It's been a week of scientific study, as I have noted and interpreted "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures" and "The Apparent Quick Adaptability of Creatures." Both studies involved the kids waiting for the school bus outside, across the street.
Today I was at the window with my clipboard and microscopes, tapping my watch because no one was showing up. The bus usually comes from the south, but the south was clear. The last couple of days it came from the west, but the west was also clear. As for the pathways, there were no kids to be seen.
Those are the facts as I observed their absence.
Of course my first thought was that everyone called in sick. Including the bus driver. Because I'm not feeling that well myself. I woke up today feeling dizzy and tipsy; I haven't got my normal balance. So I've been stumbling and staggering around. It could be possible, now that I think of it, that I had a stroke and was looking out the wrong window. That was obviously skew the results of the study. That would be an epistemological nightmare really, since there would be no basis for me to trust any of the information that I feel my senses are receiving and processing.
Except I'm sure I was looking out the right window. It's the window facing the street, right? The same one I look out everyday. Being dizzy isn't going to make me that confused. So that can't be it.
The only other possibility I can come up with -- and it's a long shot -- is that school might've been called off today. Like maybe it's a teachers' "in service." I wish we would've had those when I was in school. The kids today, if it's not a snow day it's an "in service" day! So they're sitting home five days out of seven playing video games and inflicting their parents with noise. This is why the younger generation doesn't know a thing about a thing, because the teachers are so busy learning to teach that they never get around to teaching!
So let's say the called off school. Since I don't go to school, there's no reason I should know that. They didn't tell me. But the apparently told everyone else. Leading me to think that my study today isn't all in vain. Because this proves (or suggests) something about the apparent ability of creatures to know their own schedules. If you're scheduled to go to school, you know that. And if it's called off, that you also know.
The apparent intelligence and ability that these parents and kids and bus drivers have is amazing.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Apparent Quick Adaptability Of Creatures
Yesterday I wrote on "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures," and I thank you for your curious, scientifically-oriented questions and comments. If I ever get a FAQ page up and running, I will direct you there for the useful, ready made answers I will have written by then.
Today I'm going to come up with a sequel to yesterday's post, since I was able to witness a few more things in regards to the subjects of yesterday's study. Today I'm thinking of "The Apparent Quick Adaptability of Creatures."
I was halfway expecting this. I'm glad that the bus comes to pick up the kids at about the same time everyday. Since it's so predictable, I'm able to be in place to see it without much worry about it beforehand. I go to the window at about the right time, the kids are there, and the bus comes. It's all like clockwork.
Yesterday and today both there was a school truck near where the kids normally stand waiting for the bus. Whether that guy's there for this switch in their routine, I don't know. I didn't see him doing any overt motions about what they should do.
Here's the apparent quick adaptability of the kids. Yesterday they were in the place where they've normally been, then had to exercise their apparent intelligence in the light of a different turn of events, the bus coming from a different direction. Today, for the most part, they were prepared for the bus coming from the west instead of the south. Meaning there was a more northerly direction they were facing.
It worked out exactly like that, as sure as anything. They apparently adapted just that quickly. (I use the word "apparently" because I don't know what sort of direction they may have gotten from the bus driver yesterday, or the guy in the truck, or their parents at home, perhaps reading a set of instructions about what their kids should do.)
But remember yesterday when I speculated that there could be the one kid who wouldn't get it right and then would fall on his face in the snow? There was that one kid today! Whether he hadn't adapted, or didn't get the note, or hadn't been present yesterday, I don't know. From my point of view at the window this is all like a silent movie with no subtitles. I myself am trying to adapt to the situation on the ground without the benefit of all my senses, without the benefit of hearing the bus driver, the guy in the truck, or of seeing any possible notes sent home by the school.
He came around front of the truck, like he'd suddenly realized the bus was somewhere different than it usually is. He made a sharp turn, then he slipped and went down! He was out of my view, having fallen behind a snow bank between him and me. I watched, hoping he wasn't hurt. Within 10 seconds, thereabouts, he was up and rushing north to get on the bus. But ... survival of the fittest.
What would be really interesting is if I could somehow observe him in particular tomorrow, to see whether he also adapts quickly to the situation. But I won't be able to tell which one he is, unless he doesn't adapt and falls again. My assumption would be -- unless he is a complete boneheaded nitwit -- that he will expect the bus to come from the west tomorrow.
It does my old heart good to see the way the younger generation of human beings deals with things. They are apparently just as quickly adaptable to changing circumstances on the ground as we were back when I was a kid.
Today I'm going to come up with a sequel to yesterday's post, since I was able to witness a few more things in regards to the subjects of yesterday's study. Today I'm thinking of "The Apparent Quick Adaptability of Creatures."
I was halfway expecting this. I'm glad that the bus comes to pick up the kids at about the same time everyday. Since it's so predictable, I'm able to be in place to see it without much worry about it beforehand. I go to the window at about the right time, the kids are there, and the bus comes. It's all like clockwork.
Yesterday and today both there was a school truck near where the kids normally stand waiting for the bus. Whether that guy's there for this switch in their routine, I don't know. I didn't see him doing any overt motions about what they should do.
Here's the apparent quick adaptability of the kids. Yesterday they were in the place where they've normally been, then had to exercise their apparent intelligence in the light of a different turn of events, the bus coming from a different direction. Today, for the most part, they were prepared for the bus coming from the west instead of the south. Meaning there was a more northerly direction they were facing.
It worked out exactly like that, as sure as anything. They apparently adapted just that quickly. (I use the word "apparently" because I don't know what sort of direction they may have gotten from the bus driver yesterday, or the guy in the truck, or their parents at home, perhaps reading a set of instructions about what their kids should do.)
But remember yesterday when I speculated that there could be the one kid who wouldn't get it right and then would fall on his face in the snow? There was that one kid today! Whether he hadn't adapted, or didn't get the note, or hadn't been present yesterday, I don't know. From my point of view at the window this is all like a silent movie with no subtitles. I myself am trying to adapt to the situation on the ground without the benefit of all my senses, without the benefit of hearing the bus driver, the guy in the truck, or of seeing any possible notes sent home by the school.
He came around front of the truck, like he'd suddenly realized the bus was somewhere different than it usually is. He made a sharp turn, then he slipped and went down! He was out of my view, having fallen behind a snow bank between him and me. I watched, hoping he wasn't hurt. Within 10 seconds, thereabouts, he was up and rushing north to get on the bus. But ... survival of the fittest.
What would be really interesting is if I could somehow observe him in particular tomorrow, to see whether he also adapts quickly to the situation. But I won't be able to tell which one he is, unless he doesn't adapt and falls again. My assumption would be -- unless he is a complete boneheaded nitwit -- that he will expect the bus to come from the west tomorrow.
It does my old heart good to see the way the younger generation of human beings deals with things. They are apparently just as quickly adaptable to changing circumstances on the ground as we were back when I was a kid.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Me Promoting "The Apparent Intelligence Of Creatures"
Editor's Note: I made a glorious return to Twitter tonight. You be the judge!
Life is all about choices. I choose to be here right now. I chose not to be here the last several weeks.
Because of my choice, I lost several of my most choice followers.
That's their choice. Of course it's my choice to retaliate against them with brickbats and machetes (figuratively speaking, of course).
I come at people like the gingsu knife guy, or the ginseng tea guy....chop chop, tea's on.
Anything I can do to spur on the people in my corner of the world, that's what I choose to do.
Free choice, it's a beautiful thing. To be or not to be.
I woke up today like a house on fire. But I'm going to bed wimped out.
If you didn't see my post today on "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures," you should catch it.
It was one of those house on fire mornings for this stuff. Sometimes I'm blah ... but today, like I said, house on fire crazy.
Of course it couldn't last. I had other work to do, the kind of work that shoehorns me back into conventionality.
Oh ... but this morning when I got up, I was laughing up a storm, I really was. With "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures" and others.
In short, since you missed it, it had to do with the intelligence of students getting on a bus. The bus came from a different direction!
That I SAW this happen is such a lovely thing. I saw it, I observed it, I focused in on the event like a laser beam, which has a real focus.
And when I saw the students running for the bus, going a totally different direction than they're used to, I knew that had to be IT!
They had "intelligence," something instinctual, the kind of thing that only creatures at the creaturely level can automatically demonstrate.
Anyway .... I'm proud of it ... so I thought I'd gin up a little interest. House afire good.
Good night. It's time for me to burrow in for a long winter's nap. Then who knows what I might see tomorrow!
Life is all about choices. I choose to be here right now. I chose not to be here the last several weeks.
Because of my choice, I lost several of my most choice followers.
That's their choice. Of course it's my choice to retaliate against them with brickbats and machetes (figuratively speaking, of course).
I come at people like the gingsu knife guy, or the ginseng tea guy....chop chop, tea's on.
Anything I can do to spur on the people in my corner of the world, that's what I choose to do.
Free choice, it's a beautiful thing. To be or not to be.
I woke up today like a house on fire. But I'm going to bed wimped out.
If you didn't see my post today on "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures," you should catch it.
It was one of those house on fire mornings for this stuff. Sometimes I'm blah ... but today, like I said, house on fire crazy.
Of course it couldn't last. I had other work to do, the kind of work that shoehorns me back into conventionality.
Oh ... but this morning when I got up, I was laughing up a storm, I really was. With "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures" and others.
In short, since you missed it, it had to do with the intelligence of students getting on a bus. The bus came from a different direction!
That I SAW this happen is such a lovely thing. I saw it, I observed it, I focused in on the event like a laser beam, which has a real focus.
And when I saw the students running for the bus, going a totally different direction than they're used to, I knew that had to be IT!
They had "intelligence," something instinctual, the kind of thing that only creatures at the creaturely level can automatically demonstrate.
Anyway .... I'm proud of it ... so I thought I'd gin up a little interest. House afire good.
Good night. It's time for me to burrow in for a long winter's nap. Then who knows what I might see tomorrow!
The Apparent Intelligence Of Creatures
I saw something today that really gave me an appreciation for the apparent intelligence of creatures, myself included.
Sometimes I think I'm a little dull, a little slow on the uptake. Someone will be spelling a word, let's say, and I'll need them to go very slowly, then repeat it, because I can't keep track of letters (that well) when they're given in a sequence quickly. Just last night, as an example, I had to listen to a podcast 10 times to get the URL for http://rcrdlbl.com/. Someone says it's "r c r d l b l" and I'm not expecting it, I'm like, "What?!" (In case you're worried that might take you to a site that would rip you off, it won't. It stands for Record Label and is a place where artists post their songs.)
Anyway, no matter how dull I am, sometimes I amaze myself by being intelligent. With the creaturely intelligence that appears to be native to all creatures, given their own domain and level of raw ability. Look, I was able to think of that very intelligent description without much aforethought and without memorizing it in advance of writing it. It flowed forth, even though if I wanted to repeat it, I'd have to look at it a dozen times, and I would definitely have a hard time memorizing it.
Today I saw a thrilling display of the apparent intelligence of creatures. I was amazed. It was this:
I look outside in the morning when I'm feeding the cat and getting a bagel. I see the kids gathered across the road, waiting for the bus. The bus always comes from the south. They're standing on the east side of the street, waiting to board the bus through the door, which would be facing east. That's pretty smart of them right there, as they anticipate the bus's approach and depend on the door being in the same place each day. That they even know what a door is and how to use it takes intelligence as well.
(Maybe this isn't that amazing. Even my pets know how to use a door.)
Today, then, something way out of the ordinary happened. And I thought, they are smart! Because of the snow, I guess, the bus came from the west and pulled up on the road facing east. Yet the kids are still standing there, now southerly from the bus. The door will be north of where they're standing.
Every one of those kids recognized it as the bus they were waiting for. Every one of them saw the changed circumstances and immediately adapted. Now, some may have been following the crowd, stupefied by the weirdness of the moment. But just going by the appearance, it looked like each one of them was making an educated move, knowing through their apparent intelligence that they should approach and board the bus like usual, only going in a different direction, as everything about the scene was somewhat different than what they were expecting.
Not one kid was left behind! You might think there'd be at least one kid who would search around for what to do, then walk toward a phantom bus parked where it normally is, lift his leg as though boarding it, and fall flat on his face. But it did not happen!
I stood there at the window, thinking exactly what you're reading here, of how great the apparent intelligence of creatures is.
Sometimes I think I'm a little dull, a little slow on the uptake. Someone will be spelling a word, let's say, and I'll need them to go very slowly, then repeat it, because I can't keep track of letters (that well) when they're given in a sequence quickly. Just last night, as an example, I had to listen to a podcast 10 times to get the URL for http://rcrdlbl.com/. Someone says it's "r c r d l b l" and I'm not expecting it, I'm like, "What?!" (In case you're worried that might take you to a site that would rip you off, it won't. It stands for Record Label and is a place where artists post their songs.)
Anyway, no matter how dull I am, sometimes I amaze myself by being intelligent. With the creaturely intelligence that appears to be native to all creatures, given their own domain and level of raw ability. Look, I was able to think of that very intelligent description without much aforethought and without memorizing it in advance of writing it. It flowed forth, even though if I wanted to repeat it, I'd have to look at it a dozen times, and I would definitely have a hard time memorizing it.
Today I saw a thrilling display of the apparent intelligence of creatures. I was amazed. It was this:
I look outside in the morning when I'm feeding the cat and getting a bagel. I see the kids gathered across the road, waiting for the bus. The bus always comes from the south. They're standing on the east side of the street, waiting to board the bus through the door, which would be facing east. That's pretty smart of them right there, as they anticipate the bus's approach and depend on the door being in the same place each day. That they even know what a door is and how to use it takes intelligence as well.
(Maybe this isn't that amazing. Even my pets know how to use a door.)
Today, then, something way out of the ordinary happened. And I thought, they are smart! Because of the snow, I guess, the bus came from the west and pulled up on the road facing east. Yet the kids are still standing there, now southerly from the bus. The door will be north of where they're standing.
Every one of those kids recognized it as the bus they were waiting for. Every one of them saw the changed circumstances and immediately adapted. Now, some may have been following the crowd, stupefied by the weirdness of the moment. But just going by the appearance, it looked like each one of them was making an educated move, knowing through their apparent intelligence that they should approach and board the bus like usual, only going in a different direction, as everything about the scene was somewhat different than what they were expecting.
Not one kid was left behind! You might think there'd be at least one kid who would search around for what to do, then walk toward a phantom bus parked where it normally is, lift his leg as though boarding it, and fall flat on his face. But it did not happen!
I stood there at the window, thinking exactly what you're reading here, of how great the apparent intelligence of creatures is.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I Want My Flowers Now!
I myself am a part of the "I Want My Flowers Now" movement. It's a push toward getting our flowers now, while we're still alive instead of waiting till we're dead and unable to enjoy them.
Everyone becomes very sentimental as soon as you die. They took you for granted, in most cases. You had your nose to the grindstone and struggled hard just to get by. Everyday was the same. Toil, plodding toil. Punch the clock. Feed the kids. Pay the bills. Fall exhausted into bed at the end of another hard day. Then you finally work yourself into an early grave -- or in some cases you live well and die at a ripe old age -- and everyone sheds a massive tear and gets sentimental. Then the flowers come out, but only then.
So there you are, laying stiff as a board, quiet as a mouse, in your casket. Your eyes are closed tight. Your hands are demurely set in their permanent place. Your skin has been made up. The back of your suit they had to split to get it on you. Every hair's in place for the first time ever. And all around you, it's always the same, heaps and gobs of flowers, flowers draping everywhere, and fancy red banners in place, "Beloved Friend," "Loving Father," "Dearest Mother," "Treasured Son," or "Beautiful Daughter."
Well, I and all the others who are part of the "I Want My Flowers Now" movement hope to change this scene. In other words, please spare us the flowers when we're flat on our back and motionless. We can't enjoy them then! Give us our flowers now! Then, of course, as long as we live, please keep replenishing them as an ongoing flowery tribute to all we mean to you. And we, in return, will also be sending you flowers, sending tributes all along the way, and replenishing them frequently. As much as we can afford.
The florists at first might kick against us. Because most of their business is in the service of the sentimentalized dead. You go to one of their stores and the whole place is geared toward death. They have those sentimental placards that say "If tears could build a stairway, And memories a lane, I'd walk right up to Heaven and bring you home again." It's a very morbid place, you halfway expect to see a zombie at the cash register. But it's always a sweet lady who speaks with a consoling voice, because a full 99% of their customers have just experienced a terrible loss. I was there the other day and everyone averts their glance, because their eyes are red and puffy.
But if the florists came to know our true intentions, which are not to reduce the sale of flowers but to increase them, we'd have them on board very quickly. Because florists, like all good business people, want more customers and more sales. They crave money just like the rest of us. To them it's all about the bottom line.
So, if you want to send me flowers, in honor of my life and not my death, I will give you thanks. I will enjoy them, set them around my room, put them in vases -- the whole bit. But if you wait till I'm dead, then it'll be too late. Much too late.
Monday, February 8, 2010
My Moldy Coffee Pot
I got up today thinking I would want a pot of dark, very dark, rich coffee. It's been a while. I've been drinking tea for maybe four or five months. Meaning I haven't made a pot of coffee in all that time.
I have one of the French press coffee pots, with the little metal filter and the other pieces. It was all up in the cupboard, safe and sound ... I thought.
First I got out the coffee grinder and sniffed it. It still had the residue of ground coffee in it and I was wondering if maybe they went bad. I'd hate to be poisoned. Set that aside.
Then I got the coffee pot out and instantly saw a big problem. There was an inch or more of mold build up in the bottom of it, like a fluffy little science project. The metal filter and all that was together and pushed down in the pot and it was molded over as well.
So ... scratch the coffee.
Then I dug in and wasted my free time getting it cleaned out. I'm boiling water to dip it all in and roll it around after I get the mold out. I threw a pot of water with mold in the snow outside. It's a disgusting bunch of filth.
The filter seemed the hardest to clean and I'm still not entirely sure it's completely clean. I see little flecks, but with scrubbing, picking at it with a toothbrush, and boiling, it looks the same, so it's probably harmless by now.
I got it all boiled -- oh, what a terrible thing to happen -- and I was ready. Then the final problem, I couldn't find the coffee. I know I had part of a bag of coffee beans those months ago when I set it all aside. But someone must've stuck it somewhere and I don't know where.
So I didn't get any coffee this morning. Went with a glass of milk and a bagel instead.
I have one of the French press coffee pots, with the little metal filter and the other pieces. It was all up in the cupboard, safe and sound ... I thought.
First I got out the coffee grinder and sniffed it. It still had the residue of ground coffee in it and I was wondering if maybe they went bad. I'd hate to be poisoned. Set that aside.
Then I got the coffee pot out and instantly saw a big problem. There was an inch or more of mold build up in the bottom of it, like a fluffy little science project. The metal filter and all that was together and pushed down in the pot and it was molded over as well.
So ... scratch the coffee.
Then I dug in and wasted my free time getting it cleaned out. I'm boiling water to dip it all in and roll it around after I get the mold out. I threw a pot of water with mold in the snow outside. It's a disgusting bunch of filth.
The filter seemed the hardest to clean and I'm still not entirely sure it's completely clean. I see little flecks, but with scrubbing, picking at it with a toothbrush, and boiling, it looks the same, so it's probably harmless by now.
I got it all boiled -- oh, what a terrible thing to happen -- and I was ready. Then the final problem, I couldn't find the coffee. I know I had part of a bag of coffee beans those months ago when I set it all aside. But someone must've stuck it somewhere and I don't know where.
So I didn't get any coffee this morning. Went with a glass of milk and a bagel instead.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Way They Were -- Sometimes We
I got these pictures the other day at a thrift store. It must've been a deal where someone in their family (or families) didn't know who they were anymore -- there's no identification given -- so they got rid of them.
Being a kindhearted soul, and knowing that adopted pictures don't eat much, I took them in, with an adoption fee of 50 cents apiece being paid to the attendant.
I think one of them is pretty cute, and I'm not saying which. I don't want to hurt the other's feelings. But the other one has a distinguished look and has nothing to be ashamed of. When I'm that age I hope I look as good!
But however good I think they both look, you can't deny that they look old fashioned. You see the pictures and immediately you think, That was the olden days sometime. Which must have been uncomfortable for them at the time. Walking around with everyone saying, Why the old fashioned look, sister?
I'm just kidding, of course, because back then they all looked like that. They had an old fashioned look because that was the fashion back then before we junked it and did something different. Elvis launched the sexual revolution and we never looked back.
I've got some old timey pictures of me as a kid. There's a picture of me I see almost everyday of me standing by one of Grandpa's Chevys, either a '56 or '57. It's awesome that Grandpa had a '56 Chevy, without him ever dreaming or knowing what they bring at antique car shows now. We'd ride in it without knowing we were riding in a classic.
Another old timey picture -- three different ones, actually -- show me in a baby swimming pool. My parents and I lived right here on Grandma and Grandpa's half acre in a tiny house over by the well. When I say a tiny house I mean it was as small as a house can be and still be a house with people in it. When they took it away it sat on the back of a truck and didn't need a "Wide Load" sign. So that little house is in the background of these pictures of me in the baby pool. And they were taken at just a slightly varying angle, each one, meaning that you can see a stereo image of the house if you hold them side by side and let your eyes drift them together. That thrills me. A stereo image of a house that's not there. It might not be anywhere anymore. Although as an adult, maybe 30-35 years ago, I went to it in the town where the truck took it. It was small. But somehow I didn't take any pictures. Dumb.
The pictures of Grandma and Grandpa taken in olden times show a normal young couple, not knowing what would happen to them in the future. But they looked confident enough to keep living, as indeed they did. One of my favorite pictures of Grandma is of her playing in the snow with a friend. She must be a teenager. She's seen in the picture from the back, like she's darting away from a snowball. It's very vivid. She's in motion, a kid at play. It's the best picture I've ever seen of people where you can't see anyone's face.
Advice to everyone: Mark your pictures. Put your name on there lightly on the back. Otherwise someone will throw them away. Then a guy like me will buy them. And they'll end up on his blog about the olden days.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
I'm Blessed To Be Normal
I visited another guy's blog a little while ago. We individual people who have our individual blogs need to stick together. It's good that we choose to go to each other's blogs, to look around for a minute or so before leaving. I appreciated seeing his posts. I didn't really read them or get a full sense of it, because I'm very busy with my own life and can't be wasting my time like that.
Anything, the thing that stuck out, that I noticed, was that the guy has something wrong with him. An illness or condition that's serious enough and important enough (apparently) to have not just its own name but an organization for those coping with it, battling it, and explaining it. He had links to it. Maybe it was some kind of mental thing. Or a blood disorder. Or an aversion to particular things in life. I can't remember. I just remember it was something, and something important enough for him to identify with it.
When I see that business about a disease, condition, aversion, or complex big enough and bad enough to identify with, I usually leave. I left in this case. And you might leave now, too, since that's my complex. Part of it. But there's no organization for it that I know of, and I'm not battling or coping with it in an association with other sufferers. I'm not even formally diagnosed, but obviously I am concerned with explaining it, at least sufficiently to get to my point, which is how normal I am.
[A Couple Hours Later -- I may have lost the mojo for this post. Because I got as far as the last sentence above and the phone rang, and a dear friend of mine died and that was someone with the news. This is a true statement. So I've been gone maybe close to two hours. I'll read over what I've got above and try to finish it out, because I thought this was a pretty good post.]
OK, I've always considered myself normal and blessed to be normal. I've always considered myself the right height, the right weight, to have been born in the right place to the right people. When it comes to normal, as far as I'm concerned, I am the standard, I set the pace. It's right, good, and proper, in my opinion, for everyone else to be compared to me to determine the degree of normalcy they enjoy.
I eat particular things, normal food. I think particular things, normal thoughts. I go to all the usual places and do all the usual things. There's nothing abnormal about me, except perhaps the mere face that I am so normal. More so than most people.
I'm mentally all together. We don't need organizations to battle that. We've got -- I've got already in my possession what the poor unfortunates are battling for.
Anything, the thing that stuck out, that I noticed, was that the guy has something wrong with him. An illness or condition that's serious enough and important enough (apparently) to have not just its own name but an organization for those coping with it, battling it, and explaining it. He had links to it. Maybe it was some kind of mental thing. Or a blood disorder. Or an aversion to particular things in life. I can't remember. I just remember it was something, and something important enough for him to identify with it.
When I see that business about a disease, condition, aversion, or complex big enough and bad enough to identify with, I usually leave. I left in this case. And you might leave now, too, since that's my complex. Part of it. But there's no organization for it that I know of, and I'm not battling or coping with it in an association with other sufferers. I'm not even formally diagnosed, but obviously I am concerned with explaining it, at least sufficiently to get to my point, which is how normal I am.
[A Couple Hours Later -- I may have lost the mojo for this post. Because I got as far as the last sentence above and the phone rang, and a dear friend of mine died and that was someone with the news. This is a true statement. So I've been gone maybe close to two hours. I'll read over what I've got above and try to finish it out, because I thought this was a pretty good post.]
OK, I've always considered myself normal and blessed to be normal. I've always considered myself the right height, the right weight, to have been born in the right place to the right people. When it comes to normal, as far as I'm concerned, I am the standard, I set the pace. It's right, good, and proper, in my opinion, for everyone else to be compared to me to determine the degree of normalcy they enjoy.
I eat particular things, normal food. I think particular things, normal thoughts. I go to all the usual places and do all the usual things. There's nothing abnormal about me, except perhaps the mere face that I am so normal. More so than most people.
I'm mentally all together. We don't need organizations to battle that. We've got -- I've got already in my possession what the poor unfortunates are battling for.
Friday, February 5, 2010
What Could My Dream Mean?
That was such a vivid dream I had this morning that I've been thinking about it through the day.
I have this theory, which I may have read once -- perhaps I did, it seems like it -- that dreams should not be remembered. The theory is that the dream is a way of filing things away, consolidating thoughts in the psyche. And that if you hang on to them, the filing system is incomplete and therefore you will be personally hobbled in some way.
For example, you might remember all your dreams. Then something in the filing system up there would lock up. And you'd find yourself hopelessly lost in a dream loop, to the outside world appearing only a maniac who twitches and babbles. It seems like it might be true, since the nature of waking up typically is to immediately forget your dreams. Nature doesn't want you remembering!
Then, though, you get a crystal clear, vivid dream like that, and, try as your might (I didn't try in this case), you can't forget it. It could be that nature intends me to remember this particular one, which is why my nature "forgot to remember to forget," to quote a great song lyric, which was written by Charlie Feathers, if I'm remembering right and haven't forgotten.
So what could the dream of the bombs falling mean?
I would like to put a positive spin on it, but I can think of the negative ones.
Negative -- It could mean that I'm very unhappy. And that I see myself at the center of a disaster -- my life. And that I think when something bad happens, I'm just getting my just desserts. Perhaps I even long for personal destruction, in order to escape. I'm too much of a coward simply to do myself in. So my psyche is telling me to seek out destruction, even looking to the skies for it. If I'm seeking it out, it still happens, which could be because I'm masking my seeking of it. Like I heard a psychiatric acquaintance say one time that he's suspicious whenever anyone has an "accident" on the road, because he thinks it might be simply a way for them to destroy themselves "accidentally." Like suicide by police.
Neutral -- It might not mean anything about me in particular. Just that I was talking to a guy yesterday about the various theories people have about the end of the world. The discussion included some derision about radio religious shows that pinpoint the date for the end, supposedly, then when they're wrong they choose another date and go on as though nothing happened. So my mind was busy filing away our discussion, with the bombs being simply part of the consolidation process. You'll remember what I said to the Sunday School students who were making a paper sculpture out of their lesson book: "Are you pleased with yourself?"
Positive -- I see destruction all around me, but I see myself as a true survivor. I try to maintain as positive an image of myself as I can. Sure, I have problems with it from time to time. But I put a glad face on about everything. I tell my doctor I'm healthy, and he agrees. I tell my life insurance representative I'm the healthiest person in town. I tell him I have a good mental outlook as well. Seeing the bombs makes me a witness to everyone else's foolhardy approach to life, locally and on an international scale. It must be positive, because when the bombs fell that close to me, and the yellow haze engulfed me and my companion, wouldn't that have killed us? Yet I got in my car and drove away and when it came time for me to wake up, I didn't seem to be in any mortal peril.
Whichever one it is -- and I think the "Neutral" one is most likely, if any of them are likely, which isn't likely -- it was definitely vivid and memorable. I hope I don't dream vividly tonight. Just let me sleep and be done with it.
I have this theory, which I may have read once -- perhaps I did, it seems like it -- that dreams should not be remembered. The theory is that the dream is a way of filing things away, consolidating thoughts in the psyche. And that if you hang on to them, the filing system is incomplete and therefore you will be personally hobbled in some way.
For example, you might remember all your dreams. Then something in the filing system up there would lock up. And you'd find yourself hopelessly lost in a dream loop, to the outside world appearing only a maniac who twitches and babbles. It seems like it might be true, since the nature of waking up typically is to immediately forget your dreams. Nature doesn't want you remembering!
Then, though, you get a crystal clear, vivid dream like that, and, try as your might (I didn't try in this case), you can't forget it. It could be that nature intends me to remember this particular one, which is why my nature "forgot to remember to forget," to quote a great song lyric, which was written by Charlie Feathers, if I'm remembering right and haven't forgotten.
So what could the dream of the bombs falling mean?
I would like to put a positive spin on it, but I can think of the negative ones.
Negative -- It could mean that I'm very unhappy. And that I see myself at the center of a disaster -- my life. And that I think when something bad happens, I'm just getting my just desserts. Perhaps I even long for personal destruction, in order to escape. I'm too much of a coward simply to do myself in. So my psyche is telling me to seek out destruction, even looking to the skies for it. If I'm seeking it out, it still happens, which could be because I'm masking my seeking of it. Like I heard a psychiatric acquaintance say one time that he's suspicious whenever anyone has an "accident" on the road, because he thinks it might be simply a way for them to destroy themselves "accidentally." Like suicide by police.
Neutral -- It might not mean anything about me in particular. Just that I was talking to a guy yesterday about the various theories people have about the end of the world. The discussion included some derision about radio religious shows that pinpoint the date for the end, supposedly, then when they're wrong they choose another date and go on as though nothing happened. So my mind was busy filing away our discussion, with the bombs being simply part of the consolidation process. You'll remember what I said to the Sunday School students who were making a paper sculpture out of their lesson book: "Are you pleased with yourself?"
Positive -- I see destruction all around me, but I see myself as a true survivor. I try to maintain as positive an image of myself as I can. Sure, I have problems with it from time to time. But I put a glad face on about everything. I tell my doctor I'm healthy, and he agrees. I tell my life insurance representative I'm the healthiest person in town. I tell him I have a good mental outlook as well. Seeing the bombs makes me a witness to everyone else's foolhardy approach to life, locally and on an international scale. It must be positive, because when the bombs fell that close to me, and the yellow haze engulfed me and my companion, wouldn't that have killed us? Yet I got in my car and drove away and when it came time for me to wake up, I didn't seem to be in any mortal peril.
Whichever one it is -- and I think the "Neutral" one is most likely, if any of them are likely, which isn't likely -- it was definitely vivid and memorable. I hope I don't dream vividly tonight. Just let me sleep and be done with it.
A Couple Big Bombs Fell From The Sky
This is part of my dream this morning. I wake up through the night, look at the clock, then fall back to sleep. I looked at the clock a little after 4 a.m. and got up at 5:30, so this dream happened between then. Closer to 5:30, since I was still working on the whole aftermath when the alarm went off.
I was at a place in my town. My car was there and a companion. I looked up the street and saw big bombs, shaped like bombs are, with those things at the back that are like feathers on an arrow but are metal. The bombs were white with some red insignia on them, like decoration, nothing nefarious.
By the time I saw the bombs, they were within 100 or 50 feet of the ground. They weren't moving in real time, I'd say, since I had a little time to think through some things. But it was quick, since I can think a lot of a short amount of time.
I was thinking it's too late to make a run for it, that if I'd had some advance notice I would be in the car and away from there, but now it's too late -- it goes without saying, it goes without thinking. In an instant, they hit the ground. I couldn't see them land because the street I was looking up had the upper part of a hill and they were behind it somewhere, like maybe 100-200 yards from me.
There wasn't a terrible explosion, but what I might call a muffled explosion. The thing that impressed me was the change in the color of the air between here and there and the way the color spread toward us quickly. Like a creamier, yellowish color in the air coming this way. I was thinking that it would be bad for us.
After that we got in the car and headed west. The bombs were east.
But we never got out of town. We were still in town, still with people we know, talking it over, very worried and anxious. But I still had a sense of humor about it, although I was very worried about the after effects that it would have for me and us.
I came into a room and there were some guys sitting on the front and second rows of some chairs. They were there for Sunday School. I wondered where the guy was who normally lead them. He was off in another room. They had cut their lesson book in many places and made a paper sculpture out of it. I said to one guy, they guy holding it, "Are you pleased with yourself?" In a joking way.
That's basically what I remember about the dream. It's been close to five hours ago, so much of it is fizzling out of my memory.
About the bombing, I had some vague recollection that this was going to happen, like people knew it was going to happen. Maybe they told us a couple months ago. But I hadn't kept track, hadn't remembered, hadn't noted the time and place, or I wouldn't have been there.
I was at a place in my town. My car was there and a companion. I looked up the street and saw big bombs, shaped like bombs are, with those things at the back that are like feathers on an arrow but are metal. The bombs were white with some red insignia on them, like decoration, nothing nefarious.
By the time I saw the bombs, they were within 100 or 50 feet of the ground. They weren't moving in real time, I'd say, since I had a little time to think through some things. But it was quick, since I can think a lot of a short amount of time.
I was thinking it's too late to make a run for it, that if I'd had some advance notice I would be in the car and away from there, but now it's too late -- it goes without saying, it goes without thinking. In an instant, they hit the ground. I couldn't see them land because the street I was looking up had the upper part of a hill and they were behind it somewhere, like maybe 100-200 yards from me.
There wasn't a terrible explosion, but what I might call a muffled explosion. The thing that impressed me was the change in the color of the air between here and there and the way the color spread toward us quickly. Like a creamier, yellowish color in the air coming this way. I was thinking that it would be bad for us.
After that we got in the car and headed west. The bombs were east.
But we never got out of town. We were still in town, still with people we know, talking it over, very worried and anxious. But I still had a sense of humor about it, although I was very worried about the after effects that it would have for me and us.
I came into a room and there were some guys sitting on the front and second rows of some chairs. They were there for Sunday School. I wondered where the guy was who normally lead them. He was off in another room. They had cut their lesson book in many places and made a paper sculpture out of it. I said to one guy, they guy holding it, "Are you pleased with yourself?" In a joking way.
That's basically what I remember about the dream. It's been close to five hours ago, so much of it is fizzling out of my memory.
About the bombing, I had some vague recollection that this was going to happen, like people knew it was going to happen. Maybe they told us a couple months ago. But I hadn't kept track, hadn't remembered, hadn't noted the time and place, or I wouldn't have been there.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Truth You Live By
In my seemingly constant campaign, "Drive for Pride," I've hammered away at the things that make for confidence, self-esteem, and pride.
This is no time for a review, but of course a key part of the whole thing is how you think. The "Drive" has as part of its purpose to bring forth good thoughts. I think I've insisted on it from time to time. Because without that we're forever stuck in a rut. The things we tell ourselves are critical.
I know in my life so many of the things I've told myself have been downright disgusting. Especially in hindsight, but I thought they were disgusting at the time as well. I've been my own worst critic, it seems. But somewhere back there, I put most of it behind me and changed my thoughts. That doesn't mean I'm completely over it, with relapses happening occasionally.
The self-loathing, self-questioning, self-doubts, everything, got to be so great, I'd wake up in the middle of the night in weird dream loops, my pajamas drenched in sweat. My eyes were bugged out. I was sweating bullets. I felt about myself then what I feel about Republicans now. It was a bad scene.
What happened for me, I may as well say it, was that I put a lot of these feelings to the test. What part of me was doing the loathing, the questioning, and having the doubts? If there was a part of me that was separate and had these opinions about what was wrong, why wasn't I living from that place instead of having a separate critical stance.
Of course none of this is literal; it's mental. If there's this part of you up here that knows better, what if you just thought from that point of view all the time, or all the time you could manage it. This has some religious overtones, so for me I also check out some verses from the Bible, chapters, with meditation and some serious psychological orientation coming from those teachings.
See how they can be combined? What is of God, in this way of thinking, is what your highest part is saying anyway, the part that knows better. If you can take the time and work up a little discipline toward consolidating some of this stuff, that's when you can see some progress. It works, as imperfect as things are.
So for the better qualities, the self-esteem, etc., it matters what "truth" you live by. Is your "truth" simply what bogs you down? Or is your "truth" what lifts you up? That's the way to do it!
NOTE: Since this is a serious post today, let me say that I pretty much believe what I wrote above. I can't think of any of it I don't believe. But it's fictional to say I was bogged down in self-loathing, etc. That's the "character" of my blog. There have been times, like probably most people have experienced. But there wasn't a time when it was all one way, then a sudden switch. I actually do do some spiritual discipline things regularly, but not as much as would be good for me.
There actually is a spiritual/psychological side of life that, if tended to, generally will make things go better for the average person. Of whom I am one.
I just happened to be serious tonight. I'll try to get back to my crazy character, if I can manage it.
This is no time for a review, but of course a key part of the whole thing is how you think. The "Drive" has as part of its purpose to bring forth good thoughts. I think I've insisted on it from time to time. Because without that we're forever stuck in a rut. The things we tell ourselves are critical.
I know in my life so many of the things I've told myself have been downright disgusting. Especially in hindsight, but I thought they were disgusting at the time as well. I've been my own worst critic, it seems. But somewhere back there, I put most of it behind me and changed my thoughts. That doesn't mean I'm completely over it, with relapses happening occasionally.
The self-loathing, self-questioning, self-doubts, everything, got to be so great, I'd wake up in the middle of the night in weird dream loops, my pajamas drenched in sweat. My eyes were bugged out. I was sweating bullets. I felt about myself then what I feel about Republicans now. It was a bad scene.
What happened for me, I may as well say it, was that I put a lot of these feelings to the test. What part of me was doing the loathing, the questioning, and having the doubts? If there was a part of me that was separate and had these opinions about what was wrong, why wasn't I living from that place instead of having a separate critical stance.
Of course none of this is literal; it's mental. If there's this part of you up here that knows better, what if you just thought from that point of view all the time, or all the time you could manage it. This has some religious overtones, so for me I also check out some verses from the Bible, chapters, with meditation and some serious psychological orientation coming from those teachings.
See how they can be combined? What is of God, in this way of thinking, is what your highest part is saying anyway, the part that knows better. If you can take the time and work up a little discipline toward consolidating some of this stuff, that's when you can see some progress. It works, as imperfect as things are.
So for the better qualities, the self-esteem, etc., it matters what "truth" you live by. Is your "truth" simply what bogs you down? Or is your "truth" what lifts you up? That's the way to do it!
NOTE: Since this is a serious post today, let me say that I pretty much believe what I wrote above. I can't think of any of it I don't believe. But it's fictional to say I was bogged down in self-loathing, etc. That's the "character" of my blog. There have been times, like probably most people have experienced. But there wasn't a time when it was all one way, then a sudden switch. I actually do do some spiritual discipline things regularly, but not as much as would be good for me.
There actually is a spiritual/psychological side of life that, if tended to, generally will make things go better for the average person. Of whom I am one.
I just happened to be serious tonight. I'll try to get back to my crazy character, if I can manage it.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Automatic Writing
I should look up some of the mystical teachings on automatic writing and see what's behind it, if there's any pointers to it. It'd be better than looking at a blank screen, and yawning at the same time.
Automatic writing is one of the many subjects that I've heard of but don't know much more about it than the bare facts. I believe W.B. Yeats did it, or his wife, or someone close to him. And I've heard of various ones around the turn of the century (1900), in the days of mediums and seances, going into a trance and coming out with something they didn't actually write. So it's said.
I could use a skill like that. And maybe I've got it already but just don't know about it. There seems to be a certain logic in the idea that if you just "let yourself go," you could come up with lots of things that go beyond yourself, that is, the conscious, calculating self. It makes sense because you're always thinking -- and it seems like you're always thinking in multiple streams of thought, some more fully realized than others.
Then there's all the unconscious stuff that may be below or above direct knowledge. Like monitoring everything around you but not being consciously aware of it till something in those other fields becomes more pronounced all at once. Bankei mentions this in his sermons, that the people listening to him were also busy monitoring everything going on around them.
As for automatic writing itself, if you can write, you can also just steam ahead. You could do it consciously, just writing a stream of consciousness type of thing. Then the more you do, the more associations there are in it, the more associations there are, the more your conscious and unconscious will be working in harmony, to produce something. Or you can just sit and think, and keep pressuring yourself, until what you're thinking is only about how you're not thinking anything. That's when you find yourself staring at a blank page or empty screen.
It seems to me that if you could just start, then become less demanding of yourself, i.e., not being a perfectionist, not being afraid to edit, you could relax and stream it out and it wouldn't be bad. In my case, which is of course what I can speak to best, I can relax very well, but no matter how much I write, it still sounds exactly like my conscious thoughts. I don't hear another voice in here anywhere.
Maybe if I were sleep deprived -- and could stay awake -- that's when the real automatic writing might start. Because I'd be that much closer to the dream state, which is sort of like automatic writing, except it's just automatic thinking and automatic imaging.
Automatic writing is one of the many subjects that I've heard of but don't know much more about it than the bare facts. I believe W.B. Yeats did it, or his wife, or someone close to him. And I've heard of various ones around the turn of the century (1900), in the days of mediums and seances, going into a trance and coming out with something they didn't actually write. So it's said.
I could use a skill like that. And maybe I've got it already but just don't know about it. There seems to be a certain logic in the idea that if you just "let yourself go," you could come up with lots of things that go beyond yourself, that is, the conscious, calculating self. It makes sense because you're always thinking -- and it seems like you're always thinking in multiple streams of thought, some more fully realized than others.
Then there's all the unconscious stuff that may be below or above direct knowledge. Like monitoring everything around you but not being consciously aware of it till something in those other fields becomes more pronounced all at once. Bankei mentions this in his sermons, that the people listening to him were also busy monitoring everything going on around them.
As for automatic writing itself, if you can write, you can also just steam ahead. You could do it consciously, just writing a stream of consciousness type of thing. Then the more you do, the more associations there are in it, the more associations there are, the more your conscious and unconscious will be working in harmony, to produce something. Or you can just sit and think, and keep pressuring yourself, until what you're thinking is only about how you're not thinking anything. That's when you find yourself staring at a blank page or empty screen.
It seems to me that if you could just start, then become less demanding of yourself, i.e., not being a perfectionist, not being afraid to edit, you could relax and stream it out and it wouldn't be bad. In my case, which is of course what I can speak to best, I can relax very well, but no matter how much I write, it still sounds exactly like my conscious thoughts. I don't hear another voice in here anywhere.
Maybe if I were sleep deprived -- and could stay awake -- that's when the real automatic writing might start. Because I'd be that much closer to the dream state, which is sort of like automatic writing, except it's just automatic thinking and automatic imaging.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Step It Up In Life
I have a rock solid belief that anyone can step it up in life.
Meaning that you (or anyone) don't have to be in the same old rut, don't have to live in dire straits all the time, and don't have to have the same poor conditions next year as you're suffering this year.
Call this a "Drive for Pride" entry. Because that's what it is. It's time to get the pride of life, in the good sense of the phrase, and not to dwell in the same old disgusting pits.
I was helping someone with some forms, tax forms. We came to the space for the refund, routing it to a savings or checking account. You don't have a savings account? You don't have a checking account? No and No.
"Good grief," one's thinking goes, "How are you cashing checks? By paying constant fees? That's crazy! Is it that the minimum balance is too much? Some places it's only $100. You could quit buying DVDs, CDs, and junk food for a month and probably have $100 in discretionary income sufficient to have the minimum balance in the bank. What would it take? About an ounce of discipline? You could surely muster an ounce of discipline. Then who knows? You save all the money on cashing your checks, and in a little while that $100 minimum balance has paid for itself."
This whole short term living it up spirit of things is terrible. With a growing balance, putting away something, trying to live within your means, having something for a rainy day, etc., it's going to eventually do something for your pride and confidence as well. There's something to it, financial security.
To me this is crystal clear. I'm not rich by any means. But I'm not on the verge of total collapse from one minute to another. And I'm trying to make progress. I couldn't handle endless catastrophes, but maybe a few. Then once they'd passed, I'd try to rebuild in the event of the next one.
Stepping it up in life is a matter of saying, "I may have made some terrible choices in the past. But I'm not going to live that way anymore. I'm going to get a hold of myself. I'm going to get a grip. I'm going to be the master of my fate (to the extent that I can be) instead of letting fate master me."
Do it. Do it immediately. Step it up. It may be hard. But there's a lot more regrets in not stepping it up. You can bank on it!
Meaning that you (or anyone) don't have to be in the same old rut, don't have to live in dire straits all the time, and don't have to have the same poor conditions next year as you're suffering this year.
Call this a "Drive for Pride" entry. Because that's what it is. It's time to get the pride of life, in the good sense of the phrase, and not to dwell in the same old disgusting pits.
I was helping someone with some forms, tax forms. We came to the space for the refund, routing it to a savings or checking account. You don't have a savings account? You don't have a checking account? No and No.
"Good grief," one's thinking goes, "How are you cashing checks? By paying constant fees? That's crazy! Is it that the minimum balance is too much? Some places it's only $100. You could quit buying DVDs, CDs, and junk food for a month and probably have $100 in discretionary income sufficient to have the minimum balance in the bank. What would it take? About an ounce of discipline? You could surely muster an ounce of discipline. Then who knows? You save all the money on cashing your checks, and in a little while that $100 minimum balance has paid for itself."
This whole short term living it up spirit of things is terrible. With a growing balance, putting away something, trying to live within your means, having something for a rainy day, etc., it's going to eventually do something for your pride and confidence as well. There's something to it, financial security.
To me this is crystal clear. I'm not rich by any means. But I'm not on the verge of total collapse from one minute to another. And I'm trying to make progress. I couldn't handle endless catastrophes, but maybe a few. Then once they'd passed, I'd try to rebuild in the event of the next one.
Stepping it up in life is a matter of saying, "I may have made some terrible choices in the past. But I'm not going to live that way anymore. I'm going to get a hold of myself. I'm going to get a grip. I'm going to be the master of my fate (to the extent that I can be) instead of letting fate master me."
Do it. Do it immediately. Step it up. It may be hard. But there's a lot more regrets in not stepping it up. You can bank on it!
Monday, February 1, 2010
I Should've Numbered All My Posts
I like numbering things. It's so exact. And everything is so definitely pinpointed when it's numbered.
But sometimes I don't like the numbering process that much. And maybe for the same reason -- it can bother me when everything is so definitely pinpointed.
I can get a slight mental tremor when it comes to numbering and ordering things. Especially if I'm moderately queasy, like I am tonight. I can feel the edges of it and don't really want to provoke it. It's when you don't want to provoke some mental tremor that they like to do their thing on their own. So it's tough to win.
I'll say it -- I've said it before. Somewhere. This feels strange. Say I'm trying to order a series of cards. As an example, say I have a series of 25 cards here, in random order. And they need to be ordered. You find the first one, you find the second, the third, the fourth. At some point here you're going to come to the point of no return. That point can trigger the tremor, a feeling that builds on itself apparently because it is so definite, so ordered, and will be accomplished.
Not a good explanation, I know, but it can't be explained.
Let's get it away from me and this strange hangup. The numbering of things makes things very convenient. Say you had a stack of a monthly magazine, from 1950-1960. There's Volume 1, Number 1. Then all of Volume 1. Then Volume 2, Number 1, 2, 3, 4, etc. It's all very definite. If you're missing one, that's a hangup, so you make a mental note that it's not there. It screws up the numbering, but most collections have at least one problem.
The good thing about the numbering is you know exactly what you have and what you're missing.
The bad thing about it being so definite is ... there's no spontaneity. What is known is known and there's nothing to discover. Each page is also numbered. No one's able to slip in anything. A magical page that just appears and you're transfixed. No, if the Lucky Strikes cigarette company advertised on page 5 of Volume 1, Number 8, it's going to be there till doomsday.
I was numbering some things today. They were automatically numbered by my scanner. Then I noticed I needed to insert some other pages that got missed. Because sometimes if the pages used to have a staple, the little paper jags catch on one another and the scanner takes more than one sheet. So I had to manually insert a few pages without wanting to change the numbers on all the other files. Meaning I ended up with files called 18a and 18b. It's still definite, but it's sneaking new files in, because there's no definite number between 17 and 19 except 18.
When I'm looking for a page in a magazine, I like them all to be numbered. Sometimes they're not. I don't like that. In a way it's refreshing, for the reasons above, it makes it less definite and therefore less predictable. But even if they're not numbered, you could still figure out what their number would have been.
It's probably good that I didn't number my posts. There is a definite number. But they're not all equal. And for all I know there might be a few false starts in the mix.
Those are some of my thoughts on numbers.
But sometimes I don't like the numbering process that much. And maybe for the same reason -- it can bother me when everything is so definitely pinpointed.
I can get a slight mental tremor when it comes to numbering and ordering things. Especially if I'm moderately queasy, like I am tonight. I can feel the edges of it and don't really want to provoke it. It's when you don't want to provoke some mental tremor that they like to do their thing on their own. So it's tough to win.
I'll say it -- I've said it before. Somewhere. This feels strange. Say I'm trying to order a series of cards. As an example, say I have a series of 25 cards here, in random order. And they need to be ordered. You find the first one, you find the second, the third, the fourth. At some point here you're going to come to the point of no return. That point can trigger the tremor, a feeling that builds on itself apparently because it is so definite, so ordered, and will be accomplished.
Not a good explanation, I know, but it can't be explained.
Let's get it away from me and this strange hangup. The numbering of things makes things very convenient. Say you had a stack of a monthly magazine, from 1950-1960. There's Volume 1, Number 1. Then all of Volume 1. Then Volume 2, Number 1, 2, 3, 4, etc. It's all very definite. If you're missing one, that's a hangup, so you make a mental note that it's not there. It screws up the numbering, but most collections have at least one problem.
The good thing about the numbering is you know exactly what you have and what you're missing.
The bad thing about it being so definite is ... there's no spontaneity. What is known is known and there's nothing to discover. Each page is also numbered. No one's able to slip in anything. A magical page that just appears and you're transfixed. No, if the Lucky Strikes cigarette company advertised on page 5 of Volume 1, Number 8, it's going to be there till doomsday.
I was numbering some things today. They were automatically numbered by my scanner. Then I noticed I needed to insert some other pages that got missed. Because sometimes if the pages used to have a staple, the little paper jags catch on one another and the scanner takes more than one sheet. So I had to manually insert a few pages without wanting to change the numbers on all the other files. Meaning I ended up with files called 18a and 18b. It's still definite, but it's sneaking new files in, because there's no definite number between 17 and 19 except 18.
When I'm looking for a page in a magazine, I like them all to be numbered. Sometimes they're not. I don't like that. In a way it's refreshing, for the reasons above, it makes it less definite and therefore less predictable. But even if they're not numbered, you could still figure out what their number would have been.
It's probably good that I didn't number my posts. There is a definite number. But they're not all equal. And for all I know there might be a few false starts in the mix.
Those are some of my thoughts on numbers.
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