Nacho

I’m at the Seattle airport waiting for a two hour delayed flight to san francisco, thinking about my life, reflecting about my youth, recollecting my naive youth, thinking of my vitality, of my exploits, of my pained yet grand visions that blossomed daily, the vicissitudes defining the melancholy that shaped my daily life.

I haven’t changed much.

I’m still the same old kid. Just, more soiled, less naive, more.. jaded. But not. Because that’s a cliche. I’m not jaded. I’m not even realistic. I’m just defeated. Because the burden never stopped, and I feel used. Like I used myself. Like I tried wringing every conceivable feeling from myself in an effort to know what I’m made of, and all that got me was emptiness, just feeling empty, and used, and wrung out.

I feel like most people don’t like me. I don’t know how to shake this. It’s more of a reflect that I don’t like myself

I try at my job. I actually like my job. But I still struggle working with other people. I have an attitude that aims to please, but also could care less, that expects a lot from people, and tries not to ask too much in fear of being disappointed, which is probably off putting, and make me seem like a distant, disinterested peer.

I’m at the airport, typing on my 15” macbook pro. I’m eating nachos and drinking wheat beer, which tastes like a pilsner. It’s light, not too heavy, and overall very drinkable.

I’ve been obsessing over this “blood density” sensor. I was told by many people that someone who can make an affordable blood density sensor is poised to make multimillions. It requires determining the level of RBC, WBC/buffy coat, and plasma from a test tube.

Writ

In third grade my teacher had us keep a little blue journal where we recorded events about our life that we later read to the class. One boy in my class, who later hung himself in the 11th grade, wrote stories that had the class spellbound and enthralled with wonder and laughter. The power these stories had on my peers was compelling. I began journaling regularly in the sixth grade or so as a therapeutic outlet, first in a hard cover spiral bound paper journal, and later maintaining a digital blog in conjunction beginning at age of 17. I continued this routine activity since, except in 2013, where I made a deliberate effort not to reflect or analyze or relive my life or memories for time. After a year I slowly resumed writing and reclaiming my voice.

I’ve always wanted to write something others would love to read, but I haven’t been able to convince myself that I have anything worth saying.  I attempted a NaNoWriMo, and managed to assemble fifty or sixty thousand words of hackneyed, incoherent stories into what I reluctantly and embarrassingly called a novel. It was just a collection of personal narratives, with no common thread. Flashbacks and poignant memories. I studied Philosophy and Economics at Vanderbilt. I wrote extensively for my philosophy classes, but these were more academic exercises, and not a creative catharsis. I’ve always wanted to write something people would enjoy reading.

I’ve never taken a writing class.

What would I like to write about? My life, perhaps? Maybe how the generational influences of my grandparents and parents ultimately impacted and shaped the psychology I carry today. The confluence of generational abuses and shared trauma bonding that thread lives together and create successive iterations of psychological baggage that ultimately result in the conscious experience future generations must cope with.

Coming to age? Drug abuse? Evangelical Christian school? Homelessness? Dropping out of high school? Prostitution? Cover modeling? Materialism? Religious oppression? Spirituality and ego?  Psychedelics? Moving every year the first twelve years of your life? Subculture clashes and reconciliation as you strive assimilate and assemble a sand castle identity? Fighting? Being a white kid? Mental illness? ADHD? Attending all boy’s military boarding school? Rape? Shame? Guilt?

Other than my limited personal experiences, I don’t have anything exceptionally interesting to write about. I wish I did. So, if a writing class is nothing more than a therapeutic exercise to become more exacting with my words, I’ll count it a success.

Autofiction? Short story? Novel? I’m not sure. I’d like to weave a grand narrative of my life. I feel like I need to extricate memories.

I recently started reading “My Struggle” by Karls Ove Knausgaard. It’s an inspiring and moving read. JD Salinger’s “Cather in the Rye” is inspiring, and was inspired by my alma mater.

I mostly read non-fiction. Philosophy, Psychology, Sociology, Science and Technology, History, Essays, Biographies, etc. It’s hard to choose between non-fiction and fiction. Non-fiction feels more pragmatic, yet utilitarian, like I can measure the value I extract from books that tell me how or why things are the way they are, but as I get older, I’m beginning to appreciate the universal, transcendental, metaphorical truths conveyed through the medium fiction, and I’ve found myself hungry for more.

Some of my favorite fiction authors: Ovid, Henry Miller, Dostoyevsky, Paulo Coelho, Rainer Rilke, Herman Hesse.

A Story You Were Told as a Child

Think of a story you were told as a child. No one that was read to you- one that was told to you. What does that story say about the person who told it?

What story? When? When I was in California? In Iowa? In New jersey? Who told me the story? My mother? My father? My grandparents? My uncle? What story is worth remembering? About places? people? Things?

What kind of story? I’m not sure I can recall a story. Like, someone telling me about something? Something that happened? Or like, a bedtime story?

I can’t recall any specific story, other than how sex will ruin your relationships, or drugs will make you a homeless bum.

I have to say, the most powerful stories in my youth revolve around God, his will, his plan, and the historical progress of his will made manifest by the Jews and the Christians, the faithful believers.

The stories I most remember involved God’s chosen people, and the good or ill that came about as a result of following his will, or not. Stories of the Bible. Adam and Eve. The creation of the world, which was just 6,000 years ago, Sodom and Gomorrah, to reemphasize the damning consequences of perverse sexuality out of wedlock, or the tower of babel and soon after the flood that decimated the people god created to worship him, because he gave them free will, and they collectively chose to build to heaven, and bridge the gap between god and man. And how god choose just seven souls and their wives, along with all the creatures on earth, and put them on a boat for forty days and forty nights, where they landed on Mt. Ararat and went to the corners of the earth to repopulate. Of the prophets, and their message to cities and lost souls, and the chariots of fire whirling them to heaven, and the locusts, and the famine, and the incarnated son of god, birthed to a common virgin, who was self taught in the ways of religion, and claimed to be the messiah, the way the truth and the life, and the penalty for speaking such blasphemy, such as dragging the instrument of torture that you’ll be nailed and hung to, to the place where you’re pierced and forsaken by the very father whose will you’re obeying.

The stories of my youth were moral stories, with historical references to illustrate universe truths applicable to life today, with the intent to save my soul from myself, to fill my heart with joy, and deliver me to a salvation with gates made of pearl and streets of gold.

“If you keep getting in trouble, you’ll be working at McDonald’s flipping burgers for the rest of your life” which implied I’d be miserable and lonely, and have only myself to blame.

The story goes: God’s will, his plan and purpose, will manifest itself with whatever instrument is available, no matter the sinner or saint, animal or nature. Even sinner’s can bring glory to god, even if they die a miserable death.

These stories were told by my father, most notably, and echoed by my mother, and pretty much whatever church community we were isolated to socialize with, and relegated to live with. The pastors, their friends, the Sunday school teachers, the millionaires and recovering addicts.

The silver thread the ties all these souls is their faith. And the stories they share, of god’s will working in their life, and their faith in that will.

What does this say about my father, the storyteller?

Life Routine

An alarm sounds. A melodious crescendo of rings crack at my dreamy awareness. My body is stiff. Aches echo throughout my concatenated flesh wrapped in sheets.

I long to stay in this soft, dreamy realm. My arm autonomously slides from under the covers and gropes through knots of bedsheets until I finds the ringing phone and smashes buttons until snooze it achieved.

I doze off again.

I repeat this every 5-10 minutes for next one to two hours.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes, and begin the daily ritual of combing through my notifications. Text messages first. Mostly from group chat friends in other time zones. Followed by app notifications, and lastly emails, where a daily digest of yesterday’s news waits for me. Sometimes I check a twitter feed.

Then I repeat this process with my work phone, but for emails and texts.

This ritual lasts anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, or longer.

I pull my feet over the sides of my side, and sit up, burying my face in my hands, running my hands over my scalp, through my hair, and squeezing, massaging, gripping my skull, as if I was getting a grip on reality itself.

I breath and walk into the bathroom where I turn on the shower, and weigh myself. 204lbs. I note that I’m down a pound, but remind myself that I ate once yesterday. Down from 213lbs three months ago, at least.

I look in the mirror. I haven’t been exercising. I need to shave my dark body hair, which contrasts with my blonde hair and blue eyes.

I step into the shower, and meditate, lose track of time, rubbing myself in body wash. After my soul thaws under the steamy stream of water, I exit and proceed to dress, first underwear, then dress slacks, then socks, then my button-down shirt. It’s a bit too large on me since I stopped bodybuilding, so I perform a military tuck into my pants to ensure a fitted look.

I grab my work bag, make sure all the necessary papers and catalogs and digital electronics are presently inside, zip it up, and walk out the door, making sure to lock as I exit.

I throw my bag and jacket in the back seat, and enter my black Audi Q5. It’s in immaculate condition, the way I like it.

I drive down the street to Doc’s Bagels, the local deli shop run by two Mexican and Thai families, and order a sausage, egg, and cheese with avocado on an everything bagel, toasted. I eat the bagel, slowly savoring the brilliant combination of sharp and savory flavors, and sip my 20oz mixed columbian, hazelnut, french vanilla blend coffee, while seated at a small table nested in a nook along the covered breezeway lining the shops.

I continue to drive 30 minutes to work, listening to books on tape (“Essentialism”), but constantly pause or back up 30 seconds due to a lapse in my attention, with my thoughts drifting elsewhere, to work, to personal complexes, to random associations my mind is making with the author’s trendy advice that I remind myself is recycled and repackaged wisdom of the ages.

At work I find a cubicle and pull out my Microsoft Surface Pro PC and plug in my power adapter. I sip my coffee and follow up with emails for the next three to eight hours. The time in 9:30am. I work though email responses, to colleagues and customers. Eventually I work my way to a lead list of companies I’m targeting, and begin drafting emails. I pick up the phone whenever I have a phone number for a contact, but I rarely get through. Ten percent of my emails get a response. Not bad. It takes about thirty seconds to a minute to write a semi-custom email. I work off templates I made for biotech, semiconductor, or a general template for automation technology.

I usually skip lunch. A colleague finds his way to my desk. We talk, and decide to step into a conference so we can write on a whiteboard and put presentations on a TV. An hour later I go back to my desk.

It’s 4:30pm. I continue working.

It’s 5:30pm. My girlfriend is asking if I’ll be up to the city to see her tonight, and if so what time, and if I should pick her up from the ballet, or if she should just go home). I tell her I have work and errands to do, and won’t be coming to the city.

It’s now 6:30pm. I decide to wrap up and go home.

Driving home it’s still light. The traffic has died down; no longer stop and go. Its 7:13pm. Only 18 minutes until I’m home. I listen to the book on tape.

I stop and pick up some groceries.

I make dinner: 12 ounces of salt and peppered rib eye steak with garlic, a half an avocado, and a seltzer water. Followed by beer.

My girlfriend Facetimes me. It’s 9:00pm. She’d icing her feet (she’s a professional ballet dancer). She misses me, and asks what I’m doing. I’m in my room, on my computer, researching Arduino and Raspberry Pi projects and learning the programming code, and schematics. While also researching night classes. I signed up for three at Stanford University. One on Data Science and business, one on Artificial intelligence technology and human advancement, and the other a creative writing class focusing on turning personal stories into fiction. They’re between five and ten week classes.

It’s 11:00am.

I get ready for bed, brush my teeth and tidy up the apartment and my room, putting clothes in the hamper, organize my desk, and slip into bed. Turn on my reading light and ask Alexa to turn off the remaining lights.

Tonight I pick up Karl Ove Knausgaard’s book “My Struggle: Book 1” and reflect on this Norwegian man’s childhood experiences, his fascination with death, the frictional relationship he’s had with his father. My eyes grow heavy and I doze off, only to snap back awake. I dog ear the page, and turn off the reading light. I look at my phone and see my girlfriend’s text messages wishing me sweet dreams. I tell her to sleep well and sweet dreams, and leave several kisses faces and hearts and moons.

I sleep.

The days repeat in similar fashion, for months on end.

 

Pragmatic Habits

If there’s one pragmatic “truth” for accomplishment that I’ve discovered, it’s that habits are the most powerful mechanism we can leverage.

We can be possessed by ideas, or we can let ideas possess us.

We can let habits possess us, or we can possess our habits.

It’s a balance of reflection and action.

Beginning with why? Isolating our highest values, and reverse engineering the cause and effect relationships that allows us to manifest them.

Begin with why.

Then plan.

Draw up a map. Do this for your day, your week, month, year, 5 year, 10 year.

Forming habits require using reason to overcome our primal impulses to react to the now, and keeping a long term aim or ideal in mind.

Using reason in this way is what we call discipline.

Once you’ve established your end goal, and the routine aims and tasks to get you there, you need to suspend reflection, and act diligently and boldly.

Take time periodically to measure your progress and revise your actions as needed, but keeping in mind that habits free up mental energy to solve the challenging problems.

Habits are so powerful.

Routine is so powerful.

They create momentum.

They allow you to show up, and do the work, and eliminate the mental tax of last minute planning and organizing.

We’re all a collection of habits. A giant confluence of these cause and effect associations that move us through life.

I believe meditation— reflection, prayer, planning— is the key to disassociating from these primitive impulses to react and respond to every stimuli that eventually finds its way into our perceptions and daily thoughts.

Meditation, reflection, prayer— is reason embodied. It suspends the reactionary pursuit of pleasurable distraction.

When we master our habits, when we use habits to our benefit, instead of allowing habits to satisfied these animal urges for temporary novelty and pleasure, we become something more powerful, and embrace our autonomy.

Sometimes I think that if the right “value” or “aim” or “end” or “why” appeared, and “inspired” me, that my habits would coalesce.

But I know this is never how it works.

You run the day, or the day runs you.

How do you choose?

It’s pretty lame when people (like myself) use the excuse that they don’t know what to do, or what to study, or what to pursue.

You just choose. Life won’t choose it for you. Sometimes life creates massive pain points that force you to look harder at your habits, and force you to make changes, but it’s never a guarantee. At the end of the day, you choose what’s enough, you choose whats important. Being religious won’t help, because even that’s a choice.

You choose your faith.

You must have faith in something. There will never be enough evidence to produce a perfectly rational and justifiable course of action.

Many times, evidence is collected after the fact.

We humans rationalize everything. We can rationalize things for our benefit, or our detriment.

It doesn’t need to be blind faith, but I’m half convinced that blind faith is almost preferable. It relieves you of the burden of having to convince yourself and others of what you’re doing.

It may seem crazy, but everything is crazy that hasn’t been done before. And your life has never been lived before.

We collect evidence in hindsight to justify this or that.

Habits.

Habits make us or they break us.

It all begins with our thoughts.

Self control.

Do we control our thoughts, or do our thoughts control us?

Who is the master here?

How much responsibility will you take for your life? Your thoughts? Your outcomes?

If you fail to take full responsibility for every thought, whether it was original to you or the result of an Influence, you are relinquishing self control, and diminishing your power to change the outcome of your life.

First law of classical mechanics: body in motion stays in motion, unless acted upon by another force.

The stronger our habits, the more powerful we are.

I believe reason– reflection and mediation– allows us to reprogram our thoughts and our habits.

It all begins with our thoughts.

Eliminate distraction. Focus on the end, the aim, the goal, the highest value, the dream. Meditate on it. Imagine it.

Every thought and action should empower that end. Every behavior should somehow thread its way toward its attainment.

Excuses are lame. Everyone has them. Blame social media. Blame parents. Blame education. Blame friends. Blame the country. Blame the government.

We are not victims.

We become a victim when we give our thoughts to the influence of others, and instead of creating an empowering narrative about our own ability to manifest our dreams and desires, we allow others to program these narratives within us.

We allow excuses in our behavior. It’s lazy. It’s easy. It’s human. It’s also petty and disempowering and renders us no different than animals.

To acknowledge our unique ability to reason, to master our thoughts, to dream, to plan, to delay gratification, to assume full responsibility for our failure to achieve any desire whatsoever, is to acknowledge the divinity of man, and what separates us from all other animals.

What to learn

My current dilemma is an existential one.

Action sows seeds of opportunity that may blossom into rewarding fruit.

Being busy is not the same as making progress.

Making progress is not the same as achieving a worthwhile result.

What is a worthwhile result?

How do you choose where to focus your energies?

What is the opportunity cost?

Biographies provide incredible perspective.

I feel like I could learn anything. As in, anything and everything is interesting enough for me to learn and want to learn. This poses problems.

It creates a mania. It creates a lack of consistent focus.

There is a broad, overarching, all encompassing worldview that beautifully emerges from this manic pursuit, but it lacks resolution, it lacks pointed detail. It may contain complexity, but it has no hard lines, no edges, no boundaries.

Learning is one of life’s greatest joy— if not the greatest joy.

Deep stimulation of the mind, in a way that connects you to the world, in way that leaves you feeling grounded, with certitude about the chaotic unpredictability of life.

Learning is an aesthetic experience— ideas become rooted and flower into beautiful landscapes.

But what to learn?

Typically, my learning has been guided by problems. I have a dilemma, and I adapt, I acquire knowledge to devise a solution, material or conceptual.

Struggle is usually a good barometer of where learning should take place.

If you struggle to understand something, if there is dissonance that creates cloudy confusion, start there. Don’t stop until there is clarity.

I think reality is a projection of our mind. Really, it’s a projection of the collective human consciousness, passed down through enculturation and socialization.

We all see the world as humanity sees it, fragmented by our tribal interests, by our local struggles and histories.

Humanity corroborates it’s experience via art and language— we communicate, we make common.

We use mental models to abstract the essential relationship and features of our experience. We collect mental models, store them, and synthesize them.

Patterns emerge.

The same patterns. We apply these patterns to different domains and contexts.

The relationships appear to stay the same. We just rearrange the individual components, rename the features. But the relationships remain timeless.

The more we familiarize ourselves with these relationships, that are metaphorical and mathematical, the easier it seems it is to learn.

The world is in constant flux.

Everything changes, nothing perishes.

It’s just hard to devote yourself to one domain, context, subject, when you’re searching for higher truth, and the truth is embedded in the relationships which are agnostic to the time and place.

Wisdom is this transcendental universal.

Why devote yourself to one cause? There utilitarian reasons to be a specialist.

But you’re missing out on the bigger universal picture.

Everything is one.

Something like that.

CinEd

My ex grew up pretty poor. Born in Switzerland. Her mom basically stole her and her siblings from her father one night and she didn’t talk to him for 10 years. She lived in a double wide trailer. Her mom was an interstate oil pipe layer (literally). Poor. Blue collar. Gone for months out of the year. Her and her siblings basically raised themselves.

She was never told to go to college. Education was never a thing.

She always worked hard. Restaurant Jobs. Etc. when she was 18 she worked at a Nissan dealership. She stayed there for 4 or 5 years or so. Had various roles.

She was looking for a better job.

She was broke. She didn’t like being broke. Her family/ siblings didn’t mind. But she liked nice things.

She applied to a company called Fiskar, one of the first EV companies (Tesla’s first roadster was designed by Henry fiskar, the car designer and owner of Fiskar cars).

Bachelors required.

Got a phone interview. Somehow. Impressed them.

There were dozens of applicants.

She was one of four that got a face to face interview.

She prepared like crazy. Compiled everything she knew about the company and the car business and the role. Brought in a thick three ring binder and was prepared as hell.

Her interviewer was a PhD from MIT.

He was so impressed with her he ended up giving her the job.

The other candidates all had bachelors degrees.

After 3-4 months into the job he called her into his office and said: C, You have a lot of potential, but you’re going to limit your opportunities by not having a

degree. You need to get a degree if you want doors to open. As someone who cares, I encourage you to look into it.

She never thought seriously about education. But was like, okay. I’ll go to school and get a degree.

She enrolled in community college and online classes, and worked a bartending job on the weekend.

Within a few years she completed her associates and then enrolled online bachelors and got a BA degree in management. Mostly online.

No debt.

She worked her way up to be Global Sales Operations supervisor at Fiskar, now Karma, the Electric Vehicle company.

She then got a job with Nissan USA where she’s a regional sales operations manager.

Meanwhile her family is still very broke, and she’s this black sheep with an education and a secure job.

I think it’s a nice story.

Measuring the World

Geometry is everything. Geometry literally describes our universe

Points (x,y,x…): Subject, object

Relations (function): degree, quantity, vector, properties

Context (composition algebra): dimensions, planes

It blows my mind all the time. Our individual conscious experience occupies just a point floating in space. Constantly registering other points in space, perceiving and circumscribing bodies described by the infinite points along the curves of this body. Calculating our relationship with these points and bodies. Updating our functions. Accommodating new contexts, where these points and bodies occupy additional dimensional planes of space beyond the three spatial plus 1 time. Everything is just math.

Subject, object

Relation

Context

Points

Functions

Dimensions

The Culture is Corrupt

Something seems very off. Is it the result of incorrect expectations, or faulty assumptions, about the way it “should” vs the way it actually turned out to be?

Or a neurological reaction, a depression, impacting attitude and mood and high jacking perception to be less than desirable?

It’s difficult to distinguish where the outside ends and the inside begins; where the cultural and environmental influence end, and personal responsibility begins. How do you separate the two?

What’s preventing me from doing things that will bring me closer to the way I want things to be?

Is it fear? Of rejection? Or failure? Of not being good enough? Of being criticized? Of not being accepted? Of not being witty or clever or wise enough? Of failing to live up to the idea of who you think you should be? Or who others think you are?

I wonder if this is the source of all avoidance

Since January I personally stopped all drug use (I did lsd once). I stopped working out. Stopped eating. Stopped a lot of social media. Stopped our chat for awhile. Stopped smoking. Stopped drinking. Stopped all distractions. I worked. Not even more than I had to. And I came home. In an effort to create that space you’re speaking of. I did not see my gf much. She was gone for eight weeks over the summer anyway, but when she was around, I really asked for space. A lot of it.

Completely sober.

Freedom.

And I had it.

My job doesn’t involve any management. It’s just me managing my goals. No distractions. I go to work when I want and schedule meetings around my life.

And I was hoping my mind or spirit would come alive. Would stir. Would wake. Would began to vibrate and move, and inspiration would flow, and creative energies would release themselves onto this world, and I would begin to feel actualized, and even authentic.

Instead, nothing happened.

No high highs. No low lows.

I would sleep.

I would go on walks.

I would try to create opportunities to suspend whatever pressure I could possibly perceive as preventing me from producing.

Nothing

I read books.

Lots of books.

Seeking for inspiration.

Just enough to synergize my spirit, seeking for something to nudge me here or there, and catapult me to this state of creative enterprise.

Nothing.

I don’t know what that means, but I am trying a new experiment, with adderall again. But I know how this experiment ends.

I genuinely feel there is a larger force at work, an unspoken collective cultural structure impressing its values onto everything seen and spoken, infiltrating our thoughts and perceptions.

Of course, it’s highly likely that I am exceedingly average, and these lofty visions of my idealized incarnation are nothing but self gratifying delusions.

I wonder about the role of patience, or acceptance. Accepting the plot we’ve been given to toil away, and not spend time seeking other plots to cultivate over and over again.

Dopamine is god.

Is there another god?

I’m fond of walks, more and more by the day

How many other people feel this way?

Theres an insanity to it, this wheel of life.

Detached, disconnected, frantically wanting to connect, yet simultaneously isolating.

Instead of being a consumer, be a producer. There is something to this. We get what we give. Ironically, we usually give in order to get, and it perverts the whole feedback.

I try to capture the idea that my dreams, these fanciful imaginings, are fleeting, and I can never grab hold of them, never tie them together, hold them down, plant them to paper. In time, the motivation stalls, the spell breaks

What’s worth it?

Is it the what? Or the why?

There is something weird about accepting work for reward

Dopamine

Discipline

Habits

Repetition.

I feel like writing in general presents that challenge. Producing something moving requires some risk. Perhaps bolder lines and deeper curves, crazier color combinations. It’s a hard balance not self censoring. The right and left brain collide

When does the plot change? When does the protagonist escape? Will you let me know what you learn about this narrative? Of life?

There is a theme that I’d like to explore more: cutting off all social media. For years. No twitter. No Facebook. No instagram. No reddit. No hacker news. No podcasts. No articles. Delete it.

What do you think of this?

There is a theme of focusing for fulfillment. Deep work. Deep focus.

I can’t help but wonder what actual benefit these platforms provide, and what detriment they deliver. There was a time when these simply did not exist. When feeds of news and new information didn’t pulse at the periphery every moment. Beeps and notifications and buzzed and red circles alerting.

It’s crucial to just step away, and watch it. Do you ever observe social media? Watch it unfold and play out like an alien observer? Study its methods. How it works, how it infiltrates and incites. How it possesses people. The embedded functions

The platforms, the information, their architecture. I pause and catch myself becoming a participant, not even by choice.

The herd. The indoctrination. The repetitive signs and symbols and catch lines. Wearing down the filter. Working it’s way past the defenses of better judgement. Participation is rationalized because… free time? Is there such a thing?

Perhaps the most insidious and damaging lies

Free time, to spend our lives, consuming.

Consuming what? How are we qualifying this endless barrage of noise?

Does anyone have a choice in the matter? Aren’t we all just passive casualties of whatever pulsating agenda is permeating the network?

The most egregious deception is the illusion of freedom. The internet makes us more free? Isn’t this the greatest threat?

This is one of the entries that gets the most hits. I re read it and wonder how or why people find it, but it at least makes me think about this topic:

Liberalism is the transformation of mankind into cattle.

-Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human (1878). I.67

The point is that liberalism is a threat to our actual freedom and autonomy. Namely, the beliefs that we are free and equal and autonomous, makes us unfree, unequal, and slavish.

What would happen if it all stopped? If we resisted? If we ceased participating? In the articles, in the likes, in the outrage, in the reactions? And began focusing on what we can do, what actions we can perform, and not living in a constant reactionary state.

I wonder if we are experiencing as a culture a “great lie”. An epoch of epic proportions.

There is a chronic compulsion to click. These habits. This phone is a ball and chain. A pacifier of poison. Robbing time and freedom, the very things it’s suppose to sell to us.

Where does the malady come from? Has it always existed in some form or another, and as a spiritual malaise otherwise called secularism, where the self is our messiah?

One Day I’ll Write

One Day I’ll Write

There is an endless stream of effervescent dreams gushing from my throbbing mind. I’m too timid to catch these floating seeds and plant them to paper. Perhaps too afraid of what may grow?

The most common conflict arises when these dreamy stories end and begin again. There is a thread that goes overboard, lost in the black abyss as my mind floats away into new waters of wonder.

The tether connecting my mind to its future states is chronically being clipped by new dreams, so I never stay long. Life resembles a manic bee sucking the nectar from every blossoming image, the colors painting the interior scape of the soul, returning weeks or months later, if at all.

What composes these imaginings? Lost memories, resuscitated by association, common themes that tie my waking dreams from moment to moment, all give rise to a sense of stability amidst the cool chaos constantly permeating the present.

I have grand narratives to explore, scenes that serenade my sauntering senses as I go about my day, recalling poignant pasts I wish to recreate, and implore, always asking for more.

These are my dreams, where I escape, for better or ill. Or even nightmares that I wish to seize before they stab and squeeze my sanity.

Childhood is a fiction I hold dear, day and night, morning and dusk, pain and pleasure, but never together.

What stories?

What is interesting about a white man?

I am human, more or less, though I’d argue less, though the world would argue more.

I pine and piss away the potential.

Yearning opens doors that disappear upon entry, and possibility opens up before me as new passages appear. The tree of life unfurls its tentacles toward the doting death that crouches and waits for my passing with ever placid patience.

Day one.

What is sublime?

It is everything that is divine.

You cannot hold it, you can only box it in, encircle it in poetry.

What stories to tell?

I was six years old when the doctors notified my mother that their son possessed a deficiency. Bless her soul. Her worst nightmare. Raising three children, mostly alone, while father foraged for business across the state, she was desperate to give us a better life, a better fate. They both were.

And so I saw the doctor and performed all the proper reflex tests, thumping my knee with the rubber mallet, inspecting the holes in my face with that bright light. The stuffy room of strong scents, the crinkling paper under my boyish body.

The next morning my mother produced a small yellow pill from an orange container, and water to wash it down.

I don’t recall the effect of this method of medication. My mind was too young, too naive, too unaware of who I was, or how I was. What is self control to a child who has no idea of self?

I matured alone.

Too Late Light

I breath in and exhale the tension.

My girlfriend sleeps next to me, face nested in locks of swirling hair amid the comforting woven blankets.

I type, on my phone. Not my preferred method of journaling, but the inspiration to empty my soul’s contents knocks.

I have been reading poetry. We read by the nightstand light, her head perched upon my chest as I speak sublime verse into the night. WB Yeats. Ezra Pound.

She retired to her dreams, and I picked up my book, Our Mathematical Universe, working my way through inflationary theories of a multiverse. My mind blurred and the words stopped reading themselves. I had to put down the book. Too much effort for midnight.

But I can’t sleep. My mind is alert.

I pick up a book of collected poetry, and open to a poem titled Friendship, by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

I mostly hate myself. I think myself selfish, self centered, egocentric, with it always being about me. And this makes me hate myself. Why am I so concerned with me?

I recently rediscovered that I seem to operate on a dopamine deficiency. When the neurochemical is reintroduced, my entire world changes, my tenor is restored, and my keel becomes even. This is why I must constantly seek activities and rituals which stimulate my dopamine centers.

I’ve been struggling the past few years, losing sight of my ideals, of what’s important, wading in dark cesspools and groping for stability on floating phantoms. I’m not sure which came first, the misery or my habits, but they have long been married and poisoning my way.

I think back the past five years, and the friendships I’ve mired, the impulsive choices I’ve made, seeking sensual specters, wicked wraiths. All for what? These scars run deep. The memories are my penance.

How do I correct for my wrongs? How do I make amends?

All talk, no action.

No dreams, nothing daring.

Only panegyrical pensees proclaiming my piety, those dithyrambic desires, dribbling and deadening.

It only occurred to me recently that I have been the living dead. What dreams? I can barely write, let alone imagine, let alone carve mosaics from my mind, and weave winding webs from threads into tapestries of integrated authenticity.

No. Sleep. My mind paled. My body barely supported my spirit, which slithered from day to day, like the snake I’ve been, depersonalized and depressed, inquiring into dark fantasizes of demented devices, like suspending my body from beams.

This ache became numb, and my life became eternal hell. My hell. By me. For me.

Somehow, the clouds have parted, and my life is filled with nascent dreams once again, taking form on the horizon, like outlines from a rising sun.

I can move now. My words are awake, ready to penetrate the dark mist previously enveloping me, poised to vaporize and reveal the sublime beauty subsuming all that my eyes embrace.

How to make amends? With friends?

Be the best I can be. Remind those around me that they are greater, and can be greater.

Never outshine my friends. Remind them of their greatness.

I am a shadow.

You will never see me, only my works.

I must not talk about me. I am dying.

The spirit that remains exists solely to elevate those beings around me.

I cringe at my petty self absorption.

I fall flat and hide my face.

I am unworthy.

What makes me different now?

My dreams.

Continue to paint my dreams as they’ve never been painted before. I can do anything. My will is awake. What is it that I wish to do? Show others it is possible. They too can be great.

Never rest until these dreams are made real.

Never give up.

Electric Vehicle Design Project

I’d like to design an Electric Vehicle for a fun learning challenge.

I’ve been working with quite a few AGV OEMs recently, and along with my passion for electric vehicles, I’ve really gotten interested in learning more about the design of electric vehicles.

The goal is to design and maybe build the optimal Electric Production Vehicle.

I figure the project will progress something like this:

Phase 1: Outline various EV architectures

Phase 2: Aggregate and Evaluate current technology

Phase 3: Model EV system architectures and evaluate pros and cons

Phase 4: Identify optimal EV architecture and refine

Phase 5: Systems design

Phase 6: Spec component technology

Phase 7: Draft component integration prints

Phase 8: Compile BOM

Phase 9: GoFundMe proposal to raise funds to build a prototype

Phase 10: Build prototype

Areas of interest:

Motors

Drivetrain

Variable frequency drive/ Inverter

Controller

Algorithms

Power/ Battery technology

Regeneration

Electric power Steering

Electronic gearing

Septem Sales

September is derived from the word septem which means “seven” in latin, referring to the seventh month in the roman year.

I’m doing well. It’s been about 8 months since I took any exogenous hormones, and my body is stabilizing, along with my mood, I think.

I’m beginning to ‘really’ enjoy my job. It presents me with an excellent opportunity to grow a business, and myself, with limited pressure, and virtually zero micromanagement.

I’m finally figuring out my rhythm. There is a method to the daily and weekly routine that’s slowly taking shape. However, I need to be more disciplined in my daily and weekly habits.

My current ideal routine looks something like this:

Continue reading “Septem Sales”