I’m ‘working’ out of a co-sharing space today. Its actually… kinda nice. I ostensibly came here because I thought their fiber would be faster than my somewhat temperamental connectivity up on the mountain… it is… but not by as much as I was expecting. It is however at-least stable in what it is prepared to provide. I’m busy migrating my digital hoardings from Dropbox to SpiderOak… because I’ve… eh… become discerning in my old age. Lets go with that.
I like companies that have ironclad policies on privacy (that they are willing to die by)… not because I need their over the top encryption… its more about giving the governments of the world (especially the ‘democracies’ that feel they can pry into your bank accounts etc) the middle finger. I have this deep-rooted psychological need (bordering on the religious1) to stand in solidarity with… someone. Since it is potentially an uncomfortable line of questioning to imagine what sort of people need absolute privacy… I choose to ignore who ‘my people’ might be. I like to believe that they, like me, want to do-no-harm, and for the most part just want to be left alone. Anyways, this digital migration is turning into quite an undertaking… in terms of bandwidth, time and hassle. (BUT, it also keeps me occupied and out of trouble, which is likely a good, but unintended consequence).
 – I feel people, when lacking spirituality throw themselves into substitution crazy (like Wokeism, Victimology, Apocalypse now, or fringe politics) to plug the God-hole. I often wonder if my atheism led me to become an Armchair Libertarian. It seems like a very possible consequence of letting go of God.
Sitting here though, I’ve realized I actually miss the social aspect of other people. Not the act of being social, I don’t want to actually talk to anyone… but the fact that there are people here… and they are doing stuff… and presumably earning money and somehow being useful to society. I kinda miss it.
To quote the great prophet (and Mall-Rat), Brodie Bruce… “I Love the smell of Commerce in the morning!” (If you are of a certain generation and flick-proclivity you can remember a time when Kevin Smith was actually cool and not sticking a prison-shiv into the He-man universe)
In any event, up on the mountain, in my fortress of solitude… I mean its nice enough, but I note with interest that I miss people. Not the unwashed crush of humanity, but maybe a tribe of house-trained and reasonably hygienic homo sapiens, being economic.
They also have a barista here. And a food truck parked out front.
Downside… I’ve been drinking Americano’s all morning… so I can feel the universe vibrating along its Y-axis. I’m not used to drinking the black-stuff by the liter anymore, having cut down from… *thinks* six to eight cups to (sometimes) just one double espresso with breakfast. I don’t miss having a business though (a prodigious facilitator in my binge-drinking). Just thinking about managing people and having a terse conversation with my freight-forwarder about (alleged) bottle-necks sends a ripple of distress through my plasma-pumper. Although that could also be the caffeine coursing through my veins. I am fully exited from that particular inclination (that of being a business owner I mean) and wholly committed to Career-Dokkōdō2. He says control-tabbing through his open positions on the four-hour.
 – The Way of Walking Alone, one of Miyamoto Musashi’s seminal works, which I have bastardized to fit my own purposes. (as one does).
In other news… and I feel a bit off about wedging this awkwardly in here being several paragraphs deep already, but I haven’t been dealing with this at all well. This may be part of the convoluted path I take to managing grief. We had to euthanize my German Shepherd this week. She hadn’t been eating well this last month and then stopped eating entirely. The vet gave her antibiotics which seemed to help but I had a nagging feeling and so I ordered full body x-rays. Turns out she was riddled with cancer, the biggest of the tumors was on her spleen (which was on the dangerous path to rupturing). Given her age and the nature of the tumors the Vet said he could remove the spleen (an operation that apparently would require a huge incision) but academically even with this operation life expectancy was probably only three months.
So, slowly starving my dog to death and risking an internal bleed-out from a ruptured spleen or putting your ten year old dog through a traumatic surgery for three months (without being able to gauge how much pain she is in, both post event and generally).
I really love my dogs. (I’m tearing up)
I never know what to say about the demise of our Canis Familiaris, and so I often just ended up quoting Will Rogers.
“If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”
Not that I believe in heaven. I mean it would obviously be nice if this was just the dress-rehearsal and potentially better things awaited the upright and the just3 (and I suppose the reversal of that, comeuppance being served for those of us who were particularly wicked and/or wayward)… but I don’t have that particularly coping mechanism. If there is a higher echelon of management, I’d would however like to have a word with them about the huge oversight in making ‘mans’ best-friend so woefully short-lived.
 Which I obviously choose to believe I am, and I totally deserve to be remunerated for my efforts when its my turn to go upstairs. All those times I strayed from… eh… which of the Holy texts is the correct one again? Well, whichever one, I’m sorry. No, I didn’t give money to the poor, they must get jobs. Charity just creates a society of free-loaders! Wait that’s an entry requirement for the afterlife? Well… fuck. No I didn’t have the time to read the terms and conditions.
In any event, I’ve been miserable for most of the week. I also crashed out of Ketosis in spectacular fashion (on hearing the news of my/our dastardly deed we were Uber-Eat’d a ridiculous amount of ice-cream, which arrived in consort with gigantic chocolate brownies, courtesy of a friend and benefactor). Despairing of my actions and will power depleted, suddenly adding carbohydrates and sugar back into the system made me… so very not well. I’ll spare you the gory, foamy and weirdly colored details.
Murdering my dog and then evacuating my bowels in an apocalyptic manner over the next few days sent me into a psychogenic fugue of ‘who am I and what am I actually doing with my life’. The answer, after a fair amount of time spent staring off over the horizon is, ‘I have no idea’. One benefit of having a career and/or profession is that it can act as a serious anchor point for ones life. Or at least I think it does, anchors are quite useful, keeping you off the rocks. That, and you can always throw yourself into your work… throwing myself into the futures market is a recipe for disaster though, it is not a forgiving place that way.
As sad as this sounds the only thing I’ve been doing with consistency for the last while is blogging. Which in my case is actually more akin to vomiting fourth unfiltered, unedited word-salad into cyberspace and then adding an image and subject title for effect. The intention was always for this to be a ancestral almanac, more journal-like than a traditional blog (if such a thing even exists) sans any real following or readership. It could be something (once edited and collated) that my kids might find interesting one day. Maybe even their children.
There is some hubris in that. Especially since I have no real skill, wit or… well, lets be honest, I use punctuation in way that would make any copywriter break out in eczema. I’m also (perhaps most importantly) not very interesting4. But I like to imagine that, despite my failings, I’m at the very least enthusiastic (about shining up what I’ve got and putting it on display). Which should count for something.
 My great-great-great-grandfather (is that enough greats?) was a privateer captain during the American war of independence. I say privateer but pirate is likely more accurate. He apparently stole a British payroll and then buried in the house my dad grew up in (my old man spent a summer digging up the basement one year). My great grandfather captured a British canon emplacement during the Great war, (for which he received his Iron-cross) my grandfather commanded artillery in the siege of Sevastopol (also a recipient on an Iron-cross). My father crewed on North sea freighters during the summer holidays as a cabin-boy. These would make way more interesting blogs. Alas only snippets of stories and anecdotes of their lives remain. Which I find… disappointing.
I’m also 700 posts in now. Which, I think, is quite a lot. I am weary of going back now and trying to rework and reorganize my quantity over quality approach. It gets quite thick in the weeds, and who knows what atrocities lurk in there, buried underneath all those words. Vaguely I wonder if I still stand by everything that I’ve ever written. I mean hopefully not, since that might denote a certain lack of personal progress. Still, does one leave it, or exorcise the thing that might be malignant (even if not now, maybe it will, one day, seem particularly heinous to have thought that way).
I’m not sure I can face reading hundreds of pages of my own repetitive and anemic commentary.
Still, I have this dog-eared, heavily highlighted copy of Senecas letters to Lucilius that lives (mostly) in my bag, along with my MacBook and headphones. Sometimes it gets swapped out for my even more tatty copy of Aurelius. Maybe I’ll do that, I think to myself. Write letters. Even if it does seem a tad poncy… and it could be (successfully) argued that any wisdom or experience ‘imparted’ within this form of conveyance is threadbare at best.
Still, it gives me something to do. And an idiot clacking away at his keyboard might also be a cheerful idiot, and besides, forming a creative bulwark to protect oneself against the nihilistic thinking that comes with existing is probably a good thing in grand scheme or schism of things…
In any event, I hope you are well and playing nicely.
Godspeed and good luck.