Tagged: love
Reading Log and a Note on the Most Important Part of an Immigrant’s Education
I’ve completed these since the last group, but also have been reading math essays and have begun Milton’s Paradise Lost (which so far is much more palatable than Dante’s Divine Comedy).
****
As to the education of immigrants, I can’t help but think as I read American history (mostly pre-20th century), “I have literally no connection to these events that stir my feelings so.”
And that’s when it hits me. As I, like you, am constantly bombarded with all this “immigrant immigrant immigrant” news, as I, very different from you, have married an immigrant and have an immigrant step-son, I cannot but conclude that the most important part of their training must be American history. Stop filling someone’s life with the nonsense about “you’re not from here” or “you should be proud of whichever country you left”. Instead, fill it with American History in a, “This is who you are,” mindset. America is unique. They need to know what that means—and it isn’t obvious or intuitive.
Naturally, a marketable skill should be taught as well, but even then, I cannot place this skill above learning who you are—an American.
Stuck On Trump’s Instinctive DEI Claim
It felt forced to me when Trump first claimed “DEI” was behind the mid-air collision. Something like, “Yeah, yeah. We know you want to conclusively put DEI to bed. But these investigations take time and this is too soon.”
Soon after, however, I began to wonder, “Crap. Was it a woman pilot? Or a minority? Sucks to be them.” Then we learned, in as terrible a display of thoughtless PR as ever, that it was a woman, and that she was a lesbian who clearly had not been inspired to be a military pilot after watching Top Gun or Top Gun:Maverick.
Now, a day after the facts came out, I can’t help but admit that Trump has some sort of Boss Level instincts. I know, I know. Fanboys and he have made this claim for years. But for years, I had been assuming he had someone filtering him or prodding him etc. My mistake. The precise moment I realized my mistake was when I saw that footage of him reacting to Harris’ DNC speech in real-time with a room full of his cabinet/staff. There was no filter, there was no prod. He actually operates on his instincts—seemingly constantly.
This “DEI” claim was more of the same, then. But this time it is remarkable to me because of the speed. Mid-air collisions should never happen. And they don’t happen very often. So when, presumably, he was informed it was a lesbian, low-hour pilot and put together that DEI could be smashed onto the mid-air in a way that literally saves future lives, he ran with it—no need to run it through a “steel man” exercise or anything.
The Golden Age of America started with the last mid-air collision, itself the last aircraft piloted by a DEI hire (hopefully).
The point is not, “Did I persuade you Trump is right?” The point is, “Do you see the instincts on this guy?” As a pilot who does, from time to time, base my decision solely on instinct, I can admit that Trump’s use of instinct is remarkable. And I hope that, as a result, all pilots see-and-avoid from now on.
We Must Do Better at Describing the Dead
Anyone else absolutely annoyed at the statements about the recently deceased pilots?
I have posted on this topic many times and my dander is up again, naturally.
There is a paradox. We seem afraid of telling a lie about a dead person, presumably because it would be unfair, and at precisely the same time, we have no sense of fairness.
“He was young.” Wow!
“He was an amazing person.” By golly!
“She was a bright star.” No shit!
“No one dreamed bigger or worked harder.” Truly!
Here’s my ask: please talk with people who may feel like describing you after you die. Give them some boundaries. I am not kidding. I have written out something and given it to my mom.
I refuse to believe this paradox and other difficulties are based on the whiny, “It’s uncomfortable to talk about.” No, it’s not. You’re just out of touch in the main and think you are somehow exempt from the only sure thing—another paradox.
In short, we mortals, all of us, live in a world where Michael Jackson and a lesbo DEI nut that crashed into an enormous and well-lit plane (located where every swinging dick on the earth would be right to always expect a plane to be ((final approach to a runway))) are both described as celestial matter. How ‘bout, no.
Pumbaa’s Error
“Oh. I always thought they were balls of gas burning billions of miles away.”
How does Disney create the idea that Simba’s animism (the stars are spirits of the dead) is the right astronomical view?
Timon and Pumbaa laugh his notion off, and yet every movie watcher walks out of the theater happy that Simba believed his dad and the subsequent delusional interpretation of one bright night’s dynamic weather.
It all starts with Pumbaa’s error.
Imagine with me if the writer had an ounce of astronomy training.
****
Pumbaa: Hey, Timon, ever wonder what those sparkly dots are up there?
Timon: Pumbaa, I don’t wonder; I know.
Pumbaa: Oh. What are they?
Timon: They’re fireflies. Fireflies that, uh… got stuck up on that big bluish-black thing.
Pumbaa: Oh, gee. I always thought, when their light was analyzed with prisms, they were determined to be ever-changing balls of the very same elements that make up our world, acting, in fact, under the same forces and for the same reasons which carry both the sound of my voice to you but not much farther and the heat of this desert sand to our feet but not up our legs—but were like really far away and surrounded by LOTS of empty space.
****
Can you even imagine the ludicrous family tradition of past kings looking down following such a silly guess by the warthog?
No, no you cannot.
It’s not merely a killjoy, either. Plenty of ways to make the movie still work. Mufasa can talk about how his tribe had overcome great difficulties and that it took ridding themselves of envy and sabotage—and learning from whoever had something obviously better to contribute. And then Simba can simply remember this confirmable truth after a rebellious and disastrous few years of life with the poor—I mean—the wild animals.
Re: The Drones. I Told You So!
I was right, naturally, but it wasn’t because I am a pilot. It was because I know how to listen. Here’s the original post that called ya’ll out as suckers. (It’s a pretty funny approach to the subject to me still; read it!)
https://petedeakon.com/2024/12/18/the-drones-are-operated-by-trolls/
And the important words from today, “…were authorized to be flown by the FAA for research and various other reasons. Many of these drones were also hobbyists—recreational and private individuals that enjoy flying drones. In time it got worse due to curiosity.”
I mean, I still feel like a million bucks cuz I was right!—especially because it sounds like I may be the lead writer on the conspiracy theory squad who gave her the script. I literally wrote, “And at this point I would drive out there and have a little fun with the morons, if only I had a drone.” Or as I decided to frame it for the MAGA crowd: “In time, it got worse due to curiosity.”
Eureka! Marriage Realities Exposed
I concluded my recent review of Joker: Folie à Deux with the pathetic (full of emotion…) question, “Why do we hurt each other?” Well, just this second the answer came me.
“We hurt each other because we don’t think we do.”
No, I did not just plop into a very full bathtub like ol’ Archimedes. But I am reading a book on the subject of the universe and one of the thematic points is the whole “mostly empty space” thing I mentioned in discussion of Nolan’s script’s mistaken definition of quantum mechanics.
So, if you need an analogy, use this. We hurt each other because we think of each other as mostly empty space. The truth, however, is we are all full. (Wow. That’s fun. No, not “awful”, but we all are full. We are full.) We are filled space. We are space filled full. (Not empty.)
But that’s just a fun physics analogy that may or may not tickle your fancy. Don’t miss the point!
We possess the power to hurt each other unintentionally.
****
PS – For kicks, the actual origin of this Eureka! moment for me is I believe one of my wife’s announced desires is surely destructive to our marriage and family and consequently insist she give it up. Whereas she believes god authored it or approved it or some shit. And as I was reading just now, after I stopped her from randomly starting the dishwasher without my dish in it and saw her eyes say, “Even this action is wrong?”, my mind wandered to the ongoing hellscape of my marriage.
Do you see? Her desire—to her—isn’t harmful to me. And my decree—to me—isn’t harmful to her. But I can assure you, as the nursery rhyme says, “Needles and pins, needles and pins, when a man marries, his trouble begins.”
The best part is Christianity is one of the last forms of order which unequivocally, unconditionally, and without exception places the husband at the very tippy top of the food chain, so much so that even in 21st century conservative, Biblical doctrine, the doctrine is simply avoided. “Why lose even more people by giving unpopular teachings airtime?” seems to be the approved stance.
Incidentally, I even unintentionally started a skirmish in a friend’s marriage (both former international missionaries) by asking them to confirm for me that they were, both 1. Not studying the bible together within their marriage and 2. He is not leading her in any semblance of a formal bible study. I asked them to merely confirm it because a newly converted friend was lamenting to me that his wife (also newly converted) wouldn’t listen to him read scripture to her. And this couple lost their composure in a big way, getting as defensive as I have ever seen—of course the wife being the dominant justifier of the state of things.
I do not know what it is like to be a woman, but I do know what it is like to live under authority. And as it isn’t terrible or tragic or unbearable, I just don’t see the issue.
The Right Kind of Start to the Day
Santa brought my daughter a prism for Christmas this year. Where’d he get the idea, I wonder?
If you guessed, “Who is Isaac Newton?”, then you guessed right! Of course, it wasn’t the legendary Isaac Newton who noticed apples, but the historical person Isaac Newton who recorded his thoughts and experiments for posterity, who painstakingly measured the wavelengths of colors with a prism and analogized gravity to a slingshot.
This morning my four year old daughter, A-, ran from the sunny window of my bedroom and promptly returned with the prism to try to make rainbows.
Naturally, no one needs to make rainbows with a prism anymore. This is because (despite morons abounding) to all important parties, color measurements—and even light measurements—are as solved as shoe sizes.
But the ability to see? That is truly rare. But my daughter has it. And who gave it to her? That’s right. Her very own Santa Claus, otherwise known as Dad.
It was the right kind of start to the day.
****
Oh, and I finished that other EPIC COLLECTION(!!!) of X-Men I mentioned.
For posterity, one effect that occurred while reading these 450+ pages of comics was the ability to see the rather finite amount of “types” these stories can have. IE, after you exhaust good vs evil in the plain sense, you have to move on to plot devices like making a good guy character seem evil, but lo and behold it wasn’t really the good guy, but the bad guy all along through some obvious and ingenious use of their powers! And then they also introduced the concept of using an entire comic(!) for a character in the story to tell a (in this case bedtime) tale involving slightly altered characters etc. Is that called meta, but inward; instead of breaking the fourth wall? In any case, time for a break from the Uncanny X-Men! (Don’t worry, Strangest Super Heroes of All, I still love you guys.)
Just Finished a Book By Einstein; Christopher Nolan is Wrong
The title of the book is The Evolution of Physics.
Given there is still plenty of daylight, but my brain could use a break, I decided to revisit Nolan’s Oppenheimer. Why not, right?
In it, the woman asks, “Can you explain quantum mechanics to me? It seems baffling.”
Nolan has Oppie answer, “It is.”
He continues, “This glass— This drink— Our bodies— are mostly empty space, groupings of tiny energy waves bound together-”
She interrupts, attention laser focused, “By what?”
“Forces of attraction strong enough to convince us ‘matter is solid’.”
I do not know where Nolan got his material. I can imagine that he read Oppenheimer’s own writing and deduced this or—cringe—Oppenheimer even said this. I can imagine it, but I don’t believe it.
The problem with that definition is it neglectfully forgets a key point—or two, to be precise.
First, and this is directly from Einstein, it isn’t merely “tiny energy waves” but should say, “empty space, groupings of invisible energy waves.” And second, add “and energy particles”.
In full, and I hope to bring out for us lay folks the full sense of what I read in the clearest possible manner, if defined by Einstein, according the format Nolan introduced, the answer to “What is quantum mechanics?” when asked by a thin woman as a come-on (sapiosexual) at a bar is, “This glass, this drink, our bodies are mostly empty space—groupings of invisible energy waves and energy particles bound together by forces of attraction strong enough to convince us ‘matter is solid’.”
Put shorter—for illustrative purposes because I know this is uncommon—“Our bodies are invisible.”
Paraphrasing Einstein, for this claim to be true and/or accurate (the claim that “‘our bodies are invisible’ is quantum mechanics”) this claim must be tempered with, “when moving near the speed of light and observed indirectly.”
Now. You. Know.
Two Ideas For Books
Whether all experience it, or just certain personalities out of those who get the idea to write, I have learned that in the beginning of the career of unsuccessful writers there is a strong desire to not “let the cat out of the bag” too early. There is a belief that “I have a good idea and it is so good that someone else might profit if I share it before it’s for sale by me.”
But I have been blogging for over a decade now, and helped a few others with their books, and I am convinced that all that is hogwash. Life is just too complicated for a single idea, unaccompanied by the innumerable trappings of fate, to succeed.
To prove this, I share that recently I have had two ideas for books. These are prompted by a desire to somehow manifest that reading the classics has tangible results at a level somewhere below “advance of our civilization”. (Implied- civilization definitionally cannot advance if it is built on lies or ignorance of itself—so read the classics! It’s all at stake!)
Firstly, I want to write a book called “Union” that has a chapter for each, of what I have to believe would be at least twenty, type of artificial union between materials that man has developed. Knots, screws, nails, velcro, glue, epoxy etc. When I write it, the descriptions would be quick reads and informative. But the result would be the perfect contemplative admixture of “so what?” with “if we can figure out mating materials, why can’t we figure out relationships?” I have to believe—contrary to all evidence in my life—that we can figure out human relationship/union.
Secondly, I want to write a book—which may be uber short—which highlights a theme which I have seen in the bios of all the authors in my Great Books of the Western World and companion set Gateway to the Great Books. The theme being, the fact that the authors spent the entirety of their lives learning (as opposed to our deeply unreflective “go to college” mindset) coupled with often epic intellectually-based struggles well into old age. Each chapter may just be one page, often only one sentence. IE Hobbes – Forbid from publishing in his mother country from 70 yrs old to 91 yrs old when he died (don’t quote me, this is from memory and may be wrong on all points). The trick to this book is creating knockout punch sentences without getting repetitive.
****
“Go to college.” Ha. What a joke.
If you want to run with this, do it. I dare ya.
A Short Dream and a Long Dream
What I am calling the short dream was initially not clearly a dream; this is because it happened upon waking. But the falseness of the reality I experienced has to put it in the dream category.
I awoke, as normal, to go to the bathroom. I was at work, and as you know, in a sleeping bag. The particular bag I use is a queen size (really, just two “adam and eve” bags zipped together) and so sometimes while on the twin mattress, I can get oddly wrapped up.
Keep in mind, it’s the middle of the night. And I’m tired.
So I start yanking harder at the silky outside of the bag and unfortunately I feel it tear. I finally make it out, and, glasses-less, zoom in close—in the dark—to confirm that it’s torn. Confirmed. Then the walk to the restroom and back is unremarkable.
As I am laying down to try to resume sleeping asap, I cannot help but look forward to getting a new sleeping bag. Luckily, the excitement abated quickly and I fell asleep again.
Lo and behold, in the morning there was no damage!
Obviously, to my thinking, this dream was unflattering evidence of some kind of addiction to perfectionist shopping—which I am told afflicts nearly all of us. The remarkable part, to me, was how I really couldn’t believe the bag wasn’t torn. Crazy. Moving on.
I’ll keep the long dream’s recap short.
I had pissed off an Indian I work with (feather) and he told his pals and they were coming to kill me. I knew they were coming to kill me because a really fat mutual friend, also a pow-wow Indian, told me. And this friend wanted to help me by arming me to the teeth.
The odd thing about this dream is, like the short dream, I awoke to go potty, knew that it was a dream, wanted to know how it ended, and then fell back asleep and picked it right up again! As it continued, the main action was concentrated on the fat Indian resignedly giving me all sorts of guns as I made small (and weak) talk.
I can tell you it felt real. Like I felt sick to my stomach while I was in the dream and in the bathroom over the fact that I had caused all this nonsense. I also pulled my own weapons cache into the dream and seemed to consider opening it—I’m talking about waking up and opening the gun safe—in case it wasn’t a dream. Powerful, dreams are, no?
Well, the other key feeling the dream was causing or bringing to light was a hefty resignation alongside confusion at the fat Indian’s actions because I knew I couldn’t win. Surely he had to agree, no?
This dream pulls in a lot of disparate parts of my life. The main theme, to me, obviously comes from back in college when I told the blacks that I had been hanging around that we whites told racist jokes and then inquired about any white jokes they might have that were worth sharing. Not a happy group after that. Nor unified. The ones who could take a joke clearly stopped the ones who could not from black on white violence.
Additionally, I have an Indian co-worker, who I have, this time unintentionally—I was trying to find common ground—offended. (Religion, politics, AND immigration are to be avoided at work. Also, the fashion combo of flannel and rat tails is generally not donned by hispanics. Lesson learned.)
Lastly, I am currently reading The Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. In them, he recounts a duel and offers his opinion that he would never let anyone known he was going to kill them—if in fact circumstances led him to conclude that he needed to kill someone. Conversely, if he ever so-offended someone that he learned they were out for his blood, he would do or say, within reason, whatever was necessary to make amends. (I think there was an implied “it could only be a misunderstanding” aspect to this.) My point being that this connects directly to the “resignation” and “sick feeling” part of my dream. Implied was that I knew that a group is unconsolable (different than an individual) and so they were surely going to get their kill—even though I knew in advance.
And obviously we’re all thinking about “do I have enough guns?” all the time. Hehe.
How about you, faithful reader? Anything odd in the head movies to recount? If so, don’t be a stranger. Post it and/or comment below.
Captain’s Log 