Journals of Lord Malinov

the poetry of madness

shots

Pauli's exclusion principle and similar observational laws are struggling with faster-than-light communication issues.  One proposed solution invokes a holographic supra-dimensional perspective - phenomena that we see as independent are actually selected perspectives of a unified reality.

I must agree that this idea fits with my observational data, providing the Jungian back-channels within the unconscious.

The term "subconscious" is just plain wrong.  Using it to describe unconscious phenomena reveals a fundamental ignorance of mental reality.

Imagine an out-of-sight aquarium with two static video cameras providing us views through the glass.  Sometimes the first monitor shows a fish.  Sometimes the second monitor shows a fish.  Sometimes both monitors show a fish. 

When both monitors show a fish, they seem to move independently, yet it is possible
to determine relationships between the motion of the two fish.  In order for the fish to move with such synchronicity would require faster-than-light communication between the fish.  Or a good choreographer.

When we recognize that the two cameras are showing the camera from different angles - one from the front and one from the side - we can resolve the FTL communication problem - our two fish are actually one fish viewed from two perspectives.  The problem wasn't in the fish but in our understanding of our observations.

We are all elements of a unified reality. 

Welcome to the monkey house.

enjoy,

M
 
depth dreams

Setbacks can be energizing, particularly when the setback is purely a matter of perspective.  I have come to a deep understanding of the connection between catastrophe and opportunity.  Change can make us fall or provide a chance to leap.  I am determined to make the leaps.

Dreams are an illusion - we are always dreaming.  During the day, we dream with sensory input.  During the night, we dream acapella.  We don't remember most of what we experience within our minds simply because they are transient states and we would be ill-advised to spend energy memorizing transient states. 

Making up a dream is the same as dreaming except that conscious elements can be introduced and peristent patterns are more likely.  Persistence is one of the hallmarks of consciousness.  Night dreams are less persistent and so much more likely to be forgotten.

Nightmares suggest that we are distracting ourselves from our problems during our conscious stints.  Undistracted, the constellation of thought glows bright, like a view of the moon after the sun has set. 

This metaphor would like a full moon to a nightmare - ignored while the sun is shining, it becomes a small sun after dusk.  We have nightmares when we are striving to live in denial.

I have always been curious to figure out why it is so essential to deprive our minds of sensory input and release our consciousness for hours every single day.  Not sleeping is virtually impossible and causes severe psychic disturbances if the attempt is made.  Even thirty-six hours spent awake will cause hallucination, a major step toward a psychotic episode.

Only a few things cause hallucination - psychoactive chemicals, sensory deprivation, delerium and sleep deprivation.

I'll bet that sensory deprivation is really cool.

enjoy,

M
   
silences

My new friends are insisting on a holding pattern, a move I can only consider a passive rejection, a pocket veto, for I am not in a position to give them time to ponder.  Che sera.

So today I am going to take the battle home and confer with my allies.  The journey has been interesting but the ship needs to find a port, to take on supplies, to make repairs.

The Universe seems determined. 

enjoy,

posted by: Malinov at 12:27 | link | comments (2) |
psychobabble, tales of passing time, she blinded me with science

stuff

fearing

Terrorism doesn't exist if no one is terrorized.

If we understand the anger that may motivate attacks and recognize that some measure of anger will always exist within humanity, we can expect, prepare and cope with the next round of violence.  No terrorists, just angry people who need to be dealt with and helped, if possible.  Keep an eye open for anger and stay safe.  Anger is the dark side.  Don't give in to anger.

There is nothing to fear but fear - we do and we cope.

enjoy,

M
 
spills

I once had a reputation - a well deserved reputation - of a serial bong-spiller.  I was reading random web-pages, courtesy of the stumble enhancement to firefox, and was informed that someone who spills bongs is among the most undesireable of all party guests.

In all fairness, I am a tall, lanky fellow and the dorm rooms were crowded and small, so almost any movement could suffice to tip the bong.  Especially those light plastic bongs we used way back then.  Glass is so much better, in so many ways.

Bong spillers deserve the sullied reputation, however.  Bong water is an aromatic toxin, stink beyond stink and not easily cleaned without resort to the anti-urine cleaners.

I have, in the past few weeks, designed a gravity bong using stuff around the house.  My gravity bong is better than most because it is self-restoring and spill-proof.  There is truly no better method of smoking, except for non-portability, which I'm sure I could design past.

I showed Caesar my invention and one hit had him coughing up a storm, interesting because in five years, I have never heard him cough a hit.  Fiercely cool and concentrated smoke requires a bit of respect.  I gave him one of the colas from my plants.  A friend with weed is a friend indeed.

The sun shines brightly in the cool Texas morning. 

enjoy,

M

 
introjections

Cats and I took an early dinner last night at Julio's, a big plate of fajitas deliciousa and a few margaritas on the porch.  Many pretty ladies wandered about.  Such is the best of life.

Bruce, the kitten rescued from the Clay Pit parking lot, has grown to cat size but continues to attack anyone and everyone (except the dogs) with impunity.  He's a beautiful Russian Blue, more or less, almost invisible in the shadows.  The adult cats - Figaro and Amadeus - bear the brunt of his playfulness, finding themselves ambushed at every turn.  Cats has a maternal drive to intercede and stop the rough-housing.  I encourage the mayhem, amused and knowing that these eruptions are really kitty school for advanced cats. 

The day proceeds - which turn will lead us hence?

enjoy,

M

posted by: Malinov at 15:19 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

mechs

Yesterday began with a few thoughts about what was probably in store.  The day proceeded in radically different directions right away.  Matthew's soccer ended in a tie.  He plays much more aggressively than ever.  He has always been gentle and doubly so on the futbol field.  Since he has well outgrown his older brother, he has come to trust in physical dominance in ways he never considered before.  He's still miles away from being actually agressive, so the move is entirely positive.  He's also starting to figure out the game.  Not bad for seven years of play, he teased.

So Tess needed a ride to the lobby of hobbies and the eX needed to go prepare for trials and . . . . Greg asked me to go play mechwarrior at gamewyze.

I was playing pinball the day they wheeled the space invaders machine into my local arcade.  My dad came to find me when I lost track of time playing space wars with Stoncrates.  Defender became our game.  I eventually moved to Robotron and Afterburner.

I had first edition D&D books.  They were terrible rules, about arbitrary stuff with no rhyme or reason but we understood enough to catch on.  I still have sheets from those games and boxes of painted leaden figures, none of them well painted and every set of rules from most of the early players.  Chainmail.  Runequest.

We explored every inch of the avalon hill library.  I spent a few years immersed in Diplomacy.  Wargames of every level.

I have never stopped gaming.  My kids gamed on computers from the moment they figured out the mouse - a skill that proceeds keyboard understanding - at about two.  Matt has played Doom since the time he could stand - not shooting monsters, but running mazes.  He has the most piercing intellect of the three kids. 

So I have encouraged Greg in his pursuit of the Mechwarriors minature game.  I watched the birth of Mechs and did a full campaign of Mechwarrior 2 on my playstation, but I had never spent much energy on the concept other than run and shoot.  The minatures games are fantabulous - providing nice playing pieces and simple yet satisfying games with a minimum of paperwork.  We have a good set of star wars minatures and I'm constantly hoping to indulge in Axis and Allies.  WWII was a beautiful war for a multi-faceted and strangely balanced - for a while - analysis and simulation.  It was a moment in history when everything was in flux and nothing remained the same.

So despite my reluctance to interact, I quickly realized that I had no excuse for neglecting an opportunity to go with Greg when he invited me.

Three guys in late high school, perhaps and three boys about my son's age, thirteen, and a referee dude a decade younger than me.  Smart guys who understood naturally the differences introduced by brains.  Kindness of every form filled the room as our hundred ton mechs spilled oil and blood all over the table.  Tauntings were perpetually friendly and immedate intercession put an end to any dispute that grew in intensity.  I quietly absorbed the game's details as my mech's died, being myself and doing as little hands-on fathering as I could, limiting myself to the occassional hand on his shoulder and a gentle "relax."  Leading by example was clearly my best approach.

So for about four hours, we unleashed lasers, rolled dice, accumulated heat and feared death from above or some other simulated silliness. 

The guys completely took care of me in my noobishness, wise though I might after all be, and took care of the boy, which is never an easy task.  Greg is a high-intensity intellect, a power than will always be brilliant and dangerous.  Highly creative and blindly independent.  They all took care of each other.  And killed their giant robots.  My giant robots.  It was an oilbath.  Giant Robot - finger rockets!  Johnny Socko lives.

enjoy,

M

posted by: Malinov at 08:01 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

and the passing time

Hello, my droogies

Yesterday seemed to slip like sand through my fingers, each moment became another passing hour.

Time is related to both gravity and consciousness.  Mass slows time.  Consciousness slows time.

The speed of light is the asymtotic limit of time, for the travel of light is the mark of time.  It requires infinites of energy to exceed the speed of time, but once pushed faster than light, we experience time reversed.

So, Big Al was telling us that energy is related to the square of time.  But if mass is related to time, then existence is proportional to the cube of time.

Energy is time as experienced over three-dimensional space.  Four dimensions if you want to count time.

Now suppose the energy-time manifests itself as vibrating strings in eleven dimensions . . . whoa

Now I can't get Bowie out of my head.  My death waits between your thighs.

silence haunts the morning darkly

enjoy,

M

posted by: Malinov at 06:22 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

drafted

Full of enthusiasms and loyalties, but seldom talk of these until they know you well. Care about learning, ideas, language, and independent projects of thier own. Tend to undertake too much, then somehow get it done. Friendly, but often too absorbed in what they are doing to be sociable. Little concerned with possessions or physical surroundings.
1% of men, 2% of women

posted by: Malinov at 20:20 | link | comments (1) |
psychobabble

study hall

Seventh grade was the only year I had a study hall.  My school required students to schedule a study hall, but I was granted an exemption so that I could sing in the choir.  I didn't really need a study hall as I routinely did all my homework during class. 

Given that hour of required study, I read the encylopaedias provided on several book carts brought into the cafeteria to assist our studies.  Five days a week, I spent a full fifty minutes in enforced industry, working my way through random volumes of the various sets.

I perfected methods of reading novels during class in ways that would escape notice.  In all those years, I never once was called out for my inattention, partly because my ADD made it simple to multi-task and provide an answer to any query spent my direction.  I recall that once, in high school, a young lady who was painfully shy was verbally abused for attempting my trick by some angry teacher.  The episode reminded me of a bully beating a wounded puppy.

I have warned my kids that boredom is one of the most difficult foes faced in pre-graduate schooling.  God laughs at people like us.

My ulterior reading continued into law school.  During graduation, a Virginia judge told us that lawyers need to spend more time outside the legal arena, learning about the hearts and souls of the people we work for, particularly by reading novels.  My class turned in unison to look at me as I slipped a copy of Bronte's Adam Bede into the sleeve of my gown. 

My appetite for learning has always be voracious.  I am often caught trying to learn too many things at once, dissatisfied with the pace of learning one thing at a time.  As I type, I am engaged in a documentary on the '35 hurricane in the keys, measuring my heart-rate while attempting control of my fight-flight responses.  I have three computers around me, searching between sentences and looking for large primes.  I sneak a line or two of Burrough's Soft Machine in for good measure.

This is what I'm like since I've been medicated.  I used to get carried away, doing twenty-five things at the same time.  I'm never satisfied when it comes to the pace of learning.

In eighth grade, I proposed a proof for the trisection of an angle.  A week later, I disproved my own proof.  Geometry has always been one of my great delights, so intuitively simple and deliciously elegant.  I worked through Euclid a few years ago, mostly learning that Euclid was a very sloppy geometer.  He didn't make any mistakes, but he did an awful lot of hand-waving to supply difficult steps to his proofs. 

But we can't blame Euclid, for proofs are like measuring coastline - the smaller the scale, the longer the coastline - in complex systems, measurement totally depends on scale.  Russell and Whitehead tried to pixellate mathematical proof and soon were hand-waving the sub-pixel proofs.  Infinite up and infinite down.

Successful conspiracy requires competence, a quality generally lacking in any governmental office.  Conspiracy also requires unity of purpose, which can hardly be found in any pair of people, much less organizations.  Overt conspiracy is rarely accomplished.  Systemic conspiracy is much more common, like the pervasiveness of fear-based discrimination.  Fear is one of the only things that will unite people sufficiently to achieve coordinated action.  Unfortunately, fear is ubiquitous. 

Check this out:

www.cowboybooks.com.au/html/acidtrip1.html

Artistry increases magnificently as the LSD takes effect and then disappears again into mundane representationalism.  There is something to be learned about art here, but I don't know what it is. 

enjoy,

M

posted by: Malinov at 09:55 | link | comments (2) |
tales of passing time

flock

I took a stroll through the bookstore, to lift my spirits and cleanse my mind.  In a matter of moments, I had a flock of pretty young women following me around the store, stealing glances and chances to smile.  I muttered a few hello's in passing as I worked through the clearance shelves and checked my favorite sections.  I did a slow review of the fiction, hoping to find the next pretentious masterpiece.  It's been a long time - Mason Dixon - since one's been published. 

I feel rather better.

My confidence is in the rafters - perhaps I am too aggressive for bureaucratic life.  Corporate can be benefited by aggressive ambitions but the same qualities may become a hinderance to entry.  Can I pretend to be less confident?

I know many things about many things and many things that few others even imagine knowing, but when it comes to patents, I know things that no one else will ever know.  I'm not saying there aren't many things I don't know, for there are scads, but I know many things about patents and some of those things are uniquely known by me, who is not Mojo Jojo because he is not called by the name of Mojo Jojo, not being Mojo Jojo.

Worse yet, I have ideas about patents, ideas formed in the unique perspective of my vantage view. 

Since it is my pleasure to write myself as many damn patents as I feel like, I will dedicate myself to owning every bit of IP space in the Nokian future.  What the hell.  I might as well choose my own nemesis.

and then I'm going to go out of my way to warm the globe, just to flood Finland.  Take that, you black-balling bastards.  Ha.  Ha ha.  Ha ha ha. Ha. 

Some of the very first books I read current with their publication were Jaws, Helter Skelter, Summer of '42, M*A*S*H, and All the President's Men.  The seventies saw the decimation of trust as Vietnam, Watergate and the death of Hoover made our distrust of government inescapable.  That was the real difference between the 60s and the 70s - the 60s had a romantic distrust of everyone over 30 and the 70s had a bloody, stinking authoritative corpse that obviously couldn't be trusted.

I was, perhaps, fourteen when I read Bernstein and Woodward.  It challenged the romance of my young ideas with the implacable dastardliness of Tricky Dick.  I have remained cynical of government and authority in general. 

Manson's tale taught me that madness may descend into the ugliest depths.  I still wonder how a tiny, scruffy lunatic can attract a camp full of pretty girls.  Even nutsy pretty girls usually have higher standards than Charlie could ever hope to attain.  Actually, I think much of Manson's power came from continual doses of LSD.  An acid trip is disorienting, but to trip with daily doses over a period of months or longer would act like psychosis if it didn't become pyschosis - detaching from sensory reality leaves people susceptible to suggested realities in ways that no other narcotic (I know of) would accomplish.

Jaws was a stupid book, needing visuals to prompt actual fear.  I was living in Kansas, about as far as one can get from oceanic waters on this land mass.  Sharks have never meant anything to me.

Summer of '42 was very sexy.  The theme song - The Summer Knows - was the first radio song I liked, when I was seven or so.  I have the music but have never been able to find a copy of the recording.  I can still hear it in my head. 

she sheds her clothes

A line like that does things to a boy.  I have always had strong visuals associated with the song, although I am certain I have never seen the images I imagine.

M*A*S*H was just hysterical, so much funnier than the movie, which was hysterical, or the early show which was pretty damn funny.  Frank Burns - not Duvall but Linville - was the funniest character ever. 

I hid Summer of '42 and M*A*S*H in a drawer, not actively hiding but keeping out of sight.  My sister informed me at some point that Mom was aware of them, but I knew it didn't matter. 

When Mom discovered I was smoking ganja, her response was - I kid you not - "what's it like?" 

So I had to explain psychadelics to my naive artist mother.  She might have done some really cool shit if she hadn't become pregnant at nineteen.  Of course, I wouldn't be doing anything at all. 

My hair can be quite a spectacle - huge masses of fluffy curl-clouds moving with their own living force as I stroll.  People laugh when it catches them by surprise, the spontaneous expression of delights discovered in the midst of normalcy. 

My hair is tame tonight, a bit wild but in a dashing way.  I'm wearing a grey USPTO t-shirt which brings out my eyes and provides that conflict of an ordinary shirt adorned with an array of tech symbols.  No wonder they follow me around.  Just like you, they long to be, close to me.

enjoy,

M

posted by: Malinov at 21:18 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

recursive

The last time I spoke to my Xfather-in-law, he suggested that I felt sorry for myself.  There is probably some sense where he was correct, so I won't take issue with his observation.  Rather I will use it as a springboard.

Feeling sorry for myself is not my style and any thoughts of that nature are quickly abandoned.  I have far too many advantages to pretend for a moment that I am disadvantaged, at least no more than any other mortal might be.  There are times when I grow weary of suffering defeats, wishing things would progress further and faster, same as it ever was. 

There are no mistakes, just lessons.

After every defeat, however, is a necessary analysis of the steps leading there, so that those steps can be modified or avoided when similar futures arise.   This can be a painful period as the mirror of reflected loss  is rarely kind, but at the same time, there is certain joy in knowing the future will blossom, if I keep on.

I have been playing poker lately - just for play money - learning lessons that would have been well learned ages ago.  Patience and moving on.  No one can win at poker without those two skills.  No one can win at anything without them.

enjoy,

M

posted by: Malinov at 15:57 | link | comments |
petting the cat

Arghh

The Finns decided to pass.

The interview went beautifully, as far as I could tell.  So what went wrong? 

I underestimated the foolishness of bureaucracy.  One of my numbers, it would appear, did not match up to their exacting standards, rendering me unworthy of assisting them.  Morons.

At least I am glad to have been spared further bureaucratic nonsense.  I knew it was a bad direction.

So, back to the drawing board.  A little bit older and a little bit wiser.

enjoy,

M

posted by: Malinov at 15:07 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

drowsy

Since I suspended my smoking routine, I have slept more and felt weary.  There is little question why - my sleep is now constantly troubled by incessant mental activity.  I fall asleep without difficulty, but I don't seem to be diving deeply into the land of nod.  I dream and think, think and dream.

I dreamed that I purchased a bag from some youths.  This is very unusual for me as the normal role of weed in my dreams is philosopher's stone, stolen from wise old men. 

I have been excercising rigorously for the past month.  One would think that such a regime would be more than adequate to deepen my slumber.  Despite this failure, the excercise has engendered many successes.  My chest, abs and lung are quite grateful. 

I love puffing up my fro and taking a walk through the mall.  People will laugh aloud when they see me, point and tug at each other's sleeves.  I smile and laugh with them because my billows of curls are truly amusing.  

My daughter worries about me looking ridiculous when I should be looking good, but seems to enjoy the fact that I am now totally notorious among her comrades.  Looking good is nothing compared to being good.

I struggle to focus as my mind races. 

enjoy,

DC

posted by: Malinov at 10:27 | link | comments (1) |
petting the cat

aspects

The eX and my daughter departed for Paris on Friday, a celebration of four decades and the creation of the darling girl on a honeymoon visit to the City of Lights.  They boys remain stateside with me to enjoy the final fall break in relaxed style. 

I typically don't go sight-seeing when I travel, other than stumbling upon some sight worth seeing.  I am far less interested in visiting the past than in experiencing the present.  Sitting in a pub and watching world cup football, singing raucously is far more interesting than any pile of stones or splash of paints.  Writing in a cafe with another bottle of wine is the Paris I know and love.  The past is interesting, but it is not living.

I don't take a camera.  Photographs are meaningless remnants of sights never experienced.

The pressure on my veins has normalized as I grow accustomed to the lack of toxins in my system and the frustrated anger subsides.  The most surprising aspect has been a continual sense of weariness, quite the opposite of the usual effect of de-doping.  Dreams plague my sleep, a phenomenon which I never remember when stoned, delightfully.  Dreams are often quite fun but they continually disturb my slumber, rousing me with annoying regularity.  I have never slept well and that is one thing Mary Jane has always helped me with.

I have an over-active brain. 

This is my first dry spell since I discovered the cure for anxiety.  Although I am resentful of the forces that pretend to dominate me, curiousity is always a strong motivator for me, and finding out if my redesigned mind can handle the full force of my intellect will be a fascinating study.  My responses thus far have been very different from my past experiences, so there is clearly much to be learned.

Perhaps the principal difference lies in my use of senses - when straight, I typically think aurally while when stoned I tend to think visually.  The effect is counter to the use - thinking aurally means I am oblivious to external sounds while thinking visually means I see nothing around me.  Multi-tasking comes from this ability - hence the complete stupidity of the anti-cell-phone-driving lobby - speaking cannot interfere with seeing as they use entirely different portions of our minds.  If you can't drive and talk, you shouldn't be driving at all.  Talking cannot interfere with driving.

Distraction is a different problem and absolutely no one is immune, regardless of what they are doing.  ADD drivers are much more dangerous than drunk drivers.  Why isn't there a campaign to keep us from getting behind the wheel altogether?  Because we control the legislatures.  ADDers are smarter than the average undistracted bears.

The sun shines brightly.  October is the best of all possible months. 

enjoy,

DC

posted by: Malinov at 10:50 | link | comments |
petting the cat