their personas are burdened with convictions they're incapable of questioning?

    •  Is it possible to have simple opinions, which seem grounded in rational reasons, but at-the-same-time, actually be really open to being convinced they (you) were wrong •

    •  The real measure of a person is:  ¿How willing are they (you) to say, "This is my current opinion on this matter, but I'm so eager to learn something new (which I can get fully behind!) that I'll seriously consider adopting your opinion as my own, but first, I need to take measure of your current grasp on reality •

    •  Tell me about your current persona • 

    •  Explain one of your convictions • 

 

a long :

tunnelling between the ll's

back into yes ter year here

a person a 2 personae