I have known a lot of spider-killers in my day, and I wonder if they realize what good creatures spiders are, taking care of the little bugs for us. I have a peace treaty with spiders. If they are non-poisonous and stay out of the way, live and let live. The only spiders I would kill would be the brown recluse or black widow, which can cause immense suffering to human beings. I look for the hourglass mark, the sign of the black widow. I've found them on rare occasion in the garden. Poisonous spiders seem rare overall. The recluse really is a recluse, after all. However, spiders become annoying when they build webs in the hallways or living room. If spiders can't abide by simple household rules, they have to be ejected to the outdoors.
I saw a centimeter-sized specimen crawling along my wall this afternoon near my water pitcher. The thought occurred to me that perhaps I am not the only user of my water pitcher. I wonder what the water requirements of a spider are. Probably a sip once a month suffices. Upon reflection, I'm not willing to share my water with a spider. I think my open pitcher must be retired. It can be used to water plants, but not for human consumption. Live and let live does not mean we share water together.
Showing posts with label stories of my life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories of my life. Show all posts
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Userstyles.Org Wants Me to Work Harder
I was amused by the recent change over on userstyles.org. All my .css styles have been evaluated by an automatic process for conformance to some standard of coding. Two of them have been highlighted in ugly mustard yellow, with red text warning me of minor anomalies. Well, you know, maybe I'll get around to fixing that next month, next year, or never. The thing is, the styles are useful to me, but I don't get anything for them from all the strangers that also find them useful. Vanity is nice and all, but I've also noticed that nobody posts any reviews or comments on my styles, so as far as I can see nobody else cares. If nobody cares, and the admin expects me to do more work, well, then maybe I don't care either. Maybe the admin over at userstyles.org can pay my hourly fee of $99.99 / hr, and then I might do something about it. Or he can start coughing up a share of his advertising revenue. The styles work great for me, and I could give two hoots about minor anomalies.
I'm reminded of all the work I did for a friend's web site for free. It was just about a full-time job. I worked on just about every aspect of the site, fixing links, refining the html, improving the menu system, even installing cron jobs to update content. Then one day, the owner of the site decides to take it down. Flip the switch. Presto, all gone, ha-ha. I have a backup collecting dust on a dvd somewhere, and one of our users also ripped the site before it went down without so much as a by-your-leave. Other than that, years of work flushed down the toilet with nothing at all to show for it. That has been the story of my life to date. Incredibly difficult work performed with sometimes heroic effort, but without much to show for it in the end. I'm a little choosier about the things I decide to work on nowadays. I also don't believe in hard work anymore. The point isn't to work harder. The point is to work smarter. Choosing the right kind of work and the right people to work for and the right conditions are all the critical decisions. Simply working harder, well, that's what the ants do, isn't it?
I'm reminded of all the work I did for a friend's web site for free. It was just about a full-time job. I worked on just about every aspect of the site, fixing links, refining the html, improving the menu system, even installing cron jobs to update content. Then one day, the owner of the site decides to take it down. Flip the switch. Presto, all gone, ha-ha. I have a backup collecting dust on a dvd somewhere, and one of our users also ripped the site before it went down without so much as a by-your-leave. Other than that, years of work flushed down the toilet with nothing at all to show for it. That has been the story of my life to date. Incredibly difficult work performed with sometimes heroic effort, but without much to show for it in the end. I'm a little choosier about the things I decide to work on nowadays. I also don't believe in hard work anymore. The point isn't to work harder. The point is to work smarter. Choosing the right kind of work and the right people to work for and the right conditions are all the critical decisions. Simply working harder, well, that's what the ants do, isn't it?
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
The Trolls of Wesnoth Multiplayer
It's always an eye-opener to note those in the world with less suave and social sophistication than myself. I was reminded of the existence of trolls when I experimented with Wesnoth - Multiplayer, where many players quit games without a word or after citing a quite trivial reason; insulted one another, and booted other players for not understanding the rules, although they are not willing to speak of rules nor much else. They do not seem willing or perhaps capable of communicating in an effective manner. All of their communication is wasted upon name-calling, upon hostile behavior that cannot possibly produce good results. I wonder how these people are going to get by in the real world with attitudes like that. Their behavior should attract other people with similar personality types, and repel people like me that just want to get along and have a bit of fun. Not a friendly bunch. Not people I would want to spend any amount of time with on a voluntary basis.
I was amused by the thought that I could code an AI that would behave in the same manner as these trolls. They are predictable in a certain way; trollish behavior is not complicated. Each turn, there would be a 30% of a random profanity, a 20% chance of a random insult, and a 20% chance that one or more players would quit. If anyone quit, there would be a 1% chance that they would give any notice, and a 99% chance that they would leave without saying a word. I can't tell how many games I've waited thirty minutes for someone to move, only to discover after I quit that everyone had already left the game.
Whatever happened to sportsmanship? I learned at an early age to be both a graceful winner and a loser. What is the purpose of a game, after all? The purpose of a game is not to win, but to exercise the mind. Of course games are a diversion and a way to kill boredom, but they should never be stress-inducing or hostile. I don't see the point in a hostile game for no stakes, when one could be reading a book instead.
The learning I have that gives me the most satisfaction of all are my social skills. To know what not to do and to know what to do, and how to say things and communicate with others in an effective manner is very useful indeed. I'd trade all my knowledge of history for it, although that's not quite a fair trade, because I'd simply enjoy rereading history books to relearn all that I had given away.
I'm rereading Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey & Stephen Maturin books. I like to go through the twenty once every seven years or so, after some of the stories have been forgotten. He is an absolute joy to read. I think I'd rather spend a few hours with Patrick O'Brian than with the trolls of Wesnoth.
I was amused by the thought that I could code an AI that would behave in the same manner as these trolls. They are predictable in a certain way; trollish behavior is not complicated. Each turn, there would be a 30% of a random profanity, a 20% chance of a random insult, and a 20% chance that one or more players would quit. If anyone quit, there would be a 1% chance that they would give any notice, and a 99% chance that they would leave without saying a word. I can't tell how many games I've waited thirty minutes for someone to move, only to discover after I quit that everyone had already left the game.
Whatever happened to sportsmanship? I learned at an early age to be both a graceful winner and a loser. What is the purpose of a game, after all? The purpose of a game is not to win, but to exercise the mind. Of course games are a diversion and a way to kill boredom, but they should never be stress-inducing or hostile. I don't see the point in a hostile game for no stakes, when one could be reading a book instead.
The learning I have that gives me the most satisfaction of all are my social skills. To know what not to do and to know what to do, and how to say things and communicate with others in an effective manner is very useful indeed. I'd trade all my knowledge of history for it, although that's not quite a fair trade, because I'd simply enjoy rereading history books to relearn all that I had given away.
I'm rereading Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey & Stephen Maturin books. I like to go through the twenty once every seven years or so, after some of the stories have been forgotten. He is an absolute joy to read. I think I'd rather spend a few hours with Patrick O'Brian than with the trolls of Wesnoth.
Asperger's Syndrome
I have bronchitis and a cold. Illness, especially the communicable variety, brings isolation, and solitude encourages reflection. I thought of my phone conversation with my mother yesterday, which was unusually candid.
Asperger's Syndrome is interesting, and I'm fairly sure my father has it. He has the full-blown variety, no half-measure. My mother agrees with me and also agrees I inherited the trait, which would explain my nerdiness in school. Years ago, such a reflection may have seemed threatening to my ego, but I am not bothered by the working hypothesis, because I like to understand things and get closer to the truth of a matter. Recollections that for a long time puzzled me become clearer when I accept this hypothesis, as though a missing piece of the puzzle falls into place, and the complete picture is revealed to me at last. It is not embarrassment I feel therefore, but satisfaction, to find at last the answer to a riddle that perplexed me for years.
What is nerdiness after all? It is below average adaptation to the social environment. Asperger's is a weakness in interpreting subtle social cues. A person with Asperger's may sometimes be mystified at the reactions of other people. He may not be quite as good at nonverbal communication and may not be a very engaging speaker. Lack of facial expressions, lack of physical expression. Disinclined to engage in social events; prefer to be alone. This is the textbook description that I know by heart. Yet, beware. These are rough generalizations, and variations abound, because the subject is not a mineral that can be classified with precision, but a human being. Furthermore, I describe how the subject appears to some from without, not from within. I describe how norms perceive things, or how I may be perceived on occasion. To a certain extent, Asperger's is a box into which shrinks have thrown some of the kids that aren't making enough friends in school or some spouses whose other half has enrolled them in couples therapy. Asperger's is more or less a pseudoscientific euphemism for nerd. The kids on the playground and the shrinks are using different labels that mean really quite the same thing.
After surviving the trauma of school and gaining experience in the world, neuro-atypicals get better at interpreting subtle social cues. When discussing a subject close to the heart's joy, such as computer programming, certainly there may be emotional emphasis and an engaging speech indeed, no monotone at all. The trouble is that most people don't care about the kinds of things that interest a neuro-atypical. The norm's window of curiosity is half-closed. Who has a Syndrome? Who has the weakness? This is all a matter of perspective. Another way of looking at things is that the guy with Asperger's lacks interest in what other people find very interesting. It is difficult for a neuro-atypical to generate interest in other people. Knowledge helps; if the other person knows a great many things, then that can be very appealing, because hunger for knowledge is a very real need. Depending upon the social events in question, a neuro-atypical may be well-inclined to participate. I think of Asperger's as being the equivalent of a learning disability in social engineering, in networking with other people, or perhaps a reluctance to manipulate others, a disinclination to become drawn into the affairs of others. Although learning may be delayed, many skills can be acquired, depending upon the individual.
I made friends in school. I wasn't quite as nerdy as some, but nerdier than the average boy. I was called a "walking, talking encyclopedia," because I knew words with more than three syllables. I thought everybody should know and use such words. What is wrong with the world, that people don't care to learn everything they possibly can about everything under the Sun? This was my first reaction. Compliments and straight-A's fed my ego, but actually this sort of thing is typical with Asperger's. I got more joy sometimes from reading something as mundane as the back of a cereal box than talking with a peer. I wondered what the ingredients were, and sometimes I had to pull up the encyclopedia, my best friend, to find out. I remember that as a boy I was so naive that I believed everything I read, as long as it corresponded to the general sense of reality and wasn't mythology or magic. Now I know that what one reads on the back of a cereal box must be taken with a grain of salt, along with everything else. One must look to the author and his motives. Of course the cereal manufacturer's motive is clearly to sell cereal, so perhaps not everything can be trusted to be completely candid.
My brain was a sponge, although my memory is very far from photographic, and I'm definitely no savant. I think I was wasted on my school, because I was ahead, and the classes were just lagging behind, leaving me bored and with no sort of challenge at all, just brainless makework. School was a punitive environment. By the time eighth grade rolled around, I was completely disengaged from school. I got into trouble because I wasn't reading social cues as well as the others. I was at least a full grade behind in social development, and a couple grades ahead in academics. I don't think schools knew what do with kids like me. Maybe they do now, but back in the day, the chips fell where they may.
Silence was an early coping mechanism. Silence avoided hostile scrutiny. I learned how to be invisible. Almost all my teachers were less informed about the subjects. Those teachers who knew more than I did, I prized. They were my favorite teachers. But most did not. Teachers who had less knowledge nevertheless had the power to wreak revenge upon their arrogant pupil, and I was certainly arrogant. Let us define arrogance. Arrogance is a failure to understand and apply unwritten and undeclared social norms. One such social norm is that we should convey thoughts and feelings in an inoffensive manner that does not appear designed to make the listeners feel small. Appearances are extremely important, the most important thing in fact, and if one cannot speak without seeming arrogant, silence is preferable. It is better to be silent until one learns the social skills one needs to learn. Of course other boys and girls did not like to seem stupid by comparison, so I learned to disengage and stay quiet in order not to offend anyone. My first lesson in school was the power and the virtue of silence. After several betrayals and cruel pranks, I also learned to be suspicious of others and never to accept what anyone said at face value, but to search for hidden motives--and once the search is complete, to keep watching, because some motives are hidden well indeed. I am almost never taken in by anybody anymore. But in order to achieve such invulnerability, perhaps it is necessary that one endure numerous betrayals, which are such valuable learning experiences. I would not have gone without them.
Some people are better at interpreting social cues than others, and they flourish as social butterflies: politicians, actors, business managers. There are great rewards available for those with above average skills of social perception. I think the self-made rich almost always have something of the social butterfly in them. There is great value in networking, and it is the best way to thrive in business. On the other hand, people with Asperger's seem better with computers, engineering, science, and other detailed and complicated skills. In my opinion, they would also adapt well to the military, which is a system much like a computer, very rule-based, with clear priorities and a chain-of-command.
Asperger's Syndrome is interesting, and I'm fairly sure my father has it. He has the full-blown variety, no half-measure. My mother agrees with me and also agrees I inherited the trait, which would explain my nerdiness in school. Years ago, such a reflection may have seemed threatening to my ego, but I am not bothered by the working hypothesis, because I like to understand things and get closer to the truth of a matter. Recollections that for a long time puzzled me become clearer when I accept this hypothesis, as though a missing piece of the puzzle falls into place, and the complete picture is revealed to me at last. It is not embarrassment I feel therefore, but satisfaction, to find at last the answer to a riddle that perplexed me for years.
What is nerdiness after all? It is below average adaptation to the social environment. Asperger's is a weakness in interpreting subtle social cues. A person with Asperger's may sometimes be mystified at the reactions of other people. He may not be quite as good at nonverbal communication and may not be a very engaging speaker. Lack of facial expressions, lack of physical expression. Disinclined to engage in social events; prefer to be alone. This is the textbook description that I know by heart. Yet, beware. These are rough generalizations, and variations abound, because the subject is not a mineral that can be classified with precision, but a human being. Furthermore, I describe how the subject appears to some from without, not from within. I describe how norms perceive things, or how I may be perceived on occasion. To a certain extent, Asperger's is a box into which shrinks have thrown some of the kids that aren't making enough friends in school or some spouses whose other half has enrolled them in couples therapy. Asperger's is more or less a pseudoscientific euphemism for nerd. The kids on the playground and the shrinks are using different labels that mean really quite the same thing.
After surviving the trauma of school and gaining experience in the world, neuro-atypicals get better at interpreting subtle social cues. When discussing a subject close to the heart's joy, such as computer programming, certainly there may be emotional emphasis and an engaging speech indeed, no monotone at all. The trouble is that most people don't care about the kinds of things that interest a neuro-atypical. The norm's window of curiosity is half-closed. Who has a Syndrome? Who has the weakness? This is all a matter of perspective. Another way of looking at things is that the guy with Asperger's lacks interest in what other people find very interesting. It is difficult for a neuro-atypical to generate interest in other people. Knowledge helps; if the other person knows a great many things, then that can be very appealing, because hunger for knowledge is a very real need. Depending upon the social events in question, a neuro-atypical may be well-inclined to participate. I think of Asperger's as being the equivalent of a learning disability in social engineering, in networking with other people, or perhaps a reluctance to manipulate others, a disinclination to become drawn into the affairs of others. Although learning may be delayed, many skills can be acquired, depending upon the individual.
I made friends in school. I wasn't quite as nerdy as some, but nerdier than the average boy. I was called a "walking, talking encyclopedia," because I knew words with more than three syllables. I thought everybody should know and use such words. What is wrong with the world, that people don't care to learn everything they possibly can about everything under the Sun? This was my first reaction. Compliments and straight-A's fed my ego, but actually this sort of thing is typical with Asperger's. I got more joy sometimes from reading something as mundane as the back of a cereal box than talking with a peer. I wondered what the ingredients were, and sometimes I had to pull up the encyclopedia, my best friend, to find out. I remember that as a boy I was so naive that I believed everything I read, as long as it corresponded to the general sense of reality and wasn't mythology or magic. Now I know that what one reads on the back of a cereal box must be taken with a grain of salt, along with everything else. One must look to the author and his motives. Of course the cereal manufacturer's motive is clearly to sell cereal, so perhaps not everything can be trusted to be completely candid.
My brain was a sponge, although my memory is very far from photographic, and I'm definitely no savant. I think I was wasted on my school, because I was ahead, and the classes were just lagging behind, leaving me bored and with no sort of challenge at all, just brainless makework. School was a punitive environment. By the time eighth grade rolled around, I was completely disengaged from school. I got into trouble because I wasn't reading social cues as well as the others. I was at least a full grade behind in social development, and a couple grades ahead in academics. I don't think schools knew what do with kids like me. Maybe they do now, but back in the day, the chips fell where they may.
Silence was an early coping mechanism. Silence avoided hostile scrutiny. I learned how to be invisible. Almost all my teachers were less informed about the subjects. Those teachers who knew more than I did, I prized. They were my favorite teachers. But most did not. Teachers who had less knowledge nevertheless had the power to wreak revenge upon their arrogant pupil, and I was certainly arrogant. Let us define arrogance. Arrogance is a failure to understand and apply unwritten and undeclared social norms. One such social norm is that we should convey thoughts and feelings in an inoffensive manner that does not appear designed to make the listeners feel small. Appearances are extremely important, the most important thing in fact, and if one cannot speak without seeming arrogant, silence is preferable. It is better to be silent until one learns the social skills one needs to learn. Of course other boys and girls did not like to seem stupid by comparison, so I learned to disengage and stay quiet in order not to offend anyone. My first lesson in school was the power and the virtue of silence. After several betrayals and cruel pranks, I also learned to be suspicious of others and never to accept what anyone said at face value, but to search for hidden motives--and once the search is complete, to keep watching, because some motives are hidden well indeed. I am almost never taken in by anybody anymore. But in order to achieve such invulnerability, perhaps it is necessary that one endure numerous betrayals, which are such valuable learning experiences. I would not have gone without them.
Some people are better at interpreting social cues than others, and they flourish as social butterflies: politicians, actors, business managers. There are great rewards available for those with above average skills of social perception. I think the self-made rich almost always have something of the social butterfly in them. There is great value in networking, and it is the best way to thrive in business. On the other hand, people with Asperger's seem better with computers, engineering, science, and other detailed and complicated skills. In my opinion, they would also adapt well to the military, which is a system much like a computer, very rule-based, with clear priorities and a chain-of-command.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
The Three D's
Young people can say things like "We'll be best friends forever," which I said many a time. With age, one sees the three D's dispose of friends: difference, distance, and death. The best one can do is replace those that were lost with better ones and try not to wax nostalgic over the past.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Local Yokels
Upon reflection, I think the undercover agent on Facebook and Amazon was local. Entrapment of a marijuana consumer seems too petty for the Feds, but not for the local yokels.
Monday, April 15, 2013
A Burr Under His Saddle
I wish I knew what triggered the undercover agent, what put a burr under
his saddle so to speak. I tried laying my cards on the table, telling
him in so many words, "I know you are an agent, buddy." He never
talked plainly, but kept playing his little game of entrapment, with every reply elaborating upon some variation of "Just say the word and I'll mail a package of marijuana--free--no charge!"
I could never in a hundred years believe in a stranger giving me anything except the flu. I wash my hands after shaking someone's hand. Strangers offer me their hand every day on my job, thinking it the civil thing to do. Bah! Handshaking is an accursed unscientific custom. I have yet to meet a doctor or nurse that is first with the hand, and why? Because they know better. Invariably my first thought is to go to the bathroom and wash off whatever germs were laid on my fingers.
The whole affair just underlined for me what a cruel world we live in, dog eat dog. I'm glad I'm wise enough to avoid what can be avoided, although certainly I succumbed to some foolish things in my youth. I pity the unfortunate, careless young and untested, whose first great test may result in their being marked for life.
I think that Facebook fully cooperates with agents, because Facebook locked my account abruptly about two weeks into my correspondence with the agent, so I had to call in to verify my account, thus refuting a potential future "it wasn't me at the computer" defense.
Such ridiculous nonsense. I can think of a thousand productive things the government should be doing, but this is not one of them. One can scarcely credit we are living in 2013.
I could never in a hundred years believe in a stranger giving me anything except the flu. I wash my hands after shaking someone's hand. Strangers offer me their hand every day on my job, thinking it the civil thing to do. Bah! Handshaking is an accursed unscientific custom. I have yet to meet a doctor or nurse that is first with the hand, and why? Because they know better. Invariably my first thought is to go to the bathroom and wash off whatever germs were laid on my fingers.
The whole affair just underlined for me what a cruel world we live in, dog eat dog. I'm glad I'm wise enough to avoid what can be avoided, although certainly I succumbed to some foolish things in my youth. I pity the unfortunate, careless young and untested, whose first great test may result in their being marked for life.
I think that Facebook fully cooperates with agents, because Facebook locked my account abruptly about two weeks into my correspondence with the agent, so I had to call in to verify my account, thus refuting a potential future "it wasn't me at the computer" defense.
Such ridiculous nonsense. I can think of a thousand productive things the government should be doing, but this is not one of them. One can scarcely credit we are living in 2013.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Phantoms of the Internet
Beware of anyone met online, because you have not met them; they are ideas only, phantoms. There are many on the Internet that pretend to be that which they are not, and their motives are as varied as human nature allows. Some are criminals, some are jealous, some are lustful, some are curious, and some are misguided undercover agents.
The agent I dealt with last week also had a profile on Amazon, Google and several other online venues. Her online profiles were elaborate and indistinguishable from that of any other ordinary person. Governments around the world employ personnel that craft convincing and highly detailed online identities. Facebook isn't the only online site crawling with agents, but it's probably the top one. "She" had an impressive cover. Let's continue with the feminine pronoun, though I think she was really a he. She had many friends, each with elaborate and believable Facebook profiles, and her own profile was believable as well. Clearly her online activity constituted a full-time job. Her friends and relatives had blogs of their own with many posts and comments on their posts.
My point is this. It is not possible to determine the legitimacy of an online persona by examining their Facebook profile, friends, forum postings, or email messages. An online acquaintance remains a mystery. One must remind oneself of that cardinal rule at all times. One does not know another's gender, age, name or location. One knows nothing about them at all, not even what can be twigged by their style of writing, for even style and grammar are subject to manipulation. Even an IP address may be spoofed like all other technical information. None of the stats on any online profile may be trusted, and of course anything someone writes is subject to being a lie, along with the manner in which they write it.
Many people in the world have no ethical problem with lying, or even if they do, they evaluate lying as being the lesser evil. Thus, each new evil that they commit afterward may also be evaluated in the same light, as a lesser evil. Such a slippery slope, my dear, and where does the fall end?
The agent I dealt with last week also had a profile on Amazon, Google and several other online venues. Her online profiles were elaborate and indistinguishable from that of any other ordinary person. Governments around the world employ personnel that craft convincing and highly detailed online identities. Facebook isn't the only online site crawling with agents, but it's probably the top one. "She" had an impressive cover. Let's continue with the feminine pronoun, though I think she was really a he. She had many friends, each with elaborate and believable Facebook profiles, and her own profile was believable as well. Clearly her online activity constituted a full-time job. Her friends and relatives had blogs of their own with many posts and comments on their posts.
My point is this. It is not possible to determine the legitimacy of an online persona by examining their Facebook profile, friends, forum postings, or email messages. An online acquaintance remains a mystery. One must remind oneself of that cardinal rule at all times. One does not know another's gender, age, name or location. One knows nothing about them at all, not even what can be twigged by their style of writing, for even style and grammar are subject to manipulation. Even an IP address may be spoofed like all other technical information. None of the stats on any online profile may be trusted, and of course anything someone writes is subject to being a lie, along with the manner in which they write it.
Many people in the world have no ethical problem with lying, or even if they do, they evaluate lying as being the lesser evil. Thus, each new evil that they commit afterward may also be evaluated in the same light, as a lesser evil. Such a slippery slope, my dear, and where does the fall end?
Monday, April 1, 2013
Warning: You Are Being Watched
There is one growth industry in our crumbling empire that generates new employment opportunities and hardly ever downsizes. No, I'm not talking about manufacturing. What a laugh. Manufacturing in the U.S. is almost an oxymoron these days, which distresses me, because manufacturing is what really won the Second World War, as any history buff knows. I fear for our nation's future with our manufacturing outsourced to China. The growth industry is not our nation's military, as our wars seem to be winding down rather than expanding under the foreign policy of President Obama. I am not referring to the education "industry," although many people are going back to school, even with the poor financial returns available on an education investment. The one growth industry that really stands out in the U.S. is the prison industry.
The United States is ranked #1 in the entire world when it comes to the number of people in prison, and no small number of people are paid to put them there and care for them once they are there. This has been true for decades due to the illegality of popular drugs such as cannabis, which is less harmful than alcohol, but carries severe penalties for those found to be in possession of small quantities. The Drug War provides a livelihood for people on both sides of the law. One deplores the cartels, but they would disappear if drugs became legal, as they were for thousands of years prior to the 1930s. Nobody had a problem with drugs until the government made it a problem.
In the Drug War and other law enforcement campaigns, the government employs (I like that word, since the Drug War generates so much employment in modern America) lies and intimidation to weasel its way into peoples' lives.
The usual game goes down like this. An agent pretends to be somebody's friend and then, once a naive individual places trust in that agent, a trap is sprung ensnaring that poor soul in a felony carrying the threat of significant penalties. As a computer programmer, I am reminded of phishing scams and viruses. They are all one, agents and computer viruses, employing social engineering to deceive, manipulate and harm.
"Don't worry, Mr. or Mrs. No-Account Nobody! We don't want to crucify you. We actually want to crucify someone else, and you can help us do so. Oh, and by the way, it would be in your best interest."
Yes: betray your friends and abandon your ethics in the interest of self-preservation. The Drug War is a game, you see, it is not a crusade, and ethics has nothing to do with it. The players are merely players seeking to win. Right or wrong does not necessarily enter into the equation.
If the poor soul wishes to redeem herself and not lose custody of her children or face a lengthy prison sentence or lose all her worldly possessions, then she must prove useful, enlisting as an undercover agent in order to ensnare others in the drug trade, often at some risk to herself. Disgrace, humiliation, debasement, and dishonesty are the prices that such souls must pay in exchange for leniency in their sentencing.
Now, I was tested quite recently by an undercover agent who contacted me via Amazon, responding to one of my reviews. After an initial back-and-forth exchange of messages, she invited me to extend our acquaintance over to Facebook.
On the Internet, undercover agents prefer to pose as women, due to the universal truth that human beings do often place more trust in their mothers than their fathers. In the past, I have been approached more than once by agents due to my online activities of speaking out about political and controversial matters. The government is in the business of profiling individuals and speculating upon them. Those in power are sometimes motivated by the desire to dominate and control others, and principles such as freedom of speech don't appeal to their way of thinking.
Now I will let my reader in on a little secret. I am not a naive individual, although I may play one online. I am not sure how I attracted the attention of an agency, but my blog contains posts on controversial subjects. Whatever the motive, an agent glanced at my blog, concluded that marijuana was my weakness, my femme fatale, and employed a honeypot strategy.
I was offered free marijuana of the very best variety straight from a small organic grow operation in Mendocino County in California. All I had to do was say the words, "Please send me some marijuana," and a special delivery would arrive in the mail, accompanied, no doubt, by several squad cars.
I called her on her game, which at first I found amusing, but she stuck to her story and wouldn't confess to it, but just kept wading deeper into falsehoods. Nobody likes dealing with a liar, and I'm no exception, so I un-friended her / him on Facebook. I suspect the agent was male, a college-educated middle-class boy in his late twenties or early thirties not knowing too much about the world. He was well-trained by his agency and probably would have nailed someone else. Every message, he kept elaborating upon his proposal to mail me a package of marijuana, which I do believe is a federal offense that might even justify an open-ended seach warrant, which presents a huge hassle, having so many cops rummage through the home all day long on a fishing expedition--and I resent the entrapment. I think the trigger may have been something on my blog about a powerful official. It is not exceptional for officials to call in favors from law enforcement agencies.
Although some government employees may not comprehend or believe in the principles of the United States of America, I do, and I think that free speech is important, and sometimes may even be the duty of a human being, to say what is thought to be so, not for material, but for spiritual, for timeless reasons. I will not be intimidated, although I expect the latest will not be the last attempt at entrapment, whether the next lure proves to be sex, drugs, money, or something else. Not many people are acquainted with the phrase, amor fati, which has such a good ring that one prefers the Latin.
In terms of temptations, a job might actually hook me. I don't know. Like many Americans in today's economy, I'd love to get a good new job. A good job is the one thing I want most in this world. But I would not accept any job where I had to lie to people in order to make my living.
The United States is ranked #1 in the entire world when it comes to the number of people in prison, and no small number of people are paid to put them there and care for them once they are there. This has been true for decades due to the illegality of popular drugs such as cannabis, which is less harmful than alcohol, but carries severe penalties for those found to be in possession of small quantities. The Drug War provides a livelihood for people on both sides of the law. One deplores the cartels, but they would disappear if drugs became legal, as they were for thousands of years prior to the 1930s. Nobody had a problem with drugs until the government made it a problem.
In the Drug War and other law enforcement campaigns, the government employs (I like that word, since the Drug War generates so much employment in modern America) lies and intimidation to weasel its way into peoples' lives.
The usual game goes down like this. An agent pretends to be somebody's friend and then, once a naive individual places trust in that agent, a trap is sprung ensnaring that poor soul in a felony carrying the threat of significant penalties. As a computer programmer, I am reminded of phishing scams and viruses. They are all one, agents and computer viruses, employing social engineering to deceive, manipulate and harm.
"Don't worry, Mr. or Mrs. No-Account Nobody! We don't want to crucify you. We actually want to crucify someone else, and you can help us do so. Oh, and by the way, it would be in your best interest."
Yes: betray your friends and abandon your ethics in the interest of self-preservation. The Drug War is a game, you see, it is not a crusade, and ethics has nothing to do with it. The players are merely players seeking to win. Right or wrong does not necessarily enter into the equation.
If the poor soul wishes to redeem herself and not lose custody of her children or face a lengthy prison sentence or lose all her worldly possessions, then she must prove useful, enlisting as an undercover agent in order to ensnare others in the drug trade, often at some risk to herself. Disgrace, humiliation, debasement, and dishonesty are the prices that such souls must pay in exchange for leniency in their sentencing.
Now, I was tested quite recently by an undercover agent who contacted me via Amazon, responding to one of my reviews. After an initial back-and-forth exchange of messages, she invited me to extend our acquaintance over to Facebook.
On the Internet, undercover agents prefer to pose as women, due to the universal truth that human beings do often place more trust in their mothers than their fathers. In the past, I have been approached more than once by agents due to my online activities of speaking out about political and controversial matters. The government is in the business of profiling individuals and speculating upon them. Those in power are sometimes motivated by the desire to dominate and control others, and principles such as freedom of speech don't appeal to their way of thinking.
Now I will let my reader in on a little secret. I am not a naive individual, although I may play one online. I am not sure how I attracted the attention of an agency, but my blog contains posts on controversial subjects. Whatever the motive, an agent glanced at my blog, concluded that marijuana was my weakness, my femme fatale, and employed a honeypot strategy.
I was offered free marijuana of the very best variety straight from a small organic grow operation in Mendocino County in California. All I had to do was say the words, "Please send me some marijuana," and a special delivery would arrive in the mail, accompanied, no doubt, by several squad cars.
I called her on her game, which at first I found amusing, but she stuck to her story and wouldn't confess to it, but just kept wading deeper into falsehoods. Nobody likes dealing with a liar, and I'm no exception, so I un-friended her / him on Facebook. I suspect the agent was male, a college-educated middle-class boy in his late twenties or early thirties not knowing too much about the world. He was well-trained by his agency and probably would have nailed someone else. Every message, he kept elaborating upon his proposal to mail me a package of marijuana, which I do believe is a federal offense that might even justify an open-ended seach warrant, which presents a huge hassle, having so many cops rummage through the home all day long on a fishing expedition--and I resent the entrapment. I think the trigger may have been something on my blog about a powerful official. It is not exceptional for officials to call in favors from law enforcement agencies.
Although some government employees may not comprehend or believe in the principles of the United States of America, I do, and I think that free speech is important, and sometimes may even be the duty of a human being, to say what is thought to be so, not for material, but for spiritual, for timeless reasons. I will not be intimidated, although I expect the latest will not be the last attempt at entrapment, whether the next lure proves to be sex, drugs, money, or something else. Not many people are acquainted with the phrase, amor fati, which has such a good ring that one prefers the Latin.
In terms of temptations, a job might actually hook me. I don't know. Like many Americans in today's economy, I'd love to get a good new job. A good job is the one thing I want most in this world. But I would not accept any job where I had to lie to people in order to make my living.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Avast the Booze
God preserve me from the temptations of the booze good and generous and well-meaning friends laid upon me as Christmas presents. I've succumbed to most of the temptation, four-fifths of the Bailey's and the keg of Heineken's, so maybe I can abstain from the last few dregs in that Bailey's, the last several bottles of wine or whatever it is, I don't want to look at them; vipers, rattlesnakes.
My head felt pins and needles today. Darkness washed over me. I was not myself, not exactly, not my good self. I will remember the darkness. I am reinforced in my conviction: I believe alcohol is poison. Sometimes I forget, but not this year. Inoculated with a booster, I should remain sober through 2013.
Just tea for me now. Good, wholesome tea.
What a mercy it is for me that I do abstain--outside the Christmas holiday--if friends don't lay bottles on me--if I don't feel obligated--if the old habit of scores of Christmases don't come back--I'm such a creature of habit.
My head felt pins and needles today. Darkness washed over me. I was not myself, not exactly, not my good self. I will remember the darkness. I am reinforced in my conviction: I believe alcohol is poison. Sometimes I forget, but not this year. Inoculated with a booster, I should remain sober through 2013.
Just tea for me now. Good, wholesome tea.
What a mercy it is for me that I do abstain--outside the Christmas holiday--if friends don't lay bottles on me--if I don't feel obligated--if the old habit of scores of Christmases don't come back--I'm such a creature of habit.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Death of a Friend
I've sometimes fantasized about death and tried to imagine how friends and acquaintances might think of me after I'm gone. Never did I imagine one of my friends dying before me. My first reaction was shock, followed by annoyance. How rude! To go before me! I don't like someone dying before their time and without any warning at all. It is impolite. But who can control the body? For that matter, who can control the mind? One way or the other, we all will bite the dust. Precautions postpone, but don't prevent. Oh no. Death will take every jogger, every vitamin-gulper.
There's a sense of unreality when a friend dies. I saw her just two months ago. I'm going to see her again for Christmas, surely. What about our Christmas party? We always have a Christmas party together. My dear friend is not dead, no, this is all a terrible hoax, people are mistaken, they have gotten everything wrong. Silly people, always getting things wrong. I know better. I know she is alive, because she is strong and good and wise and would never go just like that, never in a million years.
Reality did not hit me until I saw the sign in front of the funeral home with her name on it. I blinked my eyes, as I used to do when I was a boy, thinking I could take a photograph that way, preserving the image in my mind forever. And you know what I was thinking? I wanted to go back in time a year and tell her what I foresaw this evening, that dreadful sign with her name on it. I wanted to tell her to go to the doctor before it's too late. Don't you see, you mad, mad woman? You dear, dear friend. I loved you so.
Had thou put thy hand in mine, I'd have preserved thee ten more years, my Valentine.
One afternoon when she was in my house, I gave her a gold ring with a four-carat sapphire and told her it was the color of her eyes. She never wore it, and years later gave it back to me when my finances were diminished and the sands of her hourglass had almost run out.
Not everyone wants to stick around in this old world of ours, and I understand that. She had her reasons to not seek cures, to not seek the advice of friends, to escape our nagging and tugging and pulling. If she had just told me what's what, I might have known what to say or do, but all that's over now. I suppose she knew quite well what I would say, what other friends would say, and that's why she didn't tell us.
What do we know anyway? Maybe we are wrong, and she is right. I do not know all the facts. I don't know all the factors. Her passing is shrouded in mystery.
I believe she did not wish to become very old, sick, dependent on others, confused, weak, falling into errors of judgment and understanding. Who can blame her? Not me. Not anyone. I have seen people in this state. I understand. I do not wish to become like that either.
I think it is an ill thing when a person lives alone. I think human beings should live together for the sake of well-being. I did share this with her once, asked her whether she might consider dating again, looking for a partner or even just a friend to live with. It's never too late. But no.
At the funeral home, I tried to get a sense of whether there was any vestige of her remaining in the world. The afterlife is an appealing notion to me. I would be delighted to entertain a ghost. I would be delighted to become a ghost. How I would love to pass invisible through walls and observe the doings of others and--hopefully--intervene for the sake of what's right.
I would not be afraid of a ghost. I would welcome one.
I only sense the material reality around me. I continue to believe that death marks the annihilation of the individual, that there is no soul. Yet it is also true that humans are alike and there will be others like her, like me, like you. Redundancy, that's the word. The human race has redundancy built-in, certainly, now that our population is in the billions. Boring, yes. A bit unpleasant, yes. But those characteristics correlate with reality.
She endures in the memories of her friends. Based on my memories, I believe she was pleased with me. We were on good terms, always respectful, always friendly, cordial.
There's a sense of unreality when a friend dies. I saw her just two months ago. I'm going to see her again for Christmas, surely. What about our Christmas party? We always have a Christmas party together. My dear friend is not dead, no, this is all a terrible hoax, people are mistaken, they have gotten everything wrong. Silly people, always getting things wrong. I know better. I know she is alive, because she is strong and good and wise and would never go just like that, never in a million years.
Reality did not hit me until I saw the sign in front of the funeral home with her name on it. I blinked my eyes, as I used to do when I was a boy, thinking I could take a photograph that way, preserving the image in my mind forever. And you know what I was thinking? I wanted to go back in time a year and tell her what I foresaw this evening, that dreadful sign with her name on it. I wanted to tell her to go to the doctor before it's too late. Don't you see, you mad, mad woman? You dear, dear friend. I loved you so.
Had thou put thy hand in mine, I'd have preserved thee ten more years, my Valentine.
One afternoon when she was in my house, I gave her a gold ring with a four-carat sapphire and told her it was the color of her eyes. She never wore it, and years later gave it back to me when my finances were diminished and the sands of her hourglass had almost run out.
Not everyone wants to stick around in this old world of ours, and I understand that. She had her reasons to not seek cures, to not seek the advice of friends, to escape our nagging and tugging and pulling. If she had just told me what's what, I might have known what to say or do, but all that's over now. I suppose she knew quite well what I would say, what other friends would say, and that's why she didn't tell us.
What do we know anyway? Maybe we are wrong, and she is right. I do not know all the facts. I don't know all the factors. Her passing is shrouded in mystery.
I believe she did not wish to become very old, sick, dependent on others, confused, weak, falling into errors of judgment and understanding. Who can blame her? Not me. Not anyone. I have seen people in this state. I understand. I do not wish to become like that either.
I think it is an ill thing when a person lives alone. I think human beings should live together for the sake of well-being. I did share this with her once, asked her whether she might consider dating again, looking for a partner or even just a friend to live with. It's never too late. But no.
At the funeral home, I tried to get a sense of whether there was any vestige of her remaining in the world. The afterlife is an appealing notion to me. I would be delighted to entertain a ghost. I would be delighted to become a ghost. How I would love to pass invisible through walls and observe the doings of others and--hopefully--intervene for the sake of what's right.
I would not be afraid of a ghost. I would welcome one.
I only sense the material reality around me. I continue to believe that death marks the annihilation of the individual, that there is no soul. Yet it is also true that humans are alike and there will be others like her, like me, like you. Redundancy, that's the word. The human race has redundancy built-in, certainly, now that our population is in the billions. Boring, yes. A bit unpleasant, yes. But those characteristics correlate with reality.
She endures in the memories of her friends. Based on my memories, I believe she was pleased with me. We were on good terms, always respectful, always friendly, cordial.
Autism
Great article on autism in the New York Times.
I don't know where I rank on the autism scale, but some of the things mentioned in the article seem familiar to me. I never was interested in train schedules, but certainly when it comes to computers, chess, or any type of system, I'm interested where other people would be bored. And I guess it is unusual to be interested at all. But I think it is strange to not be interested. I think that the details are very interesting indeed. I'm not as fast as the neuroatypicals profiled in the New York Times article, though. Above average, maybe. I have more social skills than they do, by way of compensation, but I've never been great at social engineering, never had the desire to stand around talking instead of working, like I saw so many people do in the corporate world, standing around as the hour hand creeps from 8:00 to lunch time. I'm more of a worker bee, but I see where that work ethic has gotten me. Those who are skilled at manipulating others to do their bidding have greater success than those who work.
All my modest abilities are wasted for the most part. I have two college degrees, ten years of experience as a computer programmer, and I work for minimum wage, part-time, with no benefits, in a job that has nothing to do with any type of technology. Out at work, I did take the initiative to program our remote phone with the time, date, and important phone numbers, which was well-received, but the phone is the only electronic technology that we use, so that is about the only application that can be made of my skills. There are either too many programmers around, not enough jobs, or both, because I don't see any opportunities. I think the big shots decided to move the high-paying jobs overseas to save money, so Americans like me are left behind, with all our training and education wasted, but the big shots don't care because that does not impact their share price. The big shots don't care about their country. America may go the way of Ancient Rome, but they will fly over to Singapore or someplace else and live like kings. They made theirs, and f--- everybody else.
I don't know where I rank on the autism scale, but some of the things mentioned in the article seem familiar to me. I never was interested in train schedules, but certainly when it comes to computers, chess, or any type of system, I'm interested where other people would be bored. And I guess it is unusual to be interested at all. But I think it is strange to not be interested. I think that the details are very interesting indeed. I'm not as fast as the neuroatypicals profiled in the New York Times article, though. Above average, maybe. I have more social skills than they do, by way of compensation, but I've never been great at social engineering, never had the desire to stand around talking instead of working, like I saw so many people do in the corporate world, standing around as the hour hand creeps from 8:00 to lunch time. I'm more of a worker bee, but I see where that work ethic has gotten me. Those who are skilled at manipulating others to do their bidding have greater success than those who work.
All my modest abilities are wasted for the most part. I have two college degrees, ten years of experience as a computer programmer, and I work for minimum wage, part-time, with no benefits, in a job that has nothing to do with any type of technology. Out at work, I did take the initiative to program our remote phone with the time, date, and important phone numbers, which was well-received, but the phone is the only electronic technology that we use, so that is about the only application that can be made of my skills. There are either too many programmers around, not enough jobs, or both, because I don't see any opportunities. I think the big shots decided to move the high-paying jobs overseas to save money, so Americans like me are left behind, with all our training and education wasted, but the big shots don't care because that does not impact their share price. The big shots don't care about their country. America may go the way of Ancient Rome, but they will fly over to Singapore or someplace else and live like kings. They made theirs, and f--- everybody else.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The Time Has Come
The time has come to reread Patrick O'Brian's wonderful saga about Captain Aubrey.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Dream of my Father
I just realized that the title of my post is similar to the title of Obama's book. Oh well, too bad. I don't think one can copyright a title, and there aren't many possible configurations of a four-word title anyway. Somehow I don't think a lawyer's going to be sending me a nastygram about it. Irrelevancy does have its advantages.
I can't remember a good dream about my father. Last night, I dreamed I was still living in that house, a teenager, and he was busily searching my room from top to bottom, as he often did, searching for contraband, weed being top on the list, followed occasionally by other things, such as paraphenalia, like a homemade bong, or a lighter, or even matches, or ashes, or rolling papers, or tobacco or clove cigarettes, though I stopped smoking them later, nasty habit. He was tearing apart my room, throwing my things on the floor, because he was "suspicious," his favorite word, and when he did look at me on occasion it was with a leer, letting me know he enjoyed this little game, it was a lot of fun for him. I called him what he was, a sadistic bastard, and he pretended to be outraged and grounded me for weeks or months or took away my favorite possession, my computer, on which I spent all my free time programming in BASIC, so that I would be spurred on by boredom to go out with my friends and buy weed from somebody. He loved it, he loved every moment of it, the battle of wills between us, making me suffer and watching the expression on my face. I knew he loved it because he would smile and laugh at me, "hee hee hee hee hee," more like the cackle of the wicked witch from the Wizard of Oz, and congratulate himself on being such a good parent, such an upstanding moral example. He loved prancing around, acting the moralist, the man who never had sex with his wife anymore, who let her do all the housework while he sat around watching television all the time or napping. Always he was at war with either my brother or me or sometimes, for a special treat, both. He always found the thing one of us loved and took it away or made it scarcer. The Grinch he was. And Mr. Grabby Hands besides, although he put a cork on that once I reached the venerable age of twelve.
Weed was expensive in those days and difficult to come by, besides being pretty weak. It was mostly stems and seeds, the shake of the Colombian harvest, and for those of you who do not know, stems and seeds have little or no THC content. Most THC is located in the buds, while some is on the little leaves next to the buds, and a very small amount is in the big fan leaves, but next to nothing is found in stems and seeds, yet they contribute much weight to the product of a dealer selling to inexperienced kids like me, maximizing his profit. I never had a good source, but always somebody taking advantage. In truth this Colombian had the same effect as a weak beer, but my father's rationale was that marijuana was illegal, so it was forbidden, end of story, no negotiation. It didn't matter that the marijuana had little effect other than as an antidepressant. Occasionally he did find alcohol in my room as well, and since I was underage that too was forbidden, but punished much less since it was not very illegal, only a little bit illegal. Later on I concluded that weekend alcoholism was okay in his book so I adopted that practice, drinking on weekends.
I didn't do many other drugs due to my dread of their effects, because I wasn't ignorant about drugs at all. Coke was available, but I thought it was stupid putting something up the nose and never felt tempted. I still don't understand the appeal. My brother rolled up a dollar bill and set up some lines for me once, twice, three times, different occasions. I only tried it once, because of his incessant urging, a half-hearted try, just to shut him up, and I don't think I got more than a line snorted, and it was weak stuff to begin with. I didn't feel much of anything. Probably mostly baking soda with a little bit of ground-up caffeine pills and cocaine, was my belief then and now. That's a perennial problem with coke, it isn't easy to get the genuine product. Glad I skipped that train, but it certainly wasn't my father's doing. Coke would have been a lot easier to hide in my room.
If he didn't find any weed, that meant I had successfully concealed my stash somewhere. He never was satisfied I didn't have any, that was impossible in his ideology, because all resistance and all obstinence and disobedience was the result of marijuana, nothing else. He was absolutely convinced that marijuana was the sole representative of Satan Incarnate. I think it was his fanaticism on this point that persuaded me to keep using marijuana, because I began joining him in his game, finding the amusement in it. I decided he wanted to find marijuana, he was just putting on that he didn't, and that was probably true. He always had a big sense of joy every time he found something and was frustrated and dejected when he didn't. So this was a big game between my father and me that we played for years until I was eighteen or so.
I can't remember a good dream about my father. Last night, I dreamed I was still living in that house, a teenager, and he was busily searching my room from top to bottom, as he often did, searching for contraband, weed being top on the list, followed occasionally by other things, such as paraphenalia, like a homemade bong, or a lighter, or even matches, or ashes, or rolling papers, or tobacco or clove cigarettes, though I stopped smoking them later, nasty habit. He was tearing apart my room, throwing my things on the floor, because he was "suspicious," his favorite word, and when he did look at me on occasion it was with a leer, letting me know he enjoyed this little game, it was a lot of fun for him. I called him what he was, a sadistic bastard, and he pretended to be outraged and grounded me for weeks or months or took away my favorite possession, my computer, on which I spent all my free time programming in BASIC, so that I would be spurred on by boredom to go out with my friends and buy weed from somebody. He loved it, he loved every moment of it, the battle of wills between us, making me suffer and watching the expression on my face. I knew he loved it because he would smile and laugh at me, "hee hee hee hee hee," more like the cackle of the wicked witch from the Wizard of Oz, and congratulate himself on being such a good parent, such an upstanding moral example. He loved prancing around, acting the moralist, the man who never had sex with his wife anymore, who let her do all the housework while he sat around watching television all the time or napping. Always he was at war with either my brother or me or sometimes, for a special treat, both. He always found the thing one of us loved and took it away or made it scarcer. The Grinch he was. And Mr. Grabby Hands besides, although he put a cork on that once I reached the venerable age of twelve.
Weed was expensive in those days and difficult to come by, besides being pretty weak. It was mostly stems and seeds, the shake of the Colombian harvest, and for those of you who do not know, stems and seeds have little or no THC content. Most THC is located in the buds, while some is on the little leaves next to the buds, and a very small amount is in the big fan leaves, but next to nothing is found in stems and seeds, yet they contribute much weight to the product of a dealer selling to inexperienced kids like me, maximizing his profit. I never had a good source, but always somebody taking advantage. In truth this Colombian had the same effect as a weak beer, but my father's rationale was that marijuana was illegal, so it was forbidden, end of story, no negotiation. It didn't matter that the marijuana had little effect other than as an antidepressant. Occasionally he did find alcohol in my room as well, and since I was underage that too was forbidden, but punished much less since it was not very illegal, only a little bit illegal. Later on I concluded that weekend alcoholism was okay in his book so I adopted that practice, drinking on weekends.
I didn't do many other drugs due to my dread of their effects, because I wasn't ignorant about drugs at all. Coke was available, but I thought it was stupid putting something up the nose and never felt tempted. I still don't understand the appeal. My brother rolled up a dollar bill and set up some lines for me once, twice, three times, different occasions. I only tried it once, because of his incessant urging, a half-hearted try, just to shut him up, and I don't think I got more than a line snorted, and it was weak stuff to begin with. I didn't feel much of anything. Probably mostly baking soda with a little bit of ground-up caffeine pills and cocaine, was my belief then and now. That's a perennial problem with coke, it isn't easy to get the genuine product. Glad I skipped that train, but it certainly wasn't my father's doing. Coke would have been a lot easier to hide in my room.
If he didn't find any weed, that meant I had successfully concealed my stash somewhere. He never was satisfied I didn't have any, that was impossible in his ideology, because all resistance and all obstinence and disobedience was the result of marijuana, nothing else. He was absolutely convinced that marijuana was the sole representative of Satan Incarnate. I think it was his fanaticism on this point that persuaded me to keep using marijuana, because I began joining him in his game, finding the amusement in it. I decided he wanted to find marijuana, he was just putting on that he didn't, and that was probably true. He always had a big sense of joy every time he found something and was frustrated and dejected when he didn't. So this was a big game between my father and me that we played for years until I was eighteen or so.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Mental Illness
In the end, or rather before the end, my father's mental illness killed his relationship with me. After he reached a certain age, I found it impossible to communicate with him. I visited him several months ago. He does not see me. He looks through me, as though I am just an abstract idea. He talks at me rather than with me. His face is a mask, he conceals what he really feels, what he really thinks, because his mind has many unpleasant thoughts and feelings, a beehive of little demons that must be kept in, lest they sting and sting. Once when I spoke with him for five hours into the wee hours of the morning he started telling me that a stranger he passed in the mall was spying upon him using an electronic listening device. When I went to bed that night I wondered whether he would come into my room and stab me, because maybe I was spying on him too, maybe I was in league with them, maybe I was actually the stranger, using a clever disguise to appear as his son.
His mind today thrives upon anger. He is always searching for something to get angry about. He is never willing to admit the slightest fault. He demands that everyone pretend as though he is always right and always perfect. I think it is a coping mechanism that helps him deal with his depression. So he will die alone having written me and possibly my brother out of his will because he is angry at us. He is always angry at either my brother or me. I cannot remember a time when he was not. He sought to use his will as a tool to manipulate us, except I refused to be manipulated. If he writes me out then so be it. I feel like he gives a lie to all the things he used to say and the things he used to swear. More often I recall the bad things he did to us, the lies he said to us. Less do I recall any good.
I remember when I was a boy, my father instilled in me the fantasy that we were special, that our family was special, that he was special, and that I was special, but I came to find out later that none of that was true, rather we were ordinary and powerless and poor and humble in abilities and resources, and as for our family, well, it was dysfunctional due in large part to his mental illness and the poor decisions that he made, and now our family is thrown to the four winds, for Mother at last acquired the strength and wisdom to leave him, and today he is not even willing to speak to his own children out of pettiness and spite, a pattern he has followed off and on for decades, for his whole life. No, we are not special in any way, and I am glad the line ends with me, I am glad I was cautious, because there is nothing really worth going to the trouble and expense of replicating, as I look around the world and observe so much genius and creativity in others. My father was proud without a basis for his overweening pride, and as a youngster I absorbed this pride and claimed it for my own, but now I feel different, I question the basis for this pride, and feel humble. I feel empty also and think that much was random and meaningless. It is a strange thing to recall being close to one's father long ago, and knowing now that he wouldn't even answer the phone if I were to call, because of his sickness of the mind. For years I thought my life's achievement would be an autobiography, or at any rate a derivative book of some kind, but now I realize that no one would read it in the first place, because autobiographies are for the famous, and there's nothing remarkable about us, we were just another family living in a certain period in a certain area. I prefer allowing my memory to decay and fade, for dust to pile upon the dust. To disturb old ghosts again is not my wish, nor do I want to preserve in words those who don't deserve it. So he will fade into darkness and I will follow in due course and that will be that. When I look back I see so many lies, so much nonsense, none of it was important at all.
His mind today thrives upon anger. He is always searching for something to get angry about. He is never willing to admit the slightest fault. He demands that everyone pretend as though he is always right and always perfect. I think it is a coping mechanism that helps him deal with his depression. So he will die alone having written me and possibly my brother out of his will because he is angry at us. He is always angry at either my brother or me. I cannot remember a time when he was not. He sought to use his will as a tool to manipulate us, except I refused to be manipulated. If he writes me out then so be it. I feel like he gives a lie to all the things he used to say and the things he used to swear. More often I recall the bad things he did to us, the lies he said to us. Less do I recall any good.
I remember when I was a boy, my father instilled in me the fantasy that we were special, that our family was special, that he was special, and that I was special, but I came to find out later that none of that was true, rather we were ordinary and powerless and poor and humble in abilities and resources, and as for our family, well, it was dysfunctional due in large part to his mental illness and the poor decisions that he made, and now our family is thrown to the four winds, for Mother at last acquired the strength and wisdom to leave him, and today he is not even willing to speak to his own children out of pettiness and spite, a pattern he has followed off and on for decades, for his whole life. No, we are not special in any way, and I am glad the line ends with me, I am glad I was cautious, because there is nothing really worth going to the trouble and expense of replicating, as I look around the world and observe so much genius and creativity in others. My father was proud without a basis for his overweening pride, and as a youngster I absorbed this pride and claimed it for my own, but now I feel different, I question the basis for this pride, and feel humble. I feel empty also and think that much was random and meaningless. It is a strange thing to recall being close to one's father long ago, and knowing now that he wouldn't even answer the phone if I were to call, because of his sickness of the mind. For years I thought my life's achievement would be an autobiography, or at any rate a derivative book of some kind, but now I realize that no one would read it in the first place, because autobiographies are for the famous, and there's nothing remarkable about us, we were just another family living in a certain period in a certain area. I prefer allowing my memory to decay and fade, for dust to pile upon the dust. To disturb old ghosts again is not my wish, nor do I want to preserve in words those who don't deserve it. So he will fade into darkness and I will follow in due course and that will be that. When I look back I see so many lies, so much nonsense, none of it was important at all.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
On Being Disinherited
I received a note card from my Father a few days ago. I knew it was going to be bad because his envelopes are usually long and thick, and this was thin and in a small envelope. Inside was a little 3" x 5" blue-lined notecard of the style he likes to use, handwritten.
He refers to our last phone conversation. How foolish it was of me to attempt communication through a medium that has an indefinite duration. A written letter can be set aside and at any rate has a finite number of pages. With the telephone, one cannot terminate the call until my Father has finished saying everything that is on his mind. He will go on for hours and hours. He never fatigues of talking. I remember once when I was a boy, he was driving me somewhere far away. I fell asleep while he was talking and woke up an hour later, and he was still talking. He had never noticed that I fell asleep. He never had the knack of paying any heed to his audience.
We began talking at about 23:00 and at 1:55 I said I was tired. He had spent the time complaining about my brother and my Mother, their evil ways, while I had listened and sometimes tried to explain to him their points of view, which I well understand. But I was tired after three hours talking on the phone. I had worked a twelve hour shift earlier that day. He is retired and stays up all night reading, brooding. At the time we were not arguing, but just when I said I needed to go, he brought up a new subject that displeased him and expected me to argue about it. He said that in my letter, mailed three weeks ago, which he had not replied to, there was a sentence that called into question the dignity of his father, deceased. I had asked whether a prominent politician, our cousin, had used his considerable influence to get my grandfather a job with the Civil Service. I had only asked whether this were so. I did not think this was insulting, but reasonable since it seems to have been a fairly common practice particularly in the past. It is well-known, to use an example, that Abraham Lincoln appointed friends and allies as postmasters, customs officials and judges. I did not see such speculation as insulting, and said so, but Father was determined to have his rage, because that is what keeps him going in his long hours brooding alone over perceived slights. He said it was Mother that put that idea into my head, evil Mother. I said no, Mother never talked about his father, which is true. So this is why I believe that I am a pawn in a larger battle.
I do not think I was ever important to my Father, only ever just a pawn between him and his wife, though at a tender age, something more, a surrogate. Now it is easy for him to discard me because I never mattered, was just an object. It makes me want to publish a book about him. I am not sure it is worth the effort however. If he lived to see it, he would feed off of the drama, with his love of anger and righteousness. Drama is what he likes. All his life was a battle with imaginary foes, just an arid desert where he plods along in his plate mail armor, shield and sword in hand, sweating and stumbling and cursing and swinging at djinn that are not there. Also it is likely he will be gone long before I am, and I am the one that must carry the name after he has passed. There is a certain freedom and privilege that comes with great age, the certain knowledge of imminent death rendering one immune to all risks. To cap it all, I always expected him to award his legacy to the last woman that whispers sweet flattery into his ear. He always placed the women he liked upon a pedestal, they were saints and goddesses, and he was their hero who knew what was best for them. The woman he currently places in this position is the girlfriend of my brother, who has no difficulty in saying whatever will soothe and please and coax and manipulate. She speaks to his loneliness and also his desire, something no grown man can do.
I've never been exceptional at social engineering. I assume that people are reasonable and fair-minded and speak to them as though this were so, or with the hope that this could become so with sufficient persuasion, but in the case of my father this is no longer so, and maybe it never was so to begin with. I have often wished I had more patience and interest and eagerness for cultivating others for my own advantage, as I see highly socially skilled women do, but then again with my genetics, I am doing about the best I can. When one considers what I came from and where I came from, it is remarkable what I have accomplished.
I do not know what do in response to the note card of my disinheritance, but I feel the best response is no response. My sense of justice wants to write a book, but that sense is so often wrong it seems to me. I want revenge, fairness, what's right, but maybe that is just my Father's blood in me and is not worthy. It may be that he was wicked or weak, two terms that seem sometimes the same thing, really. But I don't see that any of it matters or that anyone cares besides me. Sometimes I care, but sometimes I don't, sometimes I find the story dreadful and boring. There are things that can't be changed, that could only have been corrected long ago, but now are moot, gone, expired. One must live in the present and not the past. And so on and so forth. These are my thoughts now. Perhaps they will remain steadfast. I do think he is testing me, but perhaps I will be equal to the test. For now I choose silence.
22 Oct 2012 (M)I found this to be profoundly depressing but not surprising. Long ago I had foreseen being disinherited and I suspect my brother will be disinherited too. I am collateral damage, because he is currently at war with Mother, and having not allied myself explicitly to him, I am one of the enemy, the disloyal.
By once again insulting me by hanging up on me when I was trying to give you badly needed constructive criticism, you have ensured that I never will communicate with you again. In life as in my will, I am through with you. --Dad. Ω.
He refers to our last phone conversation. How foolish it was of me to attempt communication through a medium that has an indefinite duration. A written letter can be set aside and at any rate has a finite number of pages. With the telephone, one cannot terminate the call until my Father has finished saying everything that is on his mind. He will go on for hours and hours. He never fatigues of talking. I remember once when I was a boy, he was driving me somewhere far away. I fell asleep while he was talking and woke up an hour later, and he was still talking. He had never noticed that I fell asleep. He never had the knack of paying any heed to his audience.
We began talking at about 23:00 and at 1:55 I said I was tired. He had spent the time complaining about my brother and my Mother, their evil ways, while I had listened and sometimes tried to explain to him their points of view, which I well understand. But I was tired after three hours talking on the phone. I had worked a twelve hour shift earlier that day. He is retired and stays up all night reading, brooding. At the time we were not arguing, but just when I said I needed to go, he brought up a new subject that displeased him and expected me to argue about it. He said that in my letter, mailed three weeks ago, which he had not replied to, there was a sentence that called into question the dignity of his father, deceased. I had asked whether a prominent politician, our cousin, had used his considerable influence to get my grandfather a job with the Civil Service. I had only asked whether this were so. I did not think this was insulting, but reasonable since it seems to have been a fairly common practice particularly in the past. It is well-known, to use an example, that Abraham Lincoln appointed friends and allies as postmasters, customs officials and judges. I did not see such speculation as insulting, and said so, but Father was determined to have his rage, because that is what keeps him going in his long hours brooding alone over perceived slights. He said it was Mother that put that idea into my head, evil Mother. I said no, Mother never talked about his father, which is true. So this is why I believe that I am a pawn in a larger battle.
I do not think I was ever important to my Father, only ever just a pawn between him and his wife, though at a tender age, something more, a surrogate. Now it is easy for him to discard me because I never mattered, was just an object. It makes me want to publish a book about him. I am not sure it is worth the effort however. If he lived to see it, he would feed off of the drama, with his love of anger and righteousness. Drama is what he likes. All his life was a battle with imaginary foes, just an arid desert where he plods along in his plate mail armor, shield and sword in hand, sweating and stumbling and cursing and swinging at djinn that are not there. Also it is likely he will be gone long before I am, and I am the one that must carry the name after he has passed. There is a certain freedom and privilege that comes with great age, the certain knowledge of imminent death rendering one immune to all risks. To cap it all, I always expected him to award his legacy to the last woman that whispers sweet flattery into his ear. He always placed the women he liked upon a pedestal, they were saints and goddesses, and he was their hero who knew what was best for them. The woman he currently places in this position is the girlfriend of my brother, who has no difficulty in saying whatever will soothe and please and coax and manipulate. She speaks to his loneliness and also his desire, something no grown man can do.
I've never been exceptional at social engineering. I assume that people are reasonable and fair-minded and speak to them as though this were so, or with the hope that this could become so with sufficient persuasion, but in the case of my father this is no longer so, and maybe it never was so to begin with. I have often wished I had more patience and interest and eagerness for cultivating others for my own advantage, as I see highly socially skilled women do, but then again with my genetics, I am doing about the best I can. When one considers what I came from and where I came from, it is remarkable what I have accomplished.
I do not know what do in response to the note card of my disinheritance, but I feel the best response is no response. My sense of justice wants to write a book, but that sense is so often wrong it seems to me. I want revenge, fairness, what's right, but maybe that is just my Father's blood in me and is not worthy. It may be that he was wicked or weak, two terms that seem sometimes the same thing, really. But I don't see that any of it matters or that anyone cares besides me. Sometimes I care, but sometimes I don't, sometimes I find the story dreadful and boring. There are things that can't be changed, that could only have been corrected long ago, but now are moot, gone, expired. One must live in the present and not the past. And so on and so forth. These are my thoughts now. Perhaps they will remain steadfast. I do think he is testing me, but perhaps I will be equal to the test. For now I choose silence.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Telephone
Choice of communication medium is important. Some people really flourish on the telephone, and I find that good telephone manner indicates good manner in person as well. Others prefer email or text. Still others prefer letters, even handwritten letters, which may blow the mind of folks today, but they haven't met my father. Eighty-plus, he never used a computer and never will. He likes a good letter and also likes to talk on the phone. Phone calls and letters are therapeutic for him.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Mitral Valve Prolapse
MVP in this instance stands for Most Vulnerable Player, or Mitral Valve Prolapse, a leaky heart valve, which is what my doctor said a while back after auscultating my chest and hearing a funny little sound. I intend to auscultate my own chest and double-check the Doc. I've been too busy or negligent or egoless or fearless to give much thought to MVP, which tends to be symptomless in most people, but lately I've been working very long hours on occasion and have noticed that after about nine hours or so, especially if I'm on my feet and interacting with people, my stamina drops like a stone and I get the feeling like I'm walking dead. Sometimes I get so tired, the world turns gray and quiet, things seem sketchy and unreal, like a dream and not a pleasant one. I don't like the feeling, and it doesn't seem like normal tiredness. I wonder whether there is a counter-measure I could take after eight hours, like popping an aspirin or drinking something with caffeine.
Suggestions from the online medical community are pretty pedestrian it seems to me. I haven't seen many recommendations on the web other than "aerobic exercise," which is recommended for everybody anyway, and the unusual "antibiotics prior to dental procedures," which I have no intention of doing because I hate antibiotics and think they are over-prescribed as it is. I consumed far too many antibiotics as a boy and it didn't do me any good and probably a fair amount of harm. I'd rather get the bacterial infection in most cases unless there is a serious threat. I never took antibiotics prior to dental procedures before, and I had plenty of dental procedures creating a mouth full of metal, but I'm still alive and sharing my opinions with the world, aren't I? Unless the MVP has done me in and I'm in blogger-Hell typing forever. Just kidding, MVP isn't supposed to be serious.
I read some of the characteristics of MVP sufferers, and they nailed me in several areas, so even without a electrocardiogram or whatever is supposed to be the definitive test, which I can't afford, I'm persuaded of the Doc's diagnosis. MVP isn't supposed to be a big deal for most people, only correlated with fatigue or headaches and only in some cases. The prognosis on most medical sites seems vague and optimistic, probably to get patients off the Doc's back, because there is so much that is unknown. "You'll be okay, just shut-up and don't bug me about it, because I don't know much more than you do," seems to be the line. I get it.
My Doc didn't seem concerned about it, telling me plenty of folks live a long time with MVP, but then again it isn't anything good or beneficial. A leaky heart valve, it seems pretty clear, means reduced efficiency at circulation, and that means less oxygen for Mr. Brain, hence "greater risk for stroke," and less oxygen to all bodily tissues. I mean, the ideal is a super-efficient heart with valves that do not leak. So doctors can say MVP is symptomless, but that just means human beings are not detecting unusual sensations, or if detecting them, are dismissing them or not connecting them to MVP or not reporting them to their primary care provider. I guess I can check my O2 saturation next chance I get alone with the machine. Sure, it may not be a big deal, but may just translate to a tiny reduction in efficiency, which would also suggest that one can compensate for it by exercising or diet--perhaps. I suppose time will tell, won't it, but that's true for everyone.
Suggestions from the online medical community are pretty pedestrian it seems to me. I haven't seen many recommendations on the web other than "aerobic exercise," which is recommended for everybody anyway, and the unusual "antibiotics prior to dental procedures," which I have no intention of doing because I hate antibiotics and think they are over-prescribed as it is. I consumed far too many antibiotics as a boy and it didn't do me any good and probably a fair amount of harm. I'd rather get the bacterial infection in most cases unless there is a serious threat. I never took antibiotics prior to dental procedures before, and I had plenty of dental procedures creating a mouth full of metal, but I'm still alive and sharing my opinions with the world, aren't I? Unless the MVP has done me in and I'm in blogger-Hell typing forever. Just kidding, MVP isn't supposed to be serious.
I read some of the characteristics of MVP sufferers, and they nailed me in several areas, so even without a electrocardiogram or whatever is supposed to be the definitive test, which I can't afford, I'm persuaded of the Doc's diagnosis. MVP isn't supposed to be a big deal for most people, only correlated with fatigue or headaches and only in some cases. The prognosis on most medical sites seems vague and optimistic, probably to get patients off the Doc's back, because there is so much that is unknown. "You'll be okay, just shut-up and don't bug me about it, because I don't know much more than you do," seems to be the line. I get it.
My Doc didn't seem concerned about it, telling me plenty of folks live a long time with MVP, but then again it isn't anything good or beneficial. A leaky heart valve, it seems pretty clear, means reduced efficiency at circulation, and that means less oxygen for Mr. Brain, hence "greater risk for stroke," and less oxygen to all bodily tissues. I mean, the ideal is a super-efficient heart with valves that do not leak. So doctors can say MVP is symptomless, but that just means human beings are not detecting unusual sensations, or if detecting them, are dismissing them or not connecting them to MVP or not reporting them to their primary care provider. I guess I can check my O2 saturation next chance I get alone with the machine. Sure, it may not be a big deal, but may just translate to a tiny reduction in efficiency, which would also suggest that one can compensate for it by exercising or diet--perhaps. I suppose time will tell, won't it, but that's true for everyone.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
A Good Programmer
A good programmer can find a needle in a haystack. That's my special ability, to find the exceptional evidence by absorbing details and focusing upon the problem. That's one of the qualities I like about myself and one of the things that distinguishes me from other people. The other quality I approve of is having thoughts predicated upon love and understanding. That which increases the love in a person's life has to be good. I am drawn to people that I judge to be good and honest and will usually do what I can to assist them, because I have some feeling of kinship with them.
I am glad I don't live in a madhouse like Syria, because I would not thrive in such an environment. I would try to survive somehow, but my true nature would become distorted as I did what is necessary rather than what I would prefer. Perhaps I would evolve into a ferocious dragon. It is possible. I think Syria needs dragons. It is funny that one never read about Syria before the war, and now Syria is in the headlines every day.
I remember back in my school days, one afternoon during recess, I moved from among the tall trees where we usually played and into the light, where I was enjoying the warmth and energy from the Sun. Something about the light appealed to me on many levels, I don't know just what. The weather was uncommonly good that day, and I thought it was foolish to remain in the shade playing War with the other boys like my best friend at the time was doing. He didn't understand my choice and thought it was stupid and started pulling me into a puddle because, he said, "If you need sunlight so much, then you're a plant, and so you also need water!" I think that illustrated better than anything else the difference between us. He did not remain my friend, but turned on me later. The light did remain my friend, true and steady, and I enjoy it to this day and would rather have the light than anything to do with people like him.
I am glad I don't live in a madhouse like Syria, because I would not thrive in such an environment. I would try to survive somehow, but my true nature would become distorted as I did what is necessary rather than what I would prefer. Perhaps I would evolve into a ferocious dragon. It is possible. I think Syria needs dragons. It is funny that one never read about Syria before the war, and now Syria is in the headlines every day.
I remember back in my school days, one afternoon during recess, I moved from among the tall trees where we usually played and into the light, where I was enjoying the warmth and energy from the Sun. Something about the light appealed to me on many levels, I don't know just what. The weather was uncommonly good that day, and I thought it was foolish to remain in the shade playing War with the other boys like my best friend at the time was doing. He didn't understand my choice and thought it was stupid and started pulling me into a puddle because, he said, "If you need sunlight so much, then you're a plant, and so you also need water!" I think that illustrated better than anything else the difference between us. He did not remain my friend, but turned on me later. The light did remain my friend, true and steady, and I enjoy it to this day and would rather have the light than anything to do with people like him.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
The Female Brain
I woke up this morning with a strange thought that felt right. No, nothing sexual--or not exactly. I don't blog about sexual matters for the most part, mostly because they are mundane and there is not much to say about them unless, I suppose, one has a particularly spicy sex life. Instead I was thinking about a recent hypothesis concerning homosexuality's origin.
Some researchers believe that sexuality is determined in the womb and is not a wholly genetic matter, but that a fetus is exposed to either too much or too little (or just right, according to your viewpoint) testosterone during a critical period of development. I have given this hypothesis much thought. For me, it would mean that I was exposed to more than the standard amount of testosterone while still a fetus, and that my brain therefore remained feminine (contra-intuitively) rather than turning masculine. I may have forgotten or misinterpreted certain aspects of the scientific rationale, but the gist is that a homosexual infant boy's brain is actually the brain of a baby girl at birth. Native testosterone will over time make this brain more masculine and increase the sex drive but to varying extents, resulting in gays being more or less feminine, and overall gays should be a bit more feminine, on average, than the norm.
Feminine qualities I expressed from the earliest ages were sensitivity, passivity, talkativeness and obedience. As I developed I was encouraged and pushed to express masculine qualities and suppress certain feminine qualities, such as sensitivity, but without much success. Bullies were always taking advantage of me because they could easily make me unhappy or afraid through an unkind word or even an attack. Being pressured to be something one is not is stressful and causes internal confusion, doubt and distress. I think growing up was difficult, because in those days nobody understood, or if they did understand a little bit they shut up about it and were of no help to me at all. I think I would have had a much better time if I had known at least one other person that was gay and not in the closet. I grew up thinking I was the only one in the world.
I pity the conservative Christians and Muslims that think gay is bad, because they are going to have a hard time with their gay kids. When Mom and Dad don't understand, the prognosis is poor for the family. I think the conservatives think that they are fighting against a tribe of gay outsiders, strangers, aliens. The reality is that they are fighting against their own family and their future children and grandchildren. Alienation and ostracism awaits, a disappointing outcome for an investment of eighteen-plus years in raising a child, but it is to be expected when Mom and Dad cannot understand what is plain before them. They are second-guessing God, to put things in their terms.
For me it is curious to think of my brain being a female brain. I have always thought of my thinker as a male brain because that is what everyone told me, and I based my self-concept on what I was told. Accepting gayness and femininity comes as something of a relief, because I fought against it for so long in the early years, thinking it was wrong, bad. I see now why I get along well with women and relate with them. I think my brain began female at birth, but is now a hybrid due to the influences of testosterone and peer socialization. I am between the genders, neither one nor the other, but mostly female, I think. I find many straight men to be less interesting than straight women and not very skilled at communication. If all one can talk about is the ball game, that is thin gruel indeed. Give me a woman any day.
Looking back on all my romantic adventures, it is clear that nothing ever worked out with women. So I ask myself why, and the reason may be that my brain was mostly female, and the straight women were looking for a mostly masculine brain. Pheromones also play a role. It is not likely a straight woman would remain attracted for more than a brief period to a gay man, because the spiritual element is contradictory. The gay man is eventually interpreted as a friend, much like other female friends. The woman would have to have a lesbian component in order to remain attracted to a gay man, but even that poses problems because the male has different equipment, contrary to the lesbian's fantasies and expectations.
I was involved with a lesbian at one time, but that did not work out well because she had a butch ex-girlfriend that reestablished control of her (she was a femme), but I think it would not have worked out anyway. She used me to assuage her Catholic guilt, nothing else, and I don't think she was ever genuine, but was pretending with me. I certainly did believe that I was in love, even if it was very foolish and sudden. She said she was bisexual, but was she? Was I? I think to me that love and being in love was more important than the sex. Love was ecstasy. It was a sweet delusion without much grounding in reality. I was looking for an intimate friend due to the female nature of my brain, which seeks intimacy. The sex was not important to me, and I wasn't aggressive in that area, which is the exact opposite of the masculine priority, because men want sex above all else. Sex to me was regarded as a symbol or verification of love and valued only for that purpose, not for the pleasure it might bring.
Sexuality goes to the physical, and there is nothing a male body has that a garden-variety lesbian wants. The same applies to gay men. There is nothing about the female body that I particularly desire, although I can appreciate it as a thing of beauty. I am not overawed at the sight of breasts, and I think that is the essential difference between myself and a straight man.
Much was all right with men, in fact I had an easy time with guys, and of course that is why in time I identified as gay and decided to abandon the pointless and painful pursuit of women. It took me a long time to accept being gay and self-acceptance came in gradual degrees. I think I accept myself more now than I ever did in the past.
Some researchers believe that sexuality is determined in the womb and is not a wholly genetic matter, but that a fetus is exposed to either too much or too little (or just right, according to your viewpoint) testosterone during a critical period of development. I have given this hypothesis much thought. For me, it would mean that I was exposed to more than the standard amount of testosterone while still a fetus, and that my brain therefore remained feminine (contra-intuitively) rather than turning masculine. I may have forgotten or misinterpreted certain aspects of the scientific rationale, but the gist is that a homosexual infant boy's brain is actually the brain of a baby girl at birth. Native testosterone will over time make this brain more masculine and increase the sex drive but to varying extents, resulting in gays being more or less feminine, and overall gays should be a bit more feminine, on average, than the norm.
Feminine qualities I expressed from the earliest ages were sensitivity, passivity, talkativeness and obedience. As I developed I was encouraged and pushed to express masculine qualities and suppress certain feminine qualities, such as sensitivity, but without much success. Bullies were always taking advantage of me because they could easily make me unhappy or afraid through an unkind word or even an attack. Being pressured to be something one is not is stressful and causes internal confusion, doubt and distress. I think growing up was difficult, because in those days nobody understood, or if they did understand a little bit they shut up about it and were of no help to me at all. I think I would have had a much better time if I had known at least one other person that was gay and not in the closet. I grew up thinking I was the only one in the world.
I pity the conservative Christians and Muslims that think gay is bad, because they are going to have a hard time with their gay kids. When Mom and Dad don't understand, the prognosis is poor for the family. I think the conservatives think that they are fighting against a tribe of gay outsiders, strangers, aliens. The reality is that they are fighting against their own family and their future children and grandchildren. Alienation and ostracism awaits, a disappointing outcome for an investment of eighteen-plus years in raising a child, but it is to be expected when Mom and Dad cannot understand what is plain before them. They are second-guessing God, to put things in their terms.
For me it is curious to think of my brain being a female brain. I have always thought of my thinker as a male brain because that is what everyone told me, and I based my self-concept on what I was told. Accepting gayness and femininity comes as something of a relief, because I fought against it for so long in the early years, thinking it was wrong, bad. I see now why I get along well with women and relate with them. I think my brain began female at birth, but is now a hybrid due to the influences of testosterone and peer socialization. I am between the genders, neither one nor the other, but mostly female, I think. I find many straight men to be less interesting than straight women and not very skilled at communication. If all one can talk about is the ball game, that is thin gruel indeed. Give me a woman any day.
Looking back on all my romantic adventures, it is clear that nothing ever worked out with women. So I ask myself why, and the reason may be that my brain was mostly female, and the straight women were looking for a mostly masculine brain. Pheromones also play a role. It is not likely a straight woman would remain attracted for more than a brief period to a gay man, because the spiritual element is contradictory. The gay man is eventually interpreted as a friend, much like other female friends. The woman would have to have a lesbian component in order to remain attracted to a gay man, but even that poses problems because the male has different equipment, contrary to the lesbian's fantasies and expectations.
I was involved with a lesbian at one time, but that did not work out well because she had a butch ex-girlfriend that reestablished control of her (she was a femme), but I think it would not have worked out anyway. She used me to assuage her Catholic guilt, nothing else, and I don't think she was ever genuine, but was pretending with me. I certainly did believe that I was in love, even if it was very foolish and sudden. She said she was bisexual, but was she? Was I? I think to me that love and being in love was more important than the sex. Love was ecstasy. It was a sweet delusion without much grounding in reality. I was looking for an intimate friend due to the female nature of my brain, which seeks intimacy. The sex was not important to me, and I wasn't aggressive in that area, which is the exact opposite of the masculine priority, because men want sex above all else. Sex to me was regarded as a symbol or verification of love and valued only for that purpose, not for the pleasure it might bring.
Sexuality goes to the physical, and there is nothing a male body has that a garden-variety lesbian wants. The same applies to gay men. There is nothing about the female body that I particularly desire, although I can appreciate it as a thing of beauty. I am not overawed at the sight of breasts, and I think that is the essential difference between myself and a straight man.
Much was all right with men, in fact I had an easy time with guys, and of course that is why in time I identified as gay and decided to abandon the pointless and painful pursuit of women. It took me a long time to accept being gay and self-acceptance came in gradual degrees. I think I accept myself more now than I ever did in the past.
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