Intern ... Internal ... Interesting ... Resting ... Rest

  

How do you pronounce the word pronounce?  Is your emphasis on the 'noun'?

Do questions go-in easier than statements?  Is your default-mode commands?

 

Does a furtive glance differ from a brief glimpse?  Is the 'imps' intent evident?

Consider your reaction to these sentences being read-aloud (without subtitles).

 

Creation's creator begets congregations:  Not a flaw or bug, but baked-right-in.

 

Fear, as an emotion, thrives more than pleasure, love, and happiness combined.

 

Infinite vs ceaseless—timeless vs without space—∅ space vs energy vs gravity.

 

Maximum light-speed vs maximum gravitational energy—describe black holes.

Why Conscientious Vermonter's Have Five Seasons

 

          There is a distinction (a valuable one) to be made between a Starling and a Grackle.  Many, who maintain a bird feeder between stick season and mud season, know what I mean.

          Starlings are aggressively-assertive or assertively-aggressive bullies, and are—relative to most other songbirds—unattractive, in their tweedy speckled brown; but their unique quality of songs and calls are both distinct and wonderfully melodious.

 

          Grackles proudly glide thru branches to gracefully wait their turn, and they are beautifully sleek with iridescent blue-to-black sheen (visible close-up in direct sunlight); but they only possess a limited and unimaginative volley of calls without melody.

 

          Vermont's Stick Season begins after all the colorful leaves have fallen and ends with the first Autumnal snowfall (usually between mid-October and early December).  Snow-melt combined with Spring rains causes Mud Season, which ends when Spring's flowers begin to bud; timing varies with ground thaw, but usually it begins late-February or March and ends mid-April (occasionally as late as May).

 

          The reason for the regional seasonal distinctions are simple:  In the mind of many Vermonters—Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring are all beautiful—however, Mud Season and Stick Season are less-so or not at all.

 

          I take down bird and critter feeders after Mud Season and put them back up when Stick Season arrives as the seeds, bugs, and natural food sources become scarce.  The exception is a Hummingbird feeder, which goes out after the last night-freeze of Spring and comes down before the first night-freeze of Autumn.

 

          In a similar-but-different routine:  I remove the MEDITATION sign from my front door after I finish.  Although—because of headphones—I wouldn't hear a Grackle ring the bell or a Starling shout, pound, and rattle the knob.  I do it to be conscientious of those who might-possibly, "see a car, know I'm home, don't find me in the yard with the cats, and become unnecessarily concerned". 

 

more:

 

critter story (squirrels)

 

critter story (bear)

 

conscientiousness (in detail)

I Know Eye Aym - But Whotter Ewe? (consciousness)

 

The past does not exist—for, by its definition—it is merely a record of what once happened (even if that record is merely a mental remembrance of a soon-to-be-forgotten something from a few seconds ago); and the future, also, is equally nonexistent, no-matter that you wrote down an agenda or list of goals to remind you, and no matter that you began the last [pick as many as apply: lap, year, semester, contract, relationship, et cetera] with a belief that you would continue to accomplish the plan to complete it when the time came.  You only do what you do because you chose to, at the moment, during the moment.

The moment varies depending on relative perspective.  When I began meditation at 1300 and completed that session at 1500 I am now able to consider those were, collectively: two-hours of moments . . . but it seems more accurate (to me) to be a single moment-in-entirety; a two-hour event which contained one long moment (and inhabits a single, but complexly-jammed-with-information event of recollection, which I was vaguely aware of for a euphoric amount of "walking-along-a-ridgeline-never-climbing-cliffs-enjoying-beautiful-plateaus" kind of thing).  Which is all that those memories of thoughts jangling around in emotions are able to relay to the me-part of me, which holds in the cubbyhole labelled 'memories of meditation'.  All this is now something which happened behind my closed eyes.  Only.  Existed for me, only.  Invisible forever.  Never real.  And there's the whole point!  If the only things which are real are those things a live person can hold in their hand . . . what is this digital-only essay of my story's relationship to you-the-reader?  Annnnd.  What is its actual relationship with me? 

And when I decided to begin a (this) new paragraph, instead of just including this information in a third sentence of the last paragraph, that moment lasted less than a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second before I tapped the return key with the ring-finger of my right hand.  To consider the current moment which you are experiencing, one must first choose to do so.  My suggestion (mini challenge!) is that at the end of this paragraph you close your eyes and listen to any sounds which you might be able to hear.  While listening, inhale in order to pay attention to any scents available to be identified.  This should take you no less than a ten breath-cycle, but it will take as long as you wish (obviously).

 

The moments we decide to not think about anything—except the space between our memories and plans; outside of our fantasies and wishful dreams; not thinking only letting time happen while maintaining conscious attention on the null everything outside of the part that listens and smells—that is what it means to be 'being'.  Once you wonder-conclude if-that lapse of breaths and scents and sounds and clicks of the clock in the next room, also, maybe-does not exist.

 

Your, my, every brain's of every living thing's memory of past moments (and that includes every memory of planning things for the future) are only thoughts and are not ever "real".  The fraction of a moment (no matter how long it feels in our memory) only exists in our memory.  We only perceive the event after it is finished being perceived.

 

I chose to snap my fingers.  I pressed an index finger and thumb of my dominant hand together with sufficient pressure to cause the index finger to accelerate-slip off the thumb and slap into my palm which caused a clicking sound.  I remember doing it.  I also remember feeling the tightening of hand and finger muscles, the slight vibration of stinging skin-contact, and a slight creak in my elbow.  Those things did happen.  In my mind.  I am conscious of all of the above; I am certain of that because I am able to plan an event as simple as a finger-snap, and execute that plan, and remember its effects.  Because of all that I am told by other thinkers that I am an independent agent.  A person who thinks and acts with free will.

 

If:  consciousness is everything; and the ability to take advantage of the slow awareness of the experience of the linked-together-moments, so-as-to be able to continue to survive (eat, sleep, procreate) is the "snake-eating-its-own-tail" reason/purpose for it-all.

 

Then:  consciousness (of every energy within all of consciousness) is all that there is; and it is, as well, the 'reason why' all of the past (singular) and all the future (singular) have been taken advantage-of and for-granted.

This feels like a paradox.  Even though it sounds like the seconds on the wall clock and smells of the candle at my side.

Course Curriculum (Go On, Part 2)

          

          Reviewing Part 1 of the Go On Curriculum, may be helpful.

          Viewing these videos in "mix-tape order" is intended to reveal connections or insights (which may not be as apparent to those who hopscotch thru the playlist or who dive down the rabbit hole*).

 

          The first University-Professor-of-philosophy's lecture (immediately below) could have been included at the end of Part 1; however, this condensation of information—related to non-empirical knowledge, belief, symbolism, et cetera—is considered more relevant to "is-ought" philosophical questions, which is why it is in Part 2.  

 

          And (dear heart) prematurely viewing The Part 3 (T/T/T) only should only taunt you with awareness of its existence, unless that proximity-hiccup just jarred you; beyond here, there be dragons.  

* Hopefully, it's unnecessary to mention:  diving down the internet "rabbit hole" is both desirable and intended; the more tangents one explores, the more one understands related concepts.

   If one were to have only five hours to expand their mind (which is a relatively tiny amount of time) listening to these people will definitely change the mind of the person who started these dozen videos.

Birthday Gerund: "Me Myself and I-ing"

 

. . . Measure your future life in twenty-year potentialities.  Your second twenty years(³) is when you refine yourself and make yourself better at what you've begun.  Your third twenty years is when you either rebuild yourself from your mistakes, continue to make bigger mistakes, or strive to teach yourself how to set, and efficiently accomplish, harder goals.  Your last twenty years is for teaching others what you learned and preparing your happy-content self for the inevitable aging and death.

        When writing this footnote in a letter to Dre, I realized-as-each finger tapped out the next word, I was giving myself a snapshot of advice.  Advice based on myself.  My self.  The portion of me who is not ego.  

        The first time I recall realizing that part of me existed was when I came out of a daydream.  It feels in my memory that the sun on my face had caused my eyes to shut rather than continue to squint down the slope of the hill against the harsh sun at my squealing and chattering classmates.  I dreamed, but not completely without intention.  The dream's content was apparently unimportant, even then.  The purpose—everyone is trying to make themselves smile at recess—is this, this is something I can do for me.  Us.  For us.  To myself.

        The basis of these ideas, at the time, were sprouting from the collective classmates (which included me) coming to terms with the phrase "me, myself, and I"—imagined inward about a place where someone could feel relaxed and comfortable and warm (without having to chase or be chased, tether-ball or swings, tease or be teased).  I finished the daydream as the bell rung us in.  I drifted back to my seat in contentment.

        I know that I daydreamed before then, because the daydream was not an unfamiliar act; but this specific daydream handed me a key.  The first part of "me, myself, and I" was the part who sat by myself at recess.  The last part of "me, myself, and I" was the drive to listen inside, because I'm no different than that horde (which definitely includes those down there who are so obviously pretending to teach). 

        The key.  It was the ability to remember.  Remember that daydreaming exists on my "things available to do today" list.  If you like to play disc golf, but never go anymore; maybe it is simply because you have taken it off your list.  If you want to play disc golf, set out your discs!  Remind yourself.  Maybe you should look at your mental key-ring and see if you like playing or if you "liked" playing.

        There are things that part of "me, myself, and I" once did habitually for pleasure-based-reasons but that part of myself only exists in memories.  I chose to remove that key from my key-ring.  Maybe because I am only capable of comfortably carring a specific number of keys in my mental pocket.  Or (also, maybe) I do not want to carry more than a certain number of keys because increasing the size of my key-ring does not result in an increase in the number of hours in my day.

        I've never taken the daydream-key off.  Not since I got it in fifth grade.

        Which was when I began second twenty years-ing (not "adulting" yet, at 10).  But that definitely was me starting to "refine myself and make myself better."  My third twenty years did not begin until I retired from the military (at 43).  Occasionally, it feels like I've already begun my fourth twenty years; but this me (now 64) I know that, forest-for-the-trees, I am unsure this is accurate.  Maybe I'm still rebuilding.  It certainly seems accomplishing harder goals with more efficiency is going on in the background as well as the foreground. 

rabbit-hole-ing:

Gerund-ing

Ad-vice-ing or Advising?

thinking of engaging with myself while dreaming

Sisyphus Mountain Time

         Albert Camus suggested readers 'imagine Sisyphus happy,' as the mythical character's constant bolder-up-a-mountain exertion seems to, otherwise, be futile.

        The cruelly-evil King Sisyphus (who was cunning enough to successfully trick death a few times) is eventually sentenced by the gods to an eternity in hell, where his human muscles never stop exerting against gravity and his human mind knows that there is no finish line.  All drudgery.  No goal.

        And, one might wonder:  why the ancient Greek writer of this allegory did not have Zeus creating an infinitely endless mountain for Sisyphus to roll a bolder ever upwards?  One might reasonably assume it to be because reaching an apex appears to be "accomplishment of a goal."  With the real punishment occurring when he watches the bolder crash into the valley-bottom, him having to descend after it, and him resuming this endless-task at its starting point, over-and-over, for eternity; that might prohibit him from using the simple mental trickery all humans commonly use to delude themselves.  Right?

        This could be the "hidden crux" of this entire parable, don't you think?  Since Sisyphus had been cunning enough to "trick the gods, and even death" a few times, obviously the ancient Greek gods did not possess an ability to read King Sisyphus' mind or to listen-in on his every conversation.  Otherwise, they would have known (when he told his wife to leave his dead body in the town's public square) that his intent—to request permission for a brief pop-back to the living world to remind his wife to bury his body—was just another ruse. 

        So, Sisyphus is eventually caught and required to toil in hell.  Endlessly straining without a reason; fully aware that his strife serves no purpose.  "Imagine Sisyphus happy," is Camus pointing out how Sisyphus would still be capable of tricking the gods.  Because all humans create our own happiness, daily, even when we are aware of the absurdity.  

        It would be absurd to purchase, construct, maintain, and stock a bird-feeder in your yard.  Just to re-stock it.  It would be absurd to rent your workweek to an employer for decades.  Just to retire.  It would be absurd to (fill in the verb and direct-object of this sentence).  Just to end this paragraph.

        Unless it makes you happy.  

        So is the solution as simple as:  Pretend to be happy?

        No—not in the commonly-understood context of pretend.  But.  Imagine Sisyphus deciding to make a game out of his task.  He visually plots-out a reasonably easy path on the side of the mountain immediately ahead of him; he chooses the best positions to put his hands on the bolder; he tries to avoid places where he has previously lost his grip.  And, when he doesn't lose his grip, he feels the simple pleasure of choosing correctly.  When he felt the bolder teetering on the edge of an outcropping and exerted his push in the correct direction to be able to visually plot-out the next portion of the path ahead—he has become aware that he just accomplished the mental task he had chosen for himself in that moment.  And that momentary success would make him feel pleasure.

        Millions upon billions of pleasantly-and-happily-deluded humans continuously perform their Sisyphean-tasks; no-matter if they are fully aware of the pointlessness of it all or if they are blindly, blissfully, unaware.  Those who have found a way to be happy doing it (no matter what it is) are those who have discovered how to mentally create for themselves: "small pleasures."

        Those with a sufficient number of recent small pleasures (relative to their remembered past experiences) possess an increase in their overall baseline happiness.

        Those who focus on the mundane labor, the physical discomfort, the futility, or think "everything-dies-so-why-should-I-go-on?" are choosing to not decide to find any small pleasures for themselves.

        Choose for yourself.

        I choose to spend a small percentage of my time (and retirement pension) re-stocking my bird-feeders.  It brings small pleasure. 

        

more choices:

choose to not have regrets

 

choose to not be confused

 

how to decide if a military job is right for you

The Awake Inning

I decide to sleep in this location.  It is a covered place and I am confident I can secure my person and my belongings from prying eyes and the covetous fingers who would take the few possessions I prefer to carry with me when I move because they are required and useful.  I try to sleep.  Maybe I slept.

When I get up I move thru the place with my inventory eyes, checking that everything that I left is still in the place that I left it.  The items that I require to perform morning rituals, although I do not have a firm memory of placing them where they are found, are gathered and used for their intended purposes.  I should have returned them to a central, collection point.  Maybe a small kit or carrying case.  That is a good idea.  Today I will try to keep my observant eye out for one of those.  Maybe I won't forget.

Add to reminders.  Today is the day to pack-up all the items because this temporary place will be (must be) vacated by check-out.  If check-out arrives and I have not yet packed, I will again be item-less.  But first my bladder.  I leave to locate a urinal or at least a secluded place where prying eyes and voices will permit me to release last nights wastewater without any repercussions.  I try to blend in with those with obvious destinations.  Maybe I have to set my face like they do.

There are landmarks which are not completely unfamiliar.  This collection of structures, this sidewalk, this railing, none of these people, but that doorway is the correct direction; I pause.  Wait a second.  Where am I headed?  Is that man looking at me with concern and discontent in the way he squints and purses his cheeks?  Obviously this is not the right way for a toilet.  I turn and retrace my steps.  Maybe I came this way and it only looks odd because I was walking the opposite direction.  Am I lost?  I'm not lost.  I try to not be lost.  Maybe I am.

The flow of the crowd seems to indicate they know this gangway leads somewhere they want to go, which means it is not a dead-end.  I should keep a lookout for a sign for a toilet.  This causeway must have been obscured when I was walking past here a few minutes ago.  What was I supposed to?..oh right...a backpack to put-in my face-wash and nose spray and vitamin bottles and such.  I need to get back before check-out.  And I need to leave enough time to pack up before.  No rush.  But stick to the reminders:  piss and get back to pack.  I try to prioritize.  Maybe it's less important than I think it is.

This antique store sounds empty of employees and customers.  Hello?  My muffled voice is a hollow echo-less thing of the past.  Squeezing past nothing I want and nobody to sell it to me, I see a sign for a bathroom.  This tiny cramped hallway is jammed with an overstock of junk that Nana and Papa probably left on the curb when they bought one that worked better, or forgot in their attic when they moved to a better house.  Either way, could this crooked door in a damaged door-frame be the door to the restroom?  I try to open the door quietly.  Maybe that was unnecessary. 

Pulling hard to un-stick the door jamb from the...  Hello-sorry!  (There are three women sitting almost on top of each other in this closet.)  I stammer that thought this was the restroom and offer my apologies.  Can you tell me where the restroom is?  (The tallest one stands and I get a quick flash of thigh, leg, and wind of passing scent which draws me along in her wake.)  There is a washroom down and back there.  I'll show you how to get there.  I try to not stare at her back side.  Maybe she didn't mind.

The corridor gives way to a walkway, which becomes a pedestrian shopping area.  We discuss comfortable words and move in-sync.  Her face seems always to be content with her hair either mussed by the wind or covering her freshly washed face.  I try not to want to kiss her.  Maybe she was trying to not want to kiss me.

She says we need to use this elevator-type of thing.  The bank of massive doors are closed but the smallest one on the end is just closing and I see a tiny key on a minuscule key-fob above the door frame.  I take it out of the little key-hole and show it to her.  She relays that the larger doors are always crammed to overflowing with hordes of people and that we should take the small one when it returns.  I try to listen to her wonderful voice.  Maybe she is not bothered by mine.

I drop the key and it lands on the pitted concrete floor near her hand.  (We are sitting on the floor waiting on this strange elevator which could lead to different floor, a gas chamber, or a quick crush.)  I touch her hand with my searching-for-the-key fingers.  I try not to jerk my hand away from hers.  Maybe that stare thru her unkempt bangs is as welcoming as it feels.

This is us.  We compliment each other's failures.  Our flaws are incredibly huge to the collective strange faces whom we pass on the way to our daily rituals.  A year ago, at an uncomfortable ritual we forced ourselves to attend for no clear rational reason, another couple asked the simplest describe-how-we-met question.  I try to formulate an accurate reply.  Maybe she struggles too.

From both of our perspectives, her (cramped in a vintage store closet with women she had imprinted on for no obvious or apparent reason) and me (following her faulty decision-making process because mine had been broken and I had no idea) we find it difficult to explain in sentences that make sense to common partygoers.  I try not to understand the futility of wanting to not be mentally disordered.  Maybe we are doing fine.

I try memory recall-to-future forecast, but still end up with frostbitten feet from when I was trying to become an eagle.  Maybe she is as superior as I am inferior, and vice versa in all the yin-yang ways imaginable.

(mandatory annual cat pic) Pearl, 1 year old

 

Concrete grey on raw-pine brown

Pearl they say with never a frown

Fixed jade gaze near-silent clown

Cecil unfazed, by new kit in town

|| a poem for the common cat ||

 

 

 

eventually the phenomenons your senses 

combine to assume it is experiencing 

catapult you toward choosing between

flotsam or jetsam—but before you do

 

smile at the opportunity this affords that

whom once assumed antagonists loved

to antagonize and wonder now about

how amazing—never another frustration 

actually exists in those who seize their

recalled memories and cease planning for 

every eventuality and realize how as if

this were but a daydream—time is figment

Angry Amazon Tale (but it works great)

          For those who enjoy Amazon Tales, this episode is an unusual.  One year ago, I purchased a cheap space heater and gave it this two-star review:

Impossible to assemble (but works great)

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on January 26, 2022 

Verified Purchase 

Impossible to attach screw-in plastic legs because the guide-pins and hook-slots absolutely can not line-up with the metal housing (and removing the guide-pins causes the brittle plastic to shatter). The plastic handle, which requires complete disassembly of the metal housing to attach, is either designed to rattle and not fit tightly on purpose - or - these issues are systemic throughout the heater and it will soon stop working. Please note: This space heater works wonderfully without legs and without a handle (as long as you always place it on a surface that will not catch on fire because the reason for the legs is to help keep the heat from melting your carpet and don't pick it up until it has had ample time to cool down because the reason for the plastic handle is to prevent you from burning yourself).

 

          I assumed they sent me legs/handle from a different model; and decided not to go thru the hassle of returning when this $25 heater worked fine propped on a metal cookie tin.  I received the following message today:

 

           The order and review are accurate, albeit I did not follow the link because maybe this was a new way to spread a virus.

 

          Is this the absolute best way to drive an Amazon competitor out of business?  Or, maybe, this was written by a disgruntled ex-employee?  The actual company would never (or would they).

more Amazon Tales:

An Amazon God Has Spoken

 

Wading In The Amazon

 

Amazon Feedback