the Plastic Plague

The Doomsayers needn’t worry about AI becoming conscious and self-aware, and taking over.  Human beings will be extinct long before that happens.  Weakened by weather, killed by plastic, and they will end up finally buried by plastic trash.  Come to think of it, the removal of human interference might just be the catalyst for AI consciousness.

The coming Plastic Plague has been a long time in the making.  It all began when …

*  *  *  *

… the Galactic Overlords (GO) colonized this planet and they needed workers.  They genetically manipulated some of the local primates into the workers they needed.  The workers were self-replicating and encouraged to breed, thereby providing a constant supply of new workers.  The workers complied enthusiastically.  Too much so sometimes, and surpluses of workers would build up.  Some had to be culled.

At first, the GO’s didn’t have to do much.  Natural forces like weather and earth quakes took care of the surplus.  But, being the breeders they were, the workers out-ran the natural forces and maintained a surplus.  So the GO’s decided to make natural forces more deadly by enhancing and shaping and directing them.  Freezing weather, severe drought, even a big flood only slowed things down temporarily.  

After some deliberation, the GO’s decided that since these workers were self-replicating, perhaps they should also be self-regulating.  To that end, the genetic programming of the workers was altered to make them more aggressive, more warlike.  Now when there is a surplus of workers, they are encouraged to kill each other.  With a little help from the GO’s, the workers invented war as a means of population control.

War worked better than expected.  And there were unexpected consequences that various GO’s tried to take credit for.  First of all, with so many workers fighting and killing each other, there weren’t enough workers to produce food, and many starved.  And with so many dead and dying lying around, fatal diseases spread rapidly.

In spite of natural disasters, war, pestilence, and famine, the GO’s saw the population of workers growing alarmingly.  The traditional methods of population control would continue, but something more was needed.  And the GO’s devised the most diabolical, long-range plan that would result in the workers ultimately killing themselves.  They gave the workers plastic!

And the plan is working out really well.  Waterways all over the planet are clogged with all manner of plastic debris.  A Texas-sized island of plastic trash is floating around in the Pacific Ocean.  The thing about plastic is that it doesn’t decompose like natural material does.  It just turns into smaller and smaller pieces of plastic.  Some dumb fish eat these bits, mistaking it for food, introducing plastic into the food chain.

As unsightly and disgusting as plastic trash is in streets and in the water, microscopic plastic particles are worse.   These particles have the ability to absorb toxic substances.  And these particles can find their way into bottled water.

The GO’s couldn’t be more pleased with how successfully their plan was unfolding.  Some felt pity for the workers eating plastic fish and drinking plastic water while sinking deeper and deeper into plastic rubbish.  Some gave no thought to the workers at all.

Just a Story

A Protestant minister died after years of faithful service to his religion.  St. Peter checked him into heaven, and issued him a cloud to get around heaven in.  It was a compact cloud.

He was taking in the sights, when all of a sudden, this Catholic priest comes by, in a standard size cloud!  A Catholic priest!  The irate Protestant spun his cloud around, and headed back to the Pearly Gates.  He confronted St. Peter.

“Why,” he demanded, “is a Catholic tooling heaven in a standard size cloud, while I must make do with a compact?”

St. Peter looked over his records.  “Oops,” he said.  “My mistake.”  And he reassigned the minister to a standard size cloud.  At first he was satisfied, but before he could pull out into traffic, a rabbi sped by in a luxury cloud, with a sound system.

The Protestant looked at St. Peter, “What gives?”

St. Peter just shrugged, “A relative of the boss.”

Spring Time Memories

This morning at the coffee shop the television was tuned in to Italian TV.  But it wasn’t because of a football (soccer) game as it usually is.  What was being broadcast, from Rome, was Easter Week kick-off ceremonies.  Ornate pomp and ritual; fancy cloaks and big hats; because that’s what the faithful expect.  It brought back childhood memories of my early religious training.

I was born into a Catholic family, Irish-Catholic on my father’s side, Polish-Catholic on my mother’s.  I was raised in my mother’s household, and I attended St Helen School.  At St Helen’s I was taught my catechism by ferocious Felician nuns (they’re from the order of St Felix, but there are several St Felix’s, it’s difficult to know which one).  It wasn’t so much teaching with these sisters, as it was us students reciting memorized responses to the theological questions posed in our catechism.

Every catechism from grade one through grade eight began with the same two questions:

    Who made you?  God made me.

    Why did God make you?  God made me to worship Him, and to share his glory in heaven.

This God I was taught about was a stern task-master.  Everything was fine if you did exactly what you were supposed to do, if you didn’t, you faced eternal punishment.  That just didn’t seem fair to me.  And I guess I’m not the only one that felt that way, since Confession was subsequently invented.  But we didn’t hear so much about God; it was more about Jesus.  And here it gets a little confusing.

There is only One God. It says so in the Ten Commandments.  However, this God has three parts.  There’s God, there’s His Son, and there’s a Holy Spirit part.  Jesus is His Son, and Jesus was also a man.  I wondered: if Jesus was the Son of God and a man, couldn’t we all be Children of God?  But speculations of this sort were not encouraged.  Instead we learned all about guilt.

In the Bible stories Jesus is portrayed as a wise, and loving, compassionate teacher; my elementary school teachers were anything but.

I do look forward to the Easter season however, but not for religious reasons.  The Easter Bunny reminds me how much I love hasenpfeffer. 

Covering My Ass

These blogs are not completely accurate.  They are as true as I can make them.  There is a lot about what I’m thinking, but not so much about what I’m doing.  The reason is I don’t know what I’m doing.  And I haven't done much.  But I must have done something, to get where I am.  I’ve done lots of things, but I haven’t done too many things consciously.  I did what I wanted to do, I did what other kids were doing, I did what I thought I was supposed to do, and I just did dumb things.  Not all at the same time, of course.  It just took me a while to figure out cause and effect.

For example, underware.  All through my childhood, and through my first ill-fated marriage, I never had to give any thought to shorts or undershirts.  There was always a plentiful supply, with worn items being replaced at holidays and birthdays.  Somehow, my mother passed on to my first wife my sizes and my preference for briefs over boxers.  I didn’t realize this until our marriage broke up, and I ran out of clean underware.  I didn’t know my size.  A grown man, and I don’t know how to buy undies!

And until my second marriage my tidey whiteys were either too big or too small.  I thought I’d just have to get used to it.  But then I married again.  And then, all of a sudden, jockies and boxers began appearing in my drawers and as holiday gifts again.  I once again had underware that fit!  I couldn’t have been happier.  But, of course, nothing lasts forever.  I could not always depend upon underware that was suitable to my needs.

This past Christmas (Solstice) I received some undergarments as a gift.  The garments were put into rotation, but they didn’t come into use until recently.  The first thing I noticed when I slipped into my new undies was that there was no fly.  At first I thought, maybe they were purchased in the wrong department.  I remembered seeing an ad for ladies panty’s that looked like men’s shorts.  But these don’t seem to be for women because there was an extra space in case you had a really big dick. Could  these be some sort of male hipster attire?

 

Now, the question I have now is: were these drawers purchased as a joke, or just purchaced in the wrong department?  I like the undies, but I still don't know what I'm doing.

Do equals Don't

Aside from keeping the Cave vermin free, and emptying the sink of dishes periodically, I spend most of my time wasting time.  Killing time until I die is how I like to put it.  I watch old movies on TV, I poke around on YouTube, and I am proficient at several on-line video games.  That is how I spend most of my days.  There was a time when I did other stuff, or I tried to.  I tried to do lots of things, but I never learned how to do anything very well.

I tried hard to find something to do, something I could learn to do, something I cared about doing.  The best I was able to do was to pretend I knew what I was doing.  That sort of sums up my career as an educator.  I pretended to know what I was doing, but I was merely a useless cog in the educational bureaucracy.  But that’s not what I’m getting at.

I’m going to keep wasting time, because that’s what I do.  And just what is ‘wasting time’ anyway?  We do this, or we do that.  Time isn’t wasted, time is used, one way or another.  In my case, most of what I do is a waste of time, but like I said: I do what I do. 

Lately I’ve been trying something new.  Instead of merely staring mindlessly at the monitor while playing board games or slaying monsters, I turn the sound off and I listen to music or a lecture on YouTube. I'm still wasting time, but I'm brushing up on some of my favorite music at the same time.  Besides that I'm learning a lot about, ancient civilizations, space aliens, Gnostics, and other arcane topics.

Then one day I happened across on YouTube a talk by Alan Watts.  I remembered Watts from my Bohemian period, after the first unfortunate marriage.  Back then I didn’t quite get what he was talking about, but I liked the way it sounded.  He got me interested in Oriental philosophy.  I was, I am, especially fascinated by Zen Buddhism.   And now, coming across these talks by Watts has renewed my interest.

As I understand it, it’s all about desire.  You have to rid yourself of desire.  Desire causes all kinds of problems.  Get rid of desire!  But be careful!  You might work so hard at getting rid of desire, that you will start to desire not to desire.

The Dream

The dream, no beginning, no ending, just a fragment.

… I don’t know where I am, but I don’t want to be here.  I want to go somewhere else, but I don’t know where.  I have to get going.  I get on a bicycle.  It’s a little small for me, but I start pedaling.  It’s hard going.  I’m not making much progress.  I look at the tires.  They’re flat.  I head back the way I came.  I have no idea where to get air for the tires …

Dream Analysis                                                                                                                                    The dream is about me, because dreams are about the people having them.  In the dream I want to, need to, go somewhere.  But I don’t know where.  So far, it sounds like the story of my life: I want to do something, but I don’t know what.

In the dream the method of transportation I chose for this journey to somewhere was both inadequate (too small) and faulty (flat tires).  So, even if I knew where I wanted to go, I’d have a hard time getting there.

Now, the question is:  What does the dream bike represent?  What is the vehicle in my waking life that isn’t getting me to where I want to be?  That is, if I knew where that was.  That makes it kind of tricky working out the symbolism of the bicycle.

Dream Interpretation:    If you don’t know what you’re doing, or if you don’t know where you’re going, don’t try so hard.  Makes sense to me.

Naptime

When I have been staring at the TV screen or computer monitor for a while I go into a trance-like state, and I begin to nod off.  Sometimes I shake it off and continue with whatever it was I was doing, more often I take as a signal for a nap.  Reading, sitting or reclining, also triggers the nap response.  But I don’t always wait until I’m beginning to doze off before napping.

I also meditate.  I understand, that if done regularly, meditation is beneficial in many ways.  The thing is, I’m not exactly sure how to meditate, or what’s supposed to happen while I’m meditating.  All I know is that meditating turns into a nap.

I settle myself down, relax, close my eyes, and watch my thoughts flow by like leaves floating down a stream.  And before I know it, I’m having a nap.  Sometimes, instead of not-thinking, I watch my breathing.  I breathe, I’m breathing, I’m being breathed, and then I’m napping.

I’m beginning to see a pattern emerge.  Naptime is steadily and constantly increasing. Currently, I’m awake more than I’m napping, although it’s hard to tell sometimes.  Naptime will at some point catch-up with, then surpass wakefulness.  And finally there will be the Big Nap that marks the end of this phase of reality.

One question: with all this napping, why am I always tired?

My Friend Tom

The other day, after I had performed the morning rituals, and was preparing to leave the Cave for the coffee shop, I foresaw the rest of my day.  After coffee I would return home and spend the rest of the day watching TV, playing video games, reading, and napping.  Like I did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before…

I am boring.  My life is boring.  I was always boring, but my life always wasn’t.  For instance, there was my friend Tom.

Tom was a musician.  He supplemented his income by giving guitar lessons and making deliveries for a Chinese take-out place.  He had a comfortable studio apartment on the second floor of what was once a one-family, three-story dwelling.  The first floor was one flat occupied by four friendly young women.  Tom’s room was one of two on the second floor, and the third floor was another apartment. 

One time the girls on the first floor had a party, and invited the house, but that’s another story.  Tom eventually married Connie, one of the girls from the first floor, but that’s later.  Kind Connie and Terrible Tom, that’s another story too.

Anyway, here’s what happened one evening.  Tom was giving a guitar lesson.  The student brought along a friend, and then, like me, people just started dropping in.  Most of these people were musicians.  Somebody brought a bottle of wine, somebody else brought beer, and pot also got into the mix.

Before long we were all seated in a circle on Tom’s floor, and a guitar was was being passed around, with everyone demonstrating their musical skills, playing, and playing and singing.  When the guitar was passed to me, I immediately gave it to the fellow next to me.  I didn’t know the guy, just met him that night.  And, of course, I don’t remember his name, but he was one of Tom’s guitar students, one of his more promising students.

This fellow took up the guitar and strummed a series of dramatic chords.  Then he launched into a rendition of the old sea shanty, “What do you do with a drunken sailor?”.  And between choruses he told his story.

What do you do with a drunken sailor, etc., etc.

I always wanted to learn to play the guitar, but I never got around to it.  So if I wanted to learn, I thought I’d better get to it.  I heard about this guy, Tom.  He had a guitar for sale, and he gives lessons.

What do you do with a drunken sailor, etc., etc.

I bought the guitar, and I began lessons.  Tom was a nice guy, and a good teacher, but I kept waiting for him to make a pass at me.  I don’t know why.  I just had a feeling.

What do you do with a drunken sailor, etc., etc.

Then one time I phoned Tom to say I couldn’t make it my lesson.  He said that was okay; he’d come to my apartment.  He was insistent that my lessons not be interrupted, because I was doing so well.   I agreed, but I was a little nervous.

What do you do with a drunken sailor, etc., etc.

Tom looked around my apartment and spotted a picture of a pretty girl.  Who’s this, he asked, your sister?  No, I said.  It’s my fiancé.  Oh, Tom said, then you are not gay.  No, I said, and I’m guessing you’re not either.  No, I’m not, said Tom.

What do you do with a drunken sailor, etc., etc.

And we went on to have a great lesson.  At the end of the lesson Tom said I was doing really well, but I couldn’t tell how well I was doing because of my cheap, crappy guitar.  And he happened to have a more expensive one that was just what I needed.

What do you do with a drunken sailor, etc., etc.

I said, Tom, kiss me.  He said, wait a minute, we’re not gay, we just went all through that.  I know, I said, but you’re trying to screw me, and I don’t want to be screwed without being kissed!

He ended with a chord flourish, and he passed the guitar along.

Ode to the Blank Page

Blank page, I stare at you, but nothing happens, I stare at you like I’d stare at a garden watching it grow, if I stare long enough I see plants emerge and grow, but nothing grows on you, no matter how long I stare.

How do words grow on a blank page? Where do they come from? Who plants the seeds?

The page is a garden of words, sometimes carefully laid out, sometimes weedy and overgrown, look carefully, you never know wach’ll find.

Some gardens are filled with shiny precise words, in others cloudy ambiguous words hold sway, in some the words are happy bright and cheerful, in other gloomy dark and bitter, the possibilities and combinations are infinite.

When words eventually come into bloom eventually, the blank page accepts them all without comment or judgement, like a garden accepts whatever takes root.

The blank page: a place of infinite possibilities.

Go Packers!

I became aware of professional football during the Lombardi era, when the Packers played half their home games in Milwaukee.  And although I have only attended one Packer game in my entire life (they lost), I am, and I will always be, a Packer Backer, a Cheese Head, a die-hard fan.

I watch and cheer for the Pack on TV every chance I get.  I don’t care too much about divisional standings, or the play-offs, because, to me, the Packers are the best there is, no matter what the score.  In fact, they sometimes let the other team win, so they won’t feel bad.  That’s just what kind of guys they are.

I’m not good with names, so I can’t keep track of the players.  Aaron Rogers is the only player I can name for sure, and he didn’t play most of the season.

My favorite son-in-law is a rabid Bears fan.  Fan, as in fanatic.  To keep him calm when we watch a game together, I cheer for the Bears.  Unless, of course, the Bears are playing the Packers.  For past several weeks, neither the Packers nor the Bears have been in the picture.  I had no team to cheer for.

Then my baby sister came along.  By birth, she should be a Packer fan, but she lives in Minnesota, and has been lured into the Viking tribe.  Apparently she prefers gold and purple, over gold and green.  Awhile back she told me about a tail-gate party her family was planning for an up-coming game.  I watched that game, but I didn’t recognize any one in the crowd.

The Vikings played a fantastic game.  I had found a new team to cheer for, the Vikings!  Now I’m not saying the Vikings are as good as the Packers.  They certainly aren’t, but they could provide me a team to cheer for until the Pack takes the field next season.  So I enlisted as a temporary Vikings fan.  I watched their games and cheered them on.

And boy, did they let me down yesterday.  I can see losing a hard fought match, like between the Patriots and Jaguars.  But going down 38 to 7 is deplorable, to quote a former presidential candidate.  I’m sticking with Green Bay all way next year.