Tuesday 11/5/24
Given a chance to do or try less, almost every person will do just that, no matter what it costs them, which is the usual result, though they often won't see it. They'll just live with and be encumbered by those results of their choice.
People are so willing to cede themselves over to AI because they think it means there's less for them to do in that given area, but the given area becomes more areas, and potentially all--for that is what's at stake with AI. They operate under this false assumption with less to do in Area A, they'll do more in Area B, but they won't; negation begets negation.
Speaking of AI: How easy would it be to have AI writes the likes of those stories we saw the other day from The Atlantic?
It's telling when people refer to people they don't know by their first name. These are usually insecure people who wish to convey a kind of importance about themselves. Psychologically, they are a glommer. They glom.
For example, when I was at the Paul Lewis recital recently, I heard a man ask someone, "Is this your first time seeing Paul?" Unsurprisingly, publishing people are often this way. They'll do it those few times they try and talk about sports, and especially with tennis players, that being the sport they most commonly pretend to like because it's a rich person sport so it was around them more--like at their family's country clubs--when they were growing up.
I've been eating an apple a day. Trying to stay consistent with that. The health benefits of apples are significant. I eat Granny Smiths.
I'm decent and empathetic, and gentle, but in some ways I am also a hard man, in part because of the standards I have for myself. Regarding myself, I am brutal. The things I "say" to myself about what I should be doing. You want talk paint-peeling verbal abuse, there's nothing worse than how I talk to myself. A person wouldn't want anyone to say any of it to them. But that's how I am. I can write 5000 words in a morning and run as many stairs and be flailing myself for how lazy I am. If I don't feel well, I berate myself for being a bitch.
I have this friend who is sick a lot and then it all shuts down. Taps out. I'm not sure if they expect me to believe that they really just go to bed for like a whole day, but that's how they make it sound. They texted me that this was happening for the latest time over the weekend, and I sent back a link to Dylan Thomas reading "Do not go gentle into that good night" and later followed-up by asking if they had succumbed. I guess that's what I mean by hard. I expect people to fight. To come up, rather than go down. In all things.
Whereas, this person, when I was under the weather a while ago, asked me a dozen times if I was okay. I admit, that irritated me, in large part because we had important things to discuss, and we didn't discuss them, and this kind of nursemaiding was taking precedent. I know why--people can often only talk about simple things. The weather, how are you feeling, Jane's soccer practice. They lack the abilities that are a required to talk about that which is more significant. There are priorities. If we're not talking about these big things, who would I be if I'm okay just ceding the entirety of the floor to weather chitchat instead?
It's like when you go the ER. Cases are triaged. Most important goes first. I'm that way in life. The difference being that in the ER, all cases eventually get seen, but in our lives, the important issues and subjects just sit there waiting and waiting and waiting, and they're usually never called in. And again: This makes everything worse for everyone. But people don't see it. People very rarely know why they're unhappy, lonely, unfulfilled, whatever the case may be. When they don't know, they misattribute. When you do that, you tend to blame whatever that thing is more and more, as if this were a mantra that had also become how you lived your life, and never locate the real causes and issues.
I also have Bob Dylan's "What Was It You Wanted" and Paul McCartney's "Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey" in my head often. But man, that Stud Cole with his "Burn, Baby, Burn."
I like when articles pop up in my feed about the foods centenarians--people who live to 100--either eat or don't eat, because now I can nod along and feel good about my dietary choices and discipline. For instance, I saw an article the other day that said centenarians rarely eat red meats, processed meats, "sweets," bread, and white pasta and rice. I eat none of those things. I didn't even know about pasta--it's just something I avoid.
"The Tractate Middoth" is as close as M.R. James got to romance. Not romance as genre or type--but in having any romantic interest as a part of a story.
I'll think about how different James's output would have been had all of his stories been at the level of "Casting the Runes," "Oh, Whistle," and "A Warning to the Curious." The latter story features one of the top "mood" scenes in all of horror literature--the trip in the night to re-bury the crown, including the walk back.
I did five circuits of stairs in the Monument each day from Wednesday to Sunday. The hours have changed, and they're less convenient for me, but these stairs must be ran, so I'm trying to adjust. Since August 15, I've done 335 circuits in the Monument, which is 201,000 stairs.
Been doing my push-ups and walking. Planks the last two days and 200 push-ups each of those days. Ran 3000 stairs at City Hall yesterday and walked five miles. Sunday marked 3038 days, or 434 weeks, without a drink.
I am going through sneakers too quickly. They come apart in the back and the foam gets exposed and then hangs out the top of my left sneaker especially. I tried putting some duct tape inside of the sneaker at the heel of a newer pair that I wore in the Monument Sunday.
They were a bit slippery in there, so I have to be mindful of that and careful. I'm confident in there but I'm not casual. Coming down I keep my right hand in contact with the railing because I know that you can always fall, no matter how often or well you do something. That's another way in which the Monument keeps me aware in the bigger life sense.
I arrived at the Monument early Sunday so I did push-ups and planks on the lawn and would wander off towards the side of the slope that faces towards the Tobin Bridge (noting that this would be a good spot for hill sprints). There were two beautiful blue jays there picking up nuts from the ground and eating them in the trees, and two juvenile squirrels. The squirrels were skittish and scampered away with so much as a look in their direction.
Listened to a number of radio episodes over the weekend: "The Oblong Box" from The Weird Circle, "The House and the Brain" from The CBS Radio Mystery Theater, "Beezer's Cellar" from Quiet, Please, "The Ghost on the Newsreel Negative" from Lights Out.
For my nephew's birthday this week I got him a photo book of the Negro Leagues and a volume of Van Gogh's complete paintings. He doesn't really have any interests besides sports, his friends, and stupid stuff like Mr. Beast. I try to get him things that might stoke an interest in a given subject.
Admittedly, I don't think he'll like these gifts very much. Or at least not now. (I also try to give them things that they can like throughout their lives, or maybe not like that much now but like a lot later.)
My mom said that she has Renoir coffee table books, and he's never looked at those, but I thought with the Van Gogh that if it was his own book, and he was in his room--which is where he got sent the other night--and he was flipping through it, then something might click.
He plays baseball a lot, but he doesn't have an interest in the game outside of playing it. Either with the game's history or current players in teams. He likes to go to Wrigley Field, but he doesn't follow the current game. The only reason he follows football--which he wants to play, but isn't allowed to--is because of his fantasy league. I think that's true of many people, actually.
But that's what I got him. I'm afraid I'm going to try to forestall the rotting of your brain. It's just who I am. He doesn't read, which is why I picked books without words, hoping that might move him towards books with words. You start handling books, eventually you pick up other books. He did read "The Bird," as I mentioned. But someone could otherwise refuse to read and they would still like "The Bird."
I spoke to my buddy Amelia on FaceTime the day after Halloween. She had hurt her foot trying to run after one of her two best friends during tricks or treats, so instead of going to Grammie's house as was planned, Grammie went to hers and brought her favorite food for lunch.
Amelia had me try and guess what it was and I kept getting it wrong, to her delight, so I asked for a clue, and she said it was shaped like Grammie's phone, which sounded like a riddle, but she meant shaped like a rectangle.
I couldn't get this. More clues were provided: I'd had it before they said, but I probably didn't have it anymore (true on both accounts, as it turns out). Finally, crowing in her victory over me, Amelia said that it was macaroni and cheese. Rectangle-shaped? She meant the box. I probably wouldn't have gotten it anyway. Then she hung up on me.
The girls were over my mother's house again on Sunday morning because their brother was having his birthday party that involved indoor skydiving somewhere. I don't know much more about this but I do know you would never find me skydiving, indoors or otherwise.
My fear of heights is pronounced, which is somewhat ironic considering I spend as much time as I do going up a tall thing, but that's different because you're enclosed. Like I've said before, I struggle with the stairs for the American wing (my favorite wing) at the Museum of Fine Arts that look out over that big wide open space with the dining area.
Lilah was telling me that Charlie had gotten in trouble the night before. I asked her if he deserved it or was he falsely accused, and she said, "No, he definitely deserved it." Then she gave me the scoop. He was with his friends at one of their houses and was allowed to stay longer to finish a movie but the movie was over and he wanted to stay and play and he said on the phone to his mother that they were still watching the movie and she caught him in the lie.
Trying to be helpful, I said, "There's a lesson here, girls. Have your friends be quiet in the background if you're going to try and pull something like this." Then I pretended to be confused. "Wait...that's not the lesson. Wrong lesson. Tell the truth so that your parents can trust you!"
My mother then asked Amelia if she ever lied. And Amelia goes, "No," like the mere question offended her. So my mom says, "What about when you say you're fifteen?" I came to Amelia's defense. "Grammie," I said, "there's a difference between lying and being inventive and imaginative," with which Amelia agreed, as she said, "That's my pretend age, not my real age."
I had on a rainbow softball shirt the other day and a Boston ballet beanie and it struck me how atypical such attire was for a straight male. I think it's a truism that the stronger a person is, the more comfortable they are in who they are, and they have less need for artifice. I see all of these social media posts about how men believe that they need to hide their feelings or else people will think they're weak, etc.
I can't imagine someone could be more open than I, and people are terrified of my strength. I'm not trying to terrify people. But they see a strength that dwarfs their own. No one could think I'm weak, and I don't hide anything, or try to answer to expectations or think about expectations at all save those I have for myself. To be a certain person, to be the artist I am, to hold myself accountable, etc.
I guess that's the "trick" of it: Be yourself without any affectation. You'll hear, "A man doesn't cry." I cried each time I read "Words of Water" while I was working on it after having written something uniquely insightful about football on here and then headed off to run thousands of stairs. What does it mean? It's all of a piece. Authenticity. The bigger trick is being authentic. Learning to be. The human tendency is for inauthenticity. Looking outward to try and determine how we ought to be. Then you get into what others will think. And the ironic thing is that what we think others are going to think about us is often wrong.
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