inquiry

whatever comes to mind

I keep forgetting to mention how much I've enjoyed egoecho the few times I've endured/risked the browser's translation thereof.

Can someone please create a service (for pay, of course) that keeps track of online subscriptions, showing their cost, next expiration date, whether they automatically renew, and a link to where one can unsubscribe from them? I mean, who the hell wants to remember all that, or put it in some file that one promptly loses, etc., etc.? So tiring... so set up to increase the chances one gets stuck for paying for another year of whatever crap, etc.

Or does that already exist?

See also: indeed is backing off coffee no fun at all.

But what beauty in the here and now! You should see the fullness of trees outside this window, branches and leaves swaying against the sun-drenched blue sky, various sounds both identifiable and not, the room a landfill of discarded bullshit I once imagined would make me happy, smiling at the pajama bottoms beneath the polo shirt that hopefully validates me as a viable remote employee when on camera.

<two-handed gesture indicating comparative weighing of two things>

Let's see... all that glory I just described.. or all this verbiage that's mostly so much pixilated screen CO2 leading unto mental climate change invariably for the worse...?

(he types, as the side of a formerly prized mental glacier sheers off into the ocean of undifferentiated mental fluid)

Totally agree with tmo, here.

In the spirit of “all mental is illness”, the idea of creating and maintaining and being consistent with an identity increasingly seems a raving dragon-chasing lunatic's errand to me.

I mean, each to their own, and good luck if you're into compulsive dragon hunting, i.e. benefits at least seem to outweigh costs/effort.

But I honestly don't see an advantage to associating shit coming to mind with an implied identity like 'inquiry' over just throwing it over the wall anonymously and being done with it. (Never mind the fact I'm not remotely this talented, and so my time would be better spent reading the likes of that than pretending I can run with such magnificent bulls.)

I mean, of course I'll probably continue with 'inquiry' given I paid for a year in advance (right? even the lowest level membership was for a year? where's it documented? and please tell me I wasn't stupid enough to sign up for some automatic yearly payment shit that it'll take an act of God to be released from...).

But, goddamnit, it doesn't take long for online shit to become burdensome....

People that could converse in real time audio instead take turns talking to the speech recognition functionality of their phones, which converts the speech to text, which senders should probably first examine and edit in case ridiculous/embarrassing conversions took place, finally sending a text message that eventually arrives on the receiver's phone, which they can then spend time “bringing up” and then reading.

Any idea how much longer that “conversation” takes than its purely audio equivalent?

This Shit I Find Interesting offering is in the direction of how things are increasingly seeming to me.

Mind seemingly has a capacity, and indication that's being reached (if not attained..) (if not surpassed..) is, I think (haha), called “anxiety”.

And the internet is basically a gigantic anxiety funnel (think college “beer bong”).

This place included.

So I apologize for adding even more crappy, less filling, tastes-great-only-if-you're-good-at-conning-yourselves-into-believing-it-does beer to the funnel.

I lived much of my life just fine without the likes of a phone in my pocket and the internet. In fact, I felt way better overall. The internet is basically the ultimate procrastinatory escapism. And that would probably be fine except for the slight (that was a sarcastic 'slight'..) problem that mind seemingly becomes ill on its own churn without breaks from it. Mind was a fine evolutionary assistant, but a really drain-circlingly hollow “all and everything”. It's kind of like how a hammer is fantastic when you have nails to pound, but leaves more than a little to be desired when revolving one's life around it.

Something like that.

So I don't know what's next.

Perhaps some hopefully restorative fade cleansing?

A swirl of thoughts pertaining to persons in situations races storm-like through formerly solitudinous spaces.

The whole notion of personhood oozireeks of drama.

The weekend is officially upon me. Liquid wrecking balls await. As do faces I'll be imagining thoughts hiding behind, carefully looking for hints, leanings, proof of my predictive prowess – if not my idiocy.

Peaceful, foggy day.

Fun, fine email.

Minor, pesky agonizing over coin-flippable design decisions.

Which reminds me of a favorite book: The Dice Man (Luke Rhinehart).

The only reason internet is a problem is because mind is a problem that internet incites.

But then there's: thoughtless attention to its source

It's curious how attempting to know what we are generates a re-presentation that isn't what we are, yet is subsequently embraced as what we are.. and then there's suddenly ALL THIS as cascading re-presentational hairs invariably split until it all becomes so arbitrarily void that there's nothing left to do but laugh over how silly trying to know what we are is given being what we are is a far superior kind of knowing anyway.

You know how knowing how a magician does it drains the life from a trick?

How – said another (and slightly less nice..) way – magic and ignorance are essentially the same thing?

Are we fools mostly if not entirely inasmuch as we fool ourselves about ourselves: relocating the glory of what can't be said into a say-able space, somehow forgetting the former in the rush to embrace the latter as though it's the former...?

Taking a heavily limited and distorted partial reflection to be the reality?

(Amazing that the reflection can seemingly edit itself, hey?)

It makes sense actors/directors/producers – we, all – think the show must goon. I mean go on.

Thanks to bleak and pretty for this solid, general purpose approach to life:

there's many things to do. being depressed shouldn't be one of those.

Definitely enjoying the sudden five post gust of Contemplations of the Ghostlike wind.

As for the self-mutilation also known as coding, scripted scaffolding seems the only feedback-loops I've found consistently useful.

To me coding is the ultimate mirror of human reality tunneling tendencies. I don't know how many times I've convinced myself I understood a design and/or implementation to the point of not even looking at something as possibly being the source of a bug, only to later have to surmount my own beliefs about what could/couldn't possibly go wrong (for it being what might be called “too solid to fail”) to finally discover a glaring mistake/exception that manifests only in one or more state contexts I couldn't have imagined in the past.

Indeed, the impossible – relative to preconceived notions of what is/isn't possible – happens in coding all the time!

Pretending to be.

Yes, precisely what ego is: the thought "I'm <whatever list of attributes/memories>".

But as for me my ego's house I'm super happy to see surf's up again.

And, oh yes: "Full on gas, no road".

Very much identification in progress, possibly IDENTIFCON 2.

Wabbits, all.

Accounts and inboxes: holes full of everything but stick-borne carrots.

I miss earbud worlds like today.

Today it's one after another, although I get stuck on a few, so dozens of times for them: with at least as much – perhaps slightly improved upon, even – emotion each listen/performance.

Yes, listenings are performances too.

There's only your hearing of it, so the world way as well be on the brink at the time.

Or (as it seemed to me so many gobs of years ago that Hilary Clinton was, well, quite the lawyer..) such that the person I wanted more than everything else multiplied and factorial'd – and maybe even to-the-42nd-power'd – together were winnable, e.g. mine mine mine upon winning the very next pool game against a (haha) slightly lesser version of me that she could never want, so thank God the slightly better version of me that she could want just so happens to be on hand to defeat that poor sad little thing....

I should be writing code at the moment. But something a lot of people don't understand about writing code is there are definitely shades of breathing to it. You don't just inhale or just exhale. There's much stepping in and back.

Shit... like painting?

[Deleted long rambly section asking forgiveness for having first typed “Shit, man, like painting?”.. I mean, you do see the horrific privilege gaffe in that construct, no?]