Happy fish!


Thunbergia grandiflora

[Personal notes — feel free to skip]

I never expect to be here, contemplating the levels of being that imply a scale of happiness for which I can move higher.

Is such possible?

I guess that’s why I’m here, trying to separate the reality of my existence from the Walter Mitty like life I write about and partially live in, giving my future selves hints about where we’ll find ourselves, given the infinite directions we can take from every point in time.

The cuckoo clock lets me know a half-hour has passed and by letting me know I mean that a mechanical device raises two bellows, each blowing a puff of air over a wooden edge that we interpret as a bird singing kuh-koo, in place of its actual signal of whistle-whistle in two different sound frequencies at the same time a painted wooden object is pushed out of a door where we pretend to see a bird calling “cuckoo.”

Today, in and of itself, is only special in that it designates the precursor to the next day on our European-influenced calendar where practitioners of a particular system of beliefs practice an annual ritual.

Many choose today to celebrate libation consumption levels which strain many a liver beyond the best filtering a biological sieve can provide.

If I am to survive to my second century, drinking massive quantities of fermented beverages is out of the picture.

Is there a reality where the things I desire can materialise?

What of my visions of Martian exploration and settlement?

What of living in a cabin in the woods, possibly in Europe, raising little ones I call my own with a loving mother just as vision-filled as I am?

I plan the future because it always happens the way I want it to.

Therefore, I carefully consider my words before giving them nearly total exposure to Earth-based humans via the current method of writing electronic journal entries in a system we call the World Wide Web.

Oh, happiness, can you be so close?

Oh happiness, can you still be only a Thurberian vision, repeated ad [in]finitum?

Can I only be an inspiration for my future self, the current self always slightly unhappy, always slightly dissatisfied with self, seeking that which I can never have so that I can plant the seeds for a better future, planting, harvesting and replanting a forest of ideas in Sysiphean fashion?

What if one person can bridge the gulf between imagination and reality, providing a hand as long as I’m willing to blindly, trustingly, step over the precipice that separates us now?

All the signs are there (assuming I still know how to read them).

Of all the possibilities for our species four centuries from now, what if they only exist after I take that next scary step into the void?

Sure, it rocks the boat and shakes up the status quo but isn’t that what I’m for?

Let’s make the choice more dramatic.

Give myself two choices, taking away the easy path I’m on.

I can step off the plateau and either I’ll fall flat on my face (possibly or probably suffering irreparable damage, even death) or I’ll step into undiscovered country with no way of knowing what’s going to be next except the fact that it’s the only way I can move higher on the happiness scale and live into my second century of life (recalling that my second century of life includes perpetuation of the species in its current (or yet to be genetically rearranged) form).

I can only write this blog entry because I believe no one else reads it but me and it has no effect on anyone I know, itself a big step forward from the private diary/journal entries of old where writing whatever I wanted had absolutely no effect on anyone but the pen/diary/journal manufacturers.

Sometimes, I have to pay attention to this entity known as the self, knowing I take up space that other sets of states of energy could occupy, doing whatever else they might do in my place, for better or worse, richer or poorer — still so much to do to protect and preserve the future of our species in getting off this planet, negotiating with those who want to cement their place on Earth, despite the statistical knowledge of keeping all our eggs in this basket for too long is wrong.

Although I probably wouldn’t take it with me if I did go, it tells me what I should know — ultimately, I am a Happy Wanderer!



How many times had Lee been reincarnated?

Not in the sense that he understood incarnation of his first self.

Nor his memory of carnations.

Instead, Lee found a set of notes in his writing style, indicative of either copycat writers or, given that they were embedded in files under another’s name, belonging to memories of his but taken from him, notes, names, places, ideas…

He had stopped looking for mirror reflections of himself lifetimes ago, fully aware what he now saw would not match what he remembered he looked like.

If he looked like anything at all.

Like a living tree cut down, its branches stripped off, turned into furniture, toothpicks and firewood, Lee was no longer a self in the traditional sense.

His first body/self had been recycled at his request.

He had assumed it meant donating body parts for science and/or reconstruction of other living beings.

That was his intent when he signed the back of his driver’s licence indicating such.

How was he to know that, in his second century of life, donating your body meant giving away your entire self for use in the solar system?

Everything — your intellectual output, your possessions, your artificial identity as well as your physical parts (and by his second century, many of Lee’s body parts were no longer “natural” anymore).

Lee read the notes and wondered.

At some point the transition had to have happened but why was it hidden from his later selves?

Lee studied the notes and pondered.

Had the history he knew of himself been a lie, a careful reconstruction of viable alternatives boiled down to a single storyline?

Lee was not a single storyline kind of person.

Or at least that’s what his internal narrative had comfortable reminded himself he was.

Who was he?

And by “he,” was his self readily identifiable as a particular gender?

He knew he was spread across the solar system, his parts used by entities in ways he would no longer recognise, quantum mechanics being what they’d become in the latter part of the 21st century of Earth civilisation.

Lee looked at the notes and asked himself what reading and writing meant when the notes were electronically stored in fragments across synchronised storage devices separated by spacetime and processed as if they were a single bit of data read instantaneously.

After all, notes were no longer read in sequential order of alphabetic characters.

Lee had no accurate method of decoding the date and time of original creation date for the notes.  He could place them in the year 2016 due to writing style and cultural reference but not down to the precise hour, minute and second of arbitrary calendrical/day assignment (to a solar system resident, Earth-based spacetime references were no longer necessary).

What of the Lee who had composed the notes?

He knew he had always been talking to his past and future selves, fully conscious of the meaninglessness of time and the falsity of “self” to begin with.

Surely he had left a clue for all his “selves” when he was writing to them?

In the year 2016 he had laughed at our ability to predict falling precipitation in the form of snowflakes but no way to predict the formation and path of a single snowflake.


Lee perused the notes.  He determined they were written on a fake holiday, like Christmas Eve or Mardi Gras, days that preceded the originally intended Christian holiday that had themselves been timed to override previous civilisations’ holiday celebrations, a continuing line of social change overwriting social change in children’s education instruction manuals and adults struggling to accept/deny change in their hardcoded lives.

The fact that the notes were written using a popular language of the day — American English — informed Lee that he had not yet made the full leap to the communication method later favoured by the Inner Solar System Alliance which itself was a temporary organisation that led to Lee’s complete integration as the nameless entity that is himself today and probably was himself then but he had not grown fully aware of his existence as such.

Why did he write the notes?

They seemed so narrow of purpose, using words associated with a subculture he had grown weary of living in decades before, starting when he was a five-year old who opened his mental eyes, at first in wonder, later in shock at the abuse his subculture subjected its members to in order to achieve subordination and compliance.

Humans often said that change is painful but what is pain, really?

Just subsets of states of energy in motion.

Remove labels such as “pain” and one learns to erase all preconceived notions.

Although the notes were labels upon labels, Lee relived them again.



A good day to snuggle up with my bestie



Pucker Up!