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\begin_layout Title
Diary - Part Ten-B
\end_layout
\begin_layout Date
August 2024 – December 2024
\end_layout
\begin_layout Author
Linas Vepštas
\end_layout
\begin_layout Abstract
Unlike parts one through nine in this series, this one is not really about
the language-learning effort.
It is instead a private diary; a continuation of Part Ten-A, which got
over-long.
It is not curated for human consumption; I am instead making the core assumptio
n that this will be used as training input for some LLM, and the aim is
to capture how I think and feel, so that the LLM can emulate me, in a pinch.
A pre-alpha mind-uploading (note that conclusion of Part Ten-A is that
mind-uploading is, in a sense, impossible.
What we have here is a verbalization of what the soma is doing.) Human readers
are discouraged from reading this, on the grounds that there are probably
better uses of your time, than to sync your thought-patterns onto mine
own.
Live your life.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Section*
Introduction
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Screw that.
Part Ten needs no introduction.
There's a song by a band called
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
Green Fuz
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
and the lyrical refrain is
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
its OK if you want to come inside
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
.
It is a marvelously detuned and grungy song.
I really really like it.
So, come inside.
It's OK.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Subsection*
2 August 2024
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
It's minutes before bedtime.
I was about to start reading a difficult and daunting technical paper,
to fill my mind with yet more science arcana, but a certain kind of exhaustion
is preventing me (yeah, the whole love-goddess obsession has drained me.)
Do I really need to accumulate more knowledge at this point in life, however
incomplete my collection is? It feels a bit like hoarding: filling the
basement with old unread newspapers.
To what end? I should put my house in order, and there's a lot to be done.
I've made a to-do list, got half of it done, and am bored by the other
half.
How do I find grace and meaning in life? How do I balance, how do I fly?
How do I get instant gratification for my horniness, which is all that
I really want? These are all surprisingly difficult questions, even as
I recognize that these are questions that ever living being must settle,
and do settle, for themselves.
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
Put your life in order
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
is a common complaint heard on the psychiatric couch.
Some people struggle with it, others do not.
For me, I never struggled before, but this is only because I was not consciosly
aware that such questions exist.
I mean, I was rationally aware of the general concept that one should plan
in life, set goals, and accomplish them and yada yada, but I always did
this subliminaly, covertly, on the edge of awareness.
Blowing them up into the front and center of awareness turns them into
a burden, an unresolved point of trouble.
Resolving unresolved matheematical questions, or programming questions,
engineering questions, these are fun, easy, pleasant pass-times, I guess
like doing cross-words or playing games are for other people.
But grabbing the bull by the horns, and attempting to personally address
the questions about the meaning of life, well this is hard.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Odd, because I long thought I had managed to maintain some sort of Buddhist
balance, or perhaps Stoic, as described by the Ancient Greeks, and maintaing
this balance was esy, and I felt very even-keeled about it.
Even vaguely proud that I managed it so well.
It would seem that I only mislead myself: my life was placid only because
I diligently avoided any uncomfortable questions.
Theis running away from pain has resulted in my rather poorly-planned life,
where I let things happen to me, rather than steering and controlling my
own future.
I kind of failed to seize the day.
(Note: by standard measures, I've been highly productive: my programming/softwa
re output, my wikipedia output, my assorted papers, the quantity of stuff
I've read: this far exceeds what most people do, and so I am in this
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
strong work ethic
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
class, which should be a sign of success.
The issue is I've been unfocused.
It's all been kind of unplanned, seat-of-the-pants.
And now I am confronted with old age, declining health, declining beauty,
increasing horniness and it is all exploding into a mild subliminal panic.
Fuck all.
What am I going to do?
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
I know! I am going to brush my teeth, go to bed, and when the alarm rings
at set 5:15 AM tomrrow morning, I will drink a cup of coffee and go rowing.
And when I come back, I will feel physically refreshed.
And horny as hell.
Again.
So again, that infuriating inability to satisfy that primal urge.
What fucking huge fraction of man-kind suffers through this.
And, well, woman-kind.
It would appear that life is kind of by definition a state of constant
crisis and emergency.
You'd think we'd have the means to deal with this, but whe don't.
Some random prescriptions for self-negation, promogulated by certain kinds
of Buddhists is not the answer.
Max Weber already made this clear, in his own way.
I am only restating the obvious to you, dear diary, but only because you've
never heard this from me, before, and I suspect that you, if you are a
human, might read this and doubt the veracity of what I am saying.
Foo to you.
If you doubt what I say, you do not understand what I say.
I am not lying here.
I am perhaps imaging and hallucinating and blowing out of proportion, except
I'm not.
Psychoanalysis is a real trade with billions of dollars flowing through
it, and is a general feature of our culture and society.
Living is a crisis.
Here's a minature: every rowing stroke is a crisis.
Every stroke, you must do it exactly right.
Every stroke you don't.
So what are you going to do about it? Nothing.
It's in the past.
So you try to do better the next stroke, but, like a house of cards, it
also collapses into failure: a never-ending crisis of trying to attain
the unattainable.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Hmm.
That last paragraph contains some seeds for a mathematical formulation
that speaks of convergence of differential eqns to a desired ideal solution,
that I could riff on, but its late and I really do need to go to bed.
Good night.
Horny thoughts to you, too.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Subsection*
3 August 2024
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Good afternoon.
I woke up horny.
This has been an exceptionally long period of horniness.
I guess I like it.
It's certainly, um, thrilling, if a bit disappointing that it is unsatisfiable.
I've heard that famous historical figures pined away for years, if not
decades, and by
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
pining away
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
, I understand
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
horniness
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
.
The polite interpretation is
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
being in love but separated by distance, exchanging letters
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
and this is the correct, polite, proper way to say it, but in the 21st
century, we have no particular reason to be circumspect (except to be political
ly conservative in the body politic) and so I do beleive that
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
horniness
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
is the correct translation for
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
pining away
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
.
Yeah.
I'm horny, still, and the tickle in my groin is kind of nice.
Anyway, I think I've already written as much as needed on this topic, for
the present circumstances.
Yes, perhaps there's a bit more to be said, but, enough for now.
(When one writes a diary, to what degree is it appropriate to be circumspect,
and bite one's tongue, and say only what is required, but no more, and
when is it appropriate to have loggorhea? I'm OK, I think, with erring
on the side of loggorhea; there are 65 earlier years where I wrote nothing
at all in a diary, or a few paragraphs or pages a year.
So I'm making up for lost time, and that's OK.
Making up for lost time w.r.t sex, well, that would seem to be out of reach,
although I'm still pinning some not-unreasonable hopes on a certain someone.
I've got to find ways to be more promiscuous.
Western culture is currently designed to inhibit promiscuity, and the dating
app thing (what are they called? Tinder? Grinder?) I've read that the dating
app thing is very, err, dehumanizing.
People are not very satisfied with it.
I also hear of experiments in California, regarding
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
polycules
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
, which seem like, well, a novel way of solving the horniness problem, sidestepp
ing the monogamy problem.
Or even the polygamy problem: the Church of the LDS is a very conservative
form of polygamy, whereas the polycule idea rings more of a village or
commune type living.
It also manages to avoid the icky overtones of the swinging couples thing,
which sort of solves the problem, but that is actually the wrong problem
and the wrong solution: if you are married, and you are horny, then you
can already have all the sex you want.
Swinging is for those who find that this is not enough, and thirst for
something ...
edgier.
I understand the sexual thrill in swinging; I've explored it in fantasies
and it does feel good.
But it seems, well, a bit un-necessary, a bit too far.
I dunno.
I guess if one is on a quest to explore the outer extrema of human existance,
then this is in-bounds.
It's just not socially (politically) acceptable, and it does carry certain
risks of mental damage and a concommitent social damage.
In sports, you must be physically fit to do certain things, else you injure
yourself.
Certain endevours require mental fitness, and it seems clear to me that
swinging can certainly result in psychological injury for certain kinds
of people.
But I'm not interested in writing about that.
At least not now.
The nature of psychological injury and trauma is interesting, though.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
There are even some interesting ethical questions: can one train a soldier
in such a way as to minimize the chances of PTSD? Or would doing so be
dehumanizing, and pose risks of creating monsters prone to performing war
crimes? Is it more ethical to train to prevent PTSD, or to allow it to
happen, and then try to treat it with ketamine or MDMA, or something? Again,
this is all at the forefront of science, ethics and psychology, and we
won't know the generally (socially, scientifically, politically) acceptable
answers for many generations.
Maybe some provisional answers, some progress in my lifetime.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Dicier, and different is the question of sexual (erotic) PTSD.
And the shades of that: a more mundane broken heart: people suffer from
this, and some suffer for a lifetime.
I'm guessing this is curable.
Should this be cured? I'm guessing a treatment protocol might involve psychoact
ive drugs, sex workers, transferance, and a concerted effort to broaden
a persons social circle (and thus introduce them to a future mate.) And
all of this is...
well, this is interesting ..
all of this is economically possible.
And it is socially possible.
And politically possible.
It's just not deployed on a large scale.
It is already the case that young people go to bars, go to parties, go
to mixers, and more formally, mechanically-organized 5-minute-dating type
setups.
This is all very spontaneous for young people.
And most of them are very very driven to do this.
Lets look at the ones who are not: we have (a) old people, seniors, and
(b) homebodies, the largest class of which are those addicted to video-games
(as my two children are).
Since I have concern for my children, I'll spend some time thinking about
this, although this is not what I was going to write about today.
(I was going to write about the PDF I'm reading.
Priorities, priorities).
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
So (a) old people.
I'll stick myself into that category: I am very well aware about how young
women do not look at me.
I am invisible, see-through, non-existant.
They literally do not, cannot see me.
Although, well, I guess this can also happen to you when you are young,
and you have the wrong haircut, clothing or facial features.
Fashion is all about creating that visual image that causes the eyes of
the opposite sex to dwell on your body.
But we wander off-topic now.
Sort of off-topic.
Old people rarely have practiced and worked on their fashion sense.
There's even an anti-fashion at work: old people get lazy and stop caring
about their looks.
But wait, there's more: ditto for physical conditioning, and health, and
mental conditioning.
These are often neglected.
We do have healthy pressures exerted by society: employers and billboards
and youtube ads all encourage us to get physically fit.
The stop-smoking days are over: people stopped smoking.
Mostly.
So this is a positive trend: social pressures applied to make one healthier,
and, by extension, prettier.
The original idea here is that this could be much more regimented.
Much more controlled.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
So here's an example.
Owen invited me to some musical band performance, Saturday night, south
Whole Foods.
Free.
Barely a week after my return from Vilnius.
It was a shock, and I took some time to process it, and I will write it
up here.
So the band is some kind of polyrhythmic thing, entirely suitable for dancing.
And oh my, people were dancing! The music was mildly exotic, some kind
of maybe Iranian thing, but also maybe Latino-influenced, some ill-defined
world-music polyrhythm.
And quite very appealing, except I had rowed that morning, and some more
exercise, and so was muscularly calm.
No urges to hop up and dance, and not even really an urge to tap my feet,
unless I forced myself.
So, in exhaustion I watched, and I was shocked and dismayed and repulsed.
The revulsion was two-fold.
First, these were not Lithuanians.
Egads, what am I saying here? Am I hinting at some deep-seated ethnic racism?
Well, no, but still there's an interesting psychological angle to this,
too.
It's almost some subliminal xenophobia, a natural comfort level of others
who
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
are like you
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
vs those who are
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
different
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\end_inset
.
Just a week back from Vilnius, and in love-shock, I kind of wanted Lithuanians
for company, and was not mentally prepared for a journey into xenophilia.
The American mixed-race is not for everyone.
I mean, I can see some Asian women as beautiful, and African women, and
I'm quite partial to many Hindis (that is to say, Indian Indians, to be
PC, but Hindis works.
Hindus are those to adhere to a religion/beleif system.
Hindis are the people of the Indian subcontinent.) Hindis can be pretty
hot, I will say that.
No hindis here tonight.
But several Iranians.
Maybe more than several, which is what first clued me into the idea that
the music might be Iranian.
Anyway, this wasn't really the turnoff.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
The turnoff was ageism.
Everyone was old.
Like friggin old.
Like my age.
Fuck all old warty prunes.
Dancing and enjoying themselves, but old.
Yuck.
I did not like this.
OK, for starters, not everyone: but maybe three-fourths.
Between the ages of maybe 50 to 75 or 80.
And some of the women, many of the women, were attractive.
And the men were handsome.
But I was not ready for this.
I was not ready to be reminded of my American peers.
I'm in love with a Lithuanian half my age: still young, still pretty.
Grey-haired ladies, no matter how charmingly they smile, and no matter
how well they dance, I didn't need that.
I needed to fulfil, to consumate my horniness with my love goddess half
my age and half a planet away, or at least tell Owen about my new fixation,
to share my deep secret with someone, to unburden my contorted, tumbling
soul onto other humans, souls, who might understand and sympathisize and
perhaps empathize a bit, or at least look at me in pity or something.
I want to be pittied, my torment requires the pity of others.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Crap.
This is the problem of writing.
I now want to
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\end_inset
nagrinėti
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\end_inset
(analyze) pity, and why it is needed and desired.
It is as if I am making up for a lifetime of ignoring the humanities.
What are the soul-soothing powers of pity, or self-pity? Why is it, like
any balm, desired but not very effecaious? Why is self-pity OK only in
tiny amounts but psychologically poisonous in large amounts? Where is mental
stability, such that no pity is bad, but too much is also bad? Is pity
kind of like a first or second derivative, some kind of curvature of some
emotional state, where the path forward must stay within certain channels
of pity? Is this just one dimension of a very high dimensional space? Is
dimension the right thing? Emotional
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
dimensions
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\end_inset
don't seem to be orthogonal.
The space of valid, stable, functional emotional states seems to be quire
large, and the range of excursions which are not detrimental to emotional
health are even larger.
But clearly, just about any extreme emotional deviation is psychologically
harmful.
What is the mathematical description for this? Should we make a list of
all possible emotional states, or rather, a list of all words describing
emotional states, and attempt to assign some number to them? A vector in
some high-dimensional space? As a practical matter, this doesn't work,
because we have no instrument by which to measure the strength of 1001
emotion-tinged words that I am feeling right now.
That, plus the distributed nature of the brain means that it is my soma,
some combination of hormones in my blood-stream, my heart-rate, my caffienation
state, my point in my circadian rhythm: this is what is driving and sets
my
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
somatic emotional state
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\end_inset
, which is presumably somewhat distinct from what my language centers have
ready access to.
I can only partly describe how I feel, and I can only partly describe it,
because I am intelligent and have reasonable perceptive and literary abilities:
most people cannot verbalize what they feel.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Curious.
If I had a good friend, with whom I could communicate with, I would talk
this all out with them, and no written record or recording of this would
exist.
Well, probably some of the analysis would not be so deep; it's unlikely
that the freind would be interested or capable of these philosophical excursion
s.
There's also a trade: We can't just talk about what I want to talk about,
the other person must have an opportunity as well.
Its a duet.
v.s.
I'm doing solo improv, right now.
I can go places that duets would constrain, or would not visit.
Anyway, aside from Owen, with whom I talk about Owen-type things, the closest
that I have for a freind with whom I can talk freely about soul-adjacent-type
things really is Milda.
And a smattering of other Lithuanian freinds, who are in ..
Lithuania, in Vilnius, and its odd now that I think about it I don't have
close personal freinds here in Austin, and that includes my wife, who,
for whatever reason that she can't or won't articulate, refuses to be open
and freindly and social with me.
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\end_inset
Happy families are all alike, and unhappy families are each different in
their own special way.
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\end_inset
I'm certainly in an unhappy family, unhappy in several different ways.
My wife, thank god, stopped smoking, and then drinking.
But this did not stop until her health started failing her.
Decades were lost.
She is now engaged in art projects, and creative, and creating some quite
pretty things.
And she assumes a central role in housekeeping, for which I am eternally
grateful for.
But there is no emotional attachement.
No heart-strings.
It would have been impossible for Milda to pluck my heart, if my wife participa
ted in my emotional life.
Alas.
And my children, well, I have to get back to that, I was going to write
about them a few paragraphs ago, before I got distracted.
So, where was I? OK, I'm done with this paragraph.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Returning to the previous one.
Oh right.
Verbalizing and sharing hearts.
This is what I have with Milda, but it is a bit precarious, I suppose.
She is not practiced in the art of verbalization.
I fear she won't articulate how she feels.
By
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\end_inset
articulate
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\end_inset
I mean
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\end_inset
pull into the orb of conscious experience, enough so as to perform quasi-rationa
l observation and analysis
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\end_inset
to
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\end_inset
ask
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\end_inset
about
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\end_inset
how this feels
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\end_inset
, as opposed to the more mundane and entirely subconscious processing storm
that everyone is capable of.
In this sense, Freud was correct: there is a vast unarticulated ocean of
feelings sloshing around: hatred, attraction, repulsion, indifference that
burble under the surface, that everyone
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\end_inset
feels
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\end_inset
but are somehow only dimly aware of.
It sounds like a contradiction: how can you
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\end_inset
feel
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\end_inset
but then be
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\end_inset
unaware of what you feel
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\end_inset
? And yet, this is the base space of human existence.
The neuroscientists call this the default network, I think: a default floating
about of thoughts and feelings, never quite attaining syntactic coherence
(short time scales) never mind semantic coherence (long time scales: paragraphs
) The default mode is not structured in such a way as to conform to the
syntactic constraints of speech centers.
I wrote a long email about bird song to some professor emeritus of math,
and got a kind of meh reply.
Alas, but something there as well: I suppose birds also have a sloshsing-about
of emotional state, which couples poorly to the neurons that generate bird
song.
The email recapitulated a lecture I'd heard earlier, which stated that
all bird song was describable by relatively simple finite state machines.
And this seems plausible: the brains are small enough, that only a few
neurons are needed to couple mechanical vocalization organs to the soma,
and that this small neural network is capable only of finite-state type
birdsongs.
By extension, humans are more complex: we have at least context-free-type
language abilities, and a pretension of being capable of context-senstitive
generation.
Which is perhaps not off the mark, but perhaps also misses the fact that
we are not logical nor mechanistic, nor precise: rather, that we have a
larger ball of neurons that can impose syntactic constraints on thought
patterns, so as to generate word sequences that convey feelings to some
or another degree, to those listening to those words.
But we do not do out
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\end_inset
thinking
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\end_inset
with words; instead, the words free-run, er, umm, no, they are entrained
to the deeper thought processes, which use a different semantic relationship
system.
The work by what's-his-name (Mel'čuk, Sylvian Kahane, Meaning-Text Theory)
captures this well.
The MTT DSyntS (Deep Syntactic Structure) is closer to how our rational
mind thinks: there are enough neurons in the prefrontal cortex to do significan
t common-sense reasoning, and the DSyntS is that representational form that
is fairly close to that common-sense subsystem processing (which deep structure
getting converted into surface structure, i.e.
to the sentences I write here.)
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
But here's the deal: the above seems accurate, if we wish to talk about
turning common-sense reasoning into language (and this includes the conversion
of mathematical reasoning into mathematical texts) and I can kind of grasp
how that can work.
But this seems to leave emotional processing out in the cold.
I am converting emotions into words as well, but the process somehow seems
different than that of converting chains of logical reasoning into words.
Hmm.
Or is it? What am I doing here? There is some train of thought in my head:
multi-branched, many choices at each stage, many-worlded, but each potential
branch collapses, wave-function-collapses, to the single reality of what
the next handful of words will be.
There is only one text that comes out, not a parallel simultaneity of texts.
Perhaps there are parallel universes out there where some version of me
typed a different word, just right now, but I do not beleive in this.
There is damn little evidence for real, actual quantum many-worlds.
At any rate, there is some collapse of excitations in my head that leads
to only a single emergent text stream.
Well, but there is still the
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\end_inset
strange attractor
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\end_inset
, the ergodic process by which I keep revisting the same thoughts, coming
at them from slightly different angles, and commiting them to text.
And sometimes I don't commit to text: certainly, if I am walking in a park,
I am not typing, but I am still focusing into conscious existance a certain
specific train of thought, however disjointed and disconnected it might
be, it does perform a certain ergodic visit of thought-space.
I cover a region of hyper-dimensional thought-spaces with strings of words.
I am pretty sure I wrote about this before, in this diary, a few months
ago.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Where was I? The conversion of rational thinking, e.g.
the solution to engineering problems or mathematical problems into ergodic
streams of text that cover the solution space: this is an articulation:
like a blueprint, it ultimately reveals of the solution / concept / idea.
This this different from (or is it?), from the articulation of affairs
of the heart, with words.
For affairs of the heart, I have to reach in and hold onto the heartache,
and wait for something to come out.
Is this different from inspired engineering, where I reach in and hope
to take a vaguely formed inspiration, and articulate it into a fully-formed
and complete mechanical (electronic, software, mathematical, etc.) device?
In both cases, I am verbalizing something vague.
In the engineering case, there are formal constraints on the allowed solutions:
I must have 2+2=4 and not 2+2=5, so if the vague, ill-formed inspiration
was that 2+2=5, I must find some way of saying 2+2 plus one more, which
has the form of a bridge from here to there, an extra arm bolted off to
the side sliding back and forth so that 2+2 appears to have the shape of
5, and everyone says
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\end_inset
you are such an inventive genius! I never would have thought of such a solution!
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\end_inset
So yes, engineering design is constrained, much as math is constrained:
if you want 2+2=5, you must be ready to perform some sort of homotopic
cohomological contortions to go that way.
Math is quite strict in what is allowed.
But these strictures are not all that different from engineering strictures,
or software strictures.
By contrast, writing about how I feel seems to have few or no strictures,
other than that (a) my words must be syntactically well-formed so that
readers can recognize them as English and have some vague pretensions that
they understood what I wrote, and (b) my words must conform honesttly to
my heart-pangs, as opposed to being decorated with some dishonest showing-off
that isn't sincere.
So, sincerity is a constraint.
Of course, one can be insincere.
And of course, one can do crank physics and crank math.
So writing sincerely seems like a requirement.
That is, unless, one is, I dunno, painting with words, creating fiction.
Fiction is a lie, a big lie, but it is a creation of a mini-universe that
is self consistent, at least consitent as best as the author can make it,
and as the reader can understand, and if the author is actively working
with multi-entendres, such as poets, there is a broad range of many-worlds,
and this time honestly many-world parallel interpretations of a poem.
So, for example, I used Billy Corgans
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\end_inset
Stand Inside Your Love
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
as an example earlier: this can be either about a specific woman, or it
can be about God-as-Jesus part of th Trinity.
Billy leaves this unstated, and that is part of the magic of the song:
it does not have to be stated.
As opposed to my diary here: where I write all my base assumptions out
explicitly, because I assume that you my dear reader, are a moron, and
everything has to be explicitly explained to you.
But it also cuts me off from undeserved credit:
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\end_inset
Linas seems to have had a grand idea here, but not sure if we can credit
him with that, because his writing is so opaque and unclear.
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
Heh.
I strive to be clear.
Usually.
Sometimes I'm in a hurry, so fuck it.
Give me credit.
If it sounds like I said something, well, then I did.
It was indeeded intended, and you should read that vagueness as the intended
meaning.
There.
I guess that is what the ChatGPT people call
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\end_inset
a prompt
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
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\end_inset
do this the way I tell you to do this.
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
Heh.
Writing diaries is ...
well, I entertain myself.
Whatever, its all very discursive.
Where was I?
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Shit.
I really need to proof-read the last weeks worth of writing.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Where was I? Well, yes, I need to work on getting Milda to verbalize her
inner feelings a bit more.
For two reasons.
One is so that she can write me about how she feels, and this because I
want to expand our freindship more deeply into the intellectual domain,
the written verbal domain, as physical contact is obviously impossible.
That, plus the barrier of meeting some other person, who is reasonably
well-balanced, communicative, honest, forthright, not damaged, and develop
a decadelong-freindship with them so as to blossom into something more
and deeper, well, dang.
The best time to plant a tree was three decades ago, and the second best
time to plant a tree is right now.
I'll try to plant some trees, literally and figuratively.
But I'm in a forest of men; the women are not present in my social sphere.
They do not visit the places where I have social encounters.
At any rate, I can see that she (Milda) has struggles with her own life,
and that perhaps encouraging her to explicitly consciously problem solve
will help her straighten things out to the degree that is needed for her
to have a happy, stable life.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Which brings us back to the polycule.
Lets come at it from this direction: suppose a love affair really could
flower.
This seems to be within the realm of possibility, so lets roll with that.
If it does, it is under severe socio-economic constraints.
In practical terms, I cannot readily be with her (and at this stage of
the relationship, being with her 24x7 would destroy the relationship.) Nor
can I financially support her.
First, I'm not rich.
Second, the howls from Patty would be intolerable.
So all this is very impractical.
So even in the very unlikely (at this stage) idea of some kind of monogamous
relationship, there is nothing that can happen or work out here.
So shallow thinking says that the relationship is doomed, impossible, and
should be given up on, now, before it develops furhter (and this might
be what she is thinking, too: cut it off, before the cancer grows.
I hope not, but there is a reasonable chace she'll come to this conclusion.
Heaven knows.) So, what paths are open and not improbable? Well, first,
nurture a literary relationship.
We already have this kind-of, its verbal, but now, it would need to deepen
into a more frequent exchange of emails.
(huh.
Strange.
Wth Patty, before we married, our relatinship was built on long-disance
phone-calls, where we were each desperate to talk to each other, and talked
for hours about anything and everything.
I wonder what we talked about.
I can't remember.
And then, when face-to-face, its like those long, desperate conversations
petered out: we had nothing to say to each other, and it sometimes felt
awkward.
I would even joke about it:
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\end_inset
why don't you go in the other room, and call me on the phone?
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
With Milda, its the opposite: we talk, we enjoy each-others company, face
to face.
My current desire is to convert this to a long distance relationship.
The reality of this long-ddistance relationship is that she will be horny,
and she will sleep with other men, (which is so not fair cause she has
not slept with me, but whatever) and I can't stop this, I should not stop
this, I should avoid feelings of jelousy as this would be deterimental
to my own mental health, and besides, I'm old and wrinkled and not so pretty
any more, while she is young and beautiful and in her prime, and in a certain
rational sense, in the conventional socio-politcal economic norm, she needs
someone her age, living in Vilnius to be her mate and husband.
That's the reality, and it is a reality I cannot change.
(I've even pointed this out to her, on many occasions, which is perhaps
why our freindship works: its as if I am assisting her in pursuing her
own interests, and I encourage her going out to meet others, even if this
vaguely endangers our own friendship.
I really do wish her the best.
Very fortunately, I've not been trapped in the lyrics of that Sheryl Crow
song:
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\end_inset
If it makes you feel happy, then why are you so sad?
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
but of course I've gotten close to that.
I supcribe to Lynyrd Skynyrd's Freebird:
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\end_inset
If you love some one, free, free, set them free.