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Saint Lucia

A topological vision.

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Hello... wonderful!

The universe, that is, the night sky, that is, the world outside of human experience, when you finally realise your alien capacities, is in fact a large celestial body. That is, space as seen from Earth in the night-time (or daytime for that matter) is in fact an enormous moon that encapsulates the entirety of our vision. The light that dances as like unto stars, and the dolphin-like actions of the early morning Sun (when you actually look at it), they are craters in this moon. And our own Earth is a mere meagre piece of dust, that is set afloat in the DNA of greater beings, who would treat us like germs if they were made aware of our presence. 

That is what you learn when you can realise your extra-terrestrial status. ...Which is what I did! First, Eugene had made an appearance at my flat which was my current flat yet it was a somewhat nicer flat that I have. And Eugene and I had pizza, and played computer games, and drank Coca-cola, and then he left. Then, upon sleeping, I was able to transcend somehow my Earthly body, and I sent my anti-particulate body over to meet Nicolaus who, along with Roberto and in some respects Adam, were waiting patiently in his apartment for the arrival of my being - my anti-matter being! 

So I entered the abode, and stood inside the living room, and Nick and Rob were fully prepared for my arrival, and I sent out a signal, which was nothing more than an internal high pitched screaming, that permeated the entirety of the cosmos, and which Nick and Rob could understand. Yet there was Adam, behind the drums, perhaps not full prepared for the effect, and somewhat going through the motions, and full of lack of belief, yet somewhat to be worked upon, and the scream alerted the alien community. And the stars did shine, and I went and made a drink in the kitchen and read a book. 

Then, with a rushing wave, did the others arrive. They were in the capacity of Paul, Kerry, Adam Dagnall, and really just in that capacity, yet perhaps with a teeny tiny Emma Corr. And this company had heard, in the real world, or some strange goings on. They attributed said activity to the existence of aliens: Paul was the main Ghostbuster, come to bust the ghost of my alien anti-presence, and Kerry was there to back him up, but Adam Dagnall was the man who, in the midst of this gathering, had to ascertain the reality of my anti-presence... although none were aware that the activity was my own doing. The party began, and I was soon to become trapped and consequently sniffed out and snuffed out. Yet on a mission to collect something - perhaps some kind of alien detecting equipment - Adam Dagnall had left the door ajar, and I was able to steal out of it, in my anti-matter disguise, and onto the streets. I was free. And I left behind an Earthly party at the residence of Nick. 

Into the streets I went, and stole into perhaps Adam's car, a yellow truck, that I drove up and down and all along these streets - these American streets - and I began to look up to the night sky. Now in my alien anti-matter particulate disguise I was trusted by the powers that be, to be able to see this sky as a type of moon. Now, it was a matter of topology to be able to see it, yet the night sky, with all its stars and etchings which were craters on the surface of this, a universal moon that stretched away with gargantuan proportions, had upon it all manner of interesting divisions and impressions. One of these, may I explain, was the image of Gordon Ramsey's eyes, like a shining batman-symbol, with words I fail to remember what they were, shining down to tell us of this new topological resonance of alien provenance. Gordon Ramsey! Other resonances of this night-sky, which was like a gargantuan moon in reverse - a topological anomaly of extreme purport - were merely the lights and twinkling planets that were craters in such a moon. And someone was there. 

Someone was there explaining the entire deal to me now. A fatherly presence, who stood by me as I watched the night-sky, this moonlike gargantuan entity filling the universe in reverse, explaining that we are mere blotches on the DNA of other great and full beings, who are like Gods, but are like humans, yet we live inside their cells, and they are largely unaware of us. And he explained that, look closer and you will see, as the Sun rises what it is really made of. It was the beginnings of light, dancing like a wisp of orange paint across the horizon and among the clouds, and as it swished around - this alien craft of light and fluidity - it became the Sun, and I realised what the Sun really was in its capacity. And I watched this, the morning Sun, and it was like nothing I had ever seen, and I watched as it moved across from left to right, and was urged to take a closer look, and saw that part of the Sun unseen in usual living was jumping like a dolphin over the ocean, and was spilling of flares high up into the sky. And I had been joined by Kerry, who was watching the whole thing with awe. 

Now having seen what the universe really was, and the essence of everything it had to be, I could now go back to Nick's apartment, and did. When I arrived, the place was inundated and overrun with hundreds of dogs. These dogs were of all shapes and sizes, and were furiously running all over the place, and I was knee deep in dogs, and they were antagonised by something. It didn't take me long to find out what. I soon found, behind a curtain, at a window onto a small forecourt or garden in the middle of the house, and wrapped up in it were three cats. I recognised them to be like my own cats. And I was still alien; still anti-matter particles, and I collected up the cats, which were the cause of the distress of the hundreds of dogs, and I took the cats away, and then somehow the vision ended. 

A dream of aliens and topology no less. But calling them dreams makes pejorative a perfectly good vision, although now having written it down, the visionary aspect of the dream has become latent. Yet what I take away from this it the topology of the universe, to which I would not be privy unless I were in with the aliens. 

There, that's it. 



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Saint Lucia

Basically blogging pfizer jab experience.

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Edited by Daniel Best, Tuesday, 16 Feb 2021, 04:31

Greetings, fellow humans. 

Basically, there are people who don't want to take the covid vaccine and, to be honest, that's their choice. I guess that, if you dig deep enough, and you look at all the current culture and political climate, that is, of all the past antisemitism, and leftist identity politics, and the legacy of Donald Trump, and all the events that have happened over the past few years, I guess... that you could forgive them their paranoia and mistrust of the government. 

I tell you, I don't know what exactly it is but (and for a very long time now) I've always trusted the government. I suppose it's the special experiences I've had with media, which is another story that is never to be told, but, from what I know about whomever is in power, it is my belief that they really do have our best intentions at heart, and I cannot see it any other way. I cannot see why our government would not want the best for its people. Especially so, since living in the society we do, I personally have things very good indeed, and it's just the way things are in this country. 

There are some very strange beliefs associated with the vaccine. I suppose that when you say "Mass vaccination", you can infer some very strange connotations; that is, it is in fact a very sinister sounding idea. They have some very strange ideas these people, and I know they do, because I am familiar with them from a personal experience, and I can kind of understand them. These people who purport that the vaccines affect your DNA and fertility, these people who believe the vaccine contains microchip nanotechnology, that the effect of vaccines is to give humans a type of antennae-like property by which our every move can be tracked, and who believe that so-called billionaires are at the root of an evil plan to eradicate numbers of the population in the name of its control, these people who believe 5G technology is at the heart of having coronavirus symptoms - I feel sorry for them, I really do. They seem to think they are at the height of logical thought, that a moment's thinking about these things can lead to the conclusions that they come to, that are in short full of paranoid thinking and fear. But, as I say, if they don't want to take the covid vaccine, that's their choice. 

It's a misinformed choice, however, but I won't go into why. I'll just say that the average person who believes in the evilness of the plan to stamp out coronavirus is usually the same person who calls those who are doing their best to be helpful to their fellow humans "sheeple"! 

I mean, it's aggravating. I can't talk about it; I'll just go off one. 

Today I had my covid jab - it was the pfizer jab. I was on the list for people who are most at risk. If you follow me, you'll know I have schizophrenia, and that meant an early jab, and I took it. 

It was nothing new to me. I've been in and out hospitals all my life and, once, I was on a community treatment order that meant I would have to go in to clinics to wait for injections of antipsychotics. So, for me, it felt like coming back home - the whole process: waiting in a clinic waiting room with other people for our medicine. It felt, after all this lockdown situation in which we have not been able to gather in groups, it felt good to finally be in the company of other people. I waited in the line, I cleaned my hands, I was identified, I waited in the waiting room, then five minutes later I was called in for my jab. The doctor supplying the injection asked me some preliminary questions, then a moment later we were good to go. I joked about Bill Gates, and WiFi connectivity and then, as I revealed my arm I said, "Left hook, right hook, uppercut.... JAB!" and I was injected. It was nothing new to me. 

I know people who've had their jab already, and they didn't have a very good time of it. They tell me that they started feeling cold - unbearably cold - then they had a headache, then it was nothing. I was sent out with a timer to sit for fifteen minutes while they monitored my reaction and, as I sat there, I could feel the drug enter in my system. I felt it with a subtle but distinct wash of my thoughts, I tell you no lie. It's true! I did! It was like a milder version of an antipsychotic effect which, if you've ever had medication like that, is a very strong effect indeed. However, it was most noticeable, and I felt it, and looked around and wondered if anybody else had noticed it. They hadn't, of course, but then why would they? I daresay they wouldn't notice the effect of antipsychotics either. But it stands to reason that such a medicine would affect your brain. After all, it affects your body, which is connected to your brain, so it stands to reason. 

But I began to feel a great sense of calm wash over me. It was a calm associated with all the pain of the years previous, in which I've dealt with medicines and illness. And I thought about all the things that concerned me over those years. I realised that one of the nuances of the legacy of being on antipsychotics is the very fact that they can certainly make you feel very alone. That is, the only people who understand what it's like to be on sulpiride, or whatever other drug you take, are those who have dealt with mental illness. And since you don't always each and every time see eye to eye with those people, you can in fact be made to feel very alone indeed. 

So when I felt this subtle but distinct washing of thoughts come over me, I recognised it straight away. And I realised that all my concerns about this feeling of being alone were now a thing of the past. In short, I felt like I was part of a movement. I felt like all these millions of people who will probably sense something like a change in their mental outset, but who will never really be sensitive enough to notice it, not really, these are the people who are really part of the secret. I felt like I belonged. 

And the feeling of the pfizer jab, well, I could sense a certain coldness rush up my spine, and at first I recognised it as a good feeling, almost like a shiver of relief. But then, as the drug entered my system, this certain coldness kept trying to re-enter my physiology, yet every time it did, I allowed the drug to do its own work. That is, I kept myself from fighting the drug. I let it do what it needed to do, and now I have had only minimal reminders of this shivery feeling. Don't fight it. 

So I've had almost zero side effects, other than a dull ache in my arm, which I treat with a glass of cold water. In fact, I've been happier this afternoon and evening than I've felt in a long time. If it's true, that somewhere along the line the medical effects of the coronavirus jab contain a mild antipsychotic one, I daresay it won't last for very long. But so happy have I been tonight that I found words in books all the easier to read, certain mathematical equations easier to solve, and I've been a little happier all round. I've been motivated and excited that I might finally be able to get on with some things, and get on with my life. And hopefully, once we've all joined in with the living, we'll all be able to start doing things we want to do again, in life. 

In short, and basically, don't be scared of the vaccine. Don't listen to all the fear mongering about side effects, and don't listen to all the theories why the vaccine is the devil's work. It's not. It's alright. This is 2021. Take your medicine. Everything is going to be alright. 



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Saint Lucia

Down the rabbit hole

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Edited by Daniel Best, Wednesday, 20 Jan 2021, 15:09

Hi, how ya doin'?

In the park, near my mum and dad's house where I used to live, there is, close to the playground area next to the basketball court, a circular indentation in the ground on the grassy lawn where kids play football, and folks do exercise. The indentation is next to a park bench, and there is a rubbish bin nearby. 

The indentation is well known to all residents of Mill Hill, and people who go to the park know the indentation as a secret hole, through which it is thought that one can gain access to a park cafeteria in Australia (a bit like the one in Home and Away). However, those who have gone down the hole have mostly ended up at the park cafeteria in Mill Hill, at which there is a fete and some funfair rides. 

Today I parked across the road from the park, in my green Honda Civic, and got out and went for a walk in the park, and went past the indentation, which is a secret hole that takes you to Australia. "How I would love to go into that hole!" I thought, as I made my way to the cafeteria. Some children were playing nearby, and one youngster in particular was playing at the edge of the indentation. 

The cafeteria is run by some surfer-dude types, and they are always picking on me, teasing me to go down the hole. They have a little outlet that is known to stand upon a second indentation, and the structure is always wobbling around due to the instability of the foundation. It is thought that this outlet, where they sell Coca-Cola  and various surfing gear, is the other end of the secret hole which is the indentation next to the basketball court. Anyway, I went along, and was duly teased by them, and before long I walked back to my car. 

My car, of all things, had disappeared! I thought maybe I had mistakenly driven my burgundy Lexus instead, which was in its place. But no, my green Honda Civic had been stolen... And I thought I had an inclination as to whom had stolen it!! I was stood at the area of the missing car (which was outside the house where Peter used to live), when the culprit showed up! I grabbed him, and punched him, and took him to the indentation, and I threw him down it! 

There was a child watching - the same youngster who was playing there earlier on - and he fell in after the thief did (although not before a few games on the adventure building!) and I thought, "How I envy you! You lucky child! You get to go down the rabbit hole, and see what is down there!"

I walked back to the cafeteria. The surfer dudes allowed me to sit on their structure, the one that was unstable, and a lady who used to work at the local gym was ominously waiting for something to happen. And as I sat there, I could feel the structure waving back and forth, and I could feel the unstable foundation wavering beneath me. So I stood up. Yet the structure came with me, and I took it over to the first indentation, and somehow or other, I fell in! 

At first the structure, which was your basic rectangle made of two-by-four, at first it settled on top, but then it began to sink, and I thought, "Okay, we're going to see what's down the rabbit hole!" And gradually, I sunk into the indentation, with the soft mud surrounding me, and I was so far down, and... nothing happened! All I knew was that I was underneath the grassy indentation, and had sunk below and was expecting to resurface in a cafeteria in Australia. 

But then the muddy hole began to smell like caramel and chocolate, and the structure and I began to descend further into it, and soon we were floating, and I realised that we must be at the centre of the Earth, where gravity has no effect. 

And soon I landed and was on the ground, with the structure falling to the floor, and there were banks of mud, and there was a door. 

I opened the door and, beyond it, I saw the lady who used to work at the gym guarding the other side. The area was taped up and closed off, and I realised that I was inside a confidential zone akin to the likes of Area 51, and I quickly closed the door because I knew I would become a fugitive. 

There was another hole down here, so I escaped down it, and found myself back at the indentation in Mill Hill park. My car had reappeared, so I drove home. 

Anyway, that was my day. How was yours? 

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Saint Lucia

God keeps it real

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Edited by Daniel Best, Sunday, 17 Jan 2021, 02:22

Welcome in, if you like to come in,

And today I am questioning my very existence. I don't know if Facebook is a valid source of world information... it certainly gives me up-to-date news on the day-to-day dealings of the people I knew in my primary school days. And I daresay they are laughing at us because we can't work it out, because we don't have the intelligence to know, that God is in control. Long story short, that will be the long and short and of my missive - that God is the only way. And I sound fundamentalist there, however, I even doubt the sanctity of my message there, because the legacy of the Heavenly Father is a time old tradition, of which I may even be ignorant. 

Quantum mechanics. Einstein said, and I paraphrase, "I like to think the moon is there even when I am not looking at it." He has a point, and yet he draws influence from the doctrine of institution. I've always been slightly against that doctrine, and I believe that is why I failed so miserably at university. But I feel that, at the end of the day, whatever we're told, be it that there is a deadly virus circulating the planet, keeping people in their homes, and keeping people from seeing each other, or be it that the NASA moon landings were fakes, and that the Earth is flat, at the end of the day, we are sat inside, looking at a television, or a computer monitor, and we're inside a box, which box is our room. Everything we know is a mere illusion. Everyone has a different opinion, and there are people who will uphold certain doctrines, and we believe those people, and naively so. 

But I'm beginning to believe that, at heart, everything is in fact an illusion, and I speak from personal perspective. I'm talking from own experience, the contents of which is that, for me, life has always been, as I have consistently said, that God keeps it real. That is the nature of my current contention. 

Now, I have friends that I can talk about this to, and people who will listen to me talking. And I have people on the other side, who will not listen, and who will dictate to me exactly what I should and shouldn't think. And then I have my mother. She is real, and she is alive, and I love her, and that's the end of that. 

But as an enlightened schizophrenic, who has been through the enlightenment indoctrination, and consequently failed, and been both naturally sedated in a dangerous recreational drugging that amounts to a 'coming down', and also, a medicinal and institutional medical drugging that amounts to complete and utter regeneration and cleansing, I know exist with a magical experience, which nobody outside my own head could possibly understand. I take antipsychotics that keep me sedated, and this sedation is an institutional measure, the onset of which it is claimed to be a safe measure for the public at large. But the sedation keeps my pre-frontal cortex from becoming too full, with thoughts and emotions, that may or may not be dangerous to others in the public. 

Nevertheless, these are my experiences, and I have a past at forty two years of age, and I am happy enough  to be able to have experienced them - I have written about them, and will write about them further. The thing I am trying to say here is that, as a human who has partaken of institutionalisation, occasionally wilfully, yet really against my will, it is the truth to say that, the only thing I know is that I know nothing at all. 

Everything that anyone knows, and I am talking about doctors and the mere man on the street, is what they have been told, is told in the context of a time-zone, and context of a historical narrative, and in the context of religious learning, and cultural learning. For what use would a man have with a doctorate in medicine if he was sent to the moon, or placed in prison? 

I'm saying that, in the context of a free mind, what era are we even in? What world do we even live in? What language do we speak? Who are our family? 

This last point causes me to think of the archetypal representations of the soul, that is, the primordial archetypes, that may be found in our dreams, or when we are open in our subconsciousness; when we are not aware entirely of what we're 'supposed' to think or believe. It causes me to think of those primordial archetypes (which are traditionally called geometric shapes and certain representations), that are the moral facts of being human, the essence of which even may be considered crass, or superfluous. However, I have a mother. And I have a father. I have a brother and a sister, and these are the facts of my existence, of which I am only naively aware. What we must be originally and permanently aware of is that we are in ourselves, singularities. 

I wish my experiences were not as esoteric as they have been, for it is hard to talk about them without a sense of 'tongue-in-cheek'. But I have been to both heaven and hell, in many different guises, and many people will know what I am talking about. But why am I here? 

I wish to say that in the depth of my heart, I know that God keeps it real. That is, at heart, life is just a story. And God is a very good storyteller, and a great illusionist. 

Life is just a story. 

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Saint Lucia

New blog post

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Welcome ye, welcome ye,

And this morning I follow largely the same vein as always I do, sometimes talking about the day, sometimes talking about dreams. 

But what's got me to blog this morning is having just come off the phone to my dear friend Adam, the dear fellow, the kindest man I know, and an amazing person. It was six in the morning, and he sent me a text message asking me if I think he should release his new song. "What would I be likely to say to that?" I asked him, the reason for doing so being because, well... 

Now, Adam has written and recorded - he says - something like thirty albums, and he's put them out (released them) on a low grade music distribution site which distributes your music on all platforms for a fee. Anyway, he loves this fact, bless him, and thinks it makes him a professional musician of sorts. He loves all that. 

Problem is, nobody likes his music. Between you and me, his music is quite, quite terrible. My heart goes out to the man, the poor dear, my dear friend, he's completely deluded. That's the problem too - I'm his most prolific listener, and I say to him, like I said to him just now, "I like to encourage you, Adam, because you put your heart and soul into this music and you have such faith in it." Only, it's such unpalatable music; it's so distant and disconnected. But if I tell him that his music is distant and disconnected, he takes this as a compliment. I told him, "Adam, your music doesn't sound like anything..." by which I meant it's a cacophonous noise!! 

"So, is it like Frank Zappa then?" he said to me. 

No, Adam, it's not like Frank Zappa. Adam, your music is so weird and different: it doesn't sound like anything. And you know, I just don't have the heart to tell him that it's not good. But then who am I? Who am I to tell Adam not to write music? I think I am the type of person who gives Adam encouragement because I want him to eventually learn how to write music. But after thirty years now, he hasn't improved. 

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. I'm listening to some of it now, and I guess that now I've got to ground zero, by almost broaching the topic of being able to tell Adam what I really think of his music, and have been able to start from the very beginning, it's starting to sound quite creative. Perhaps Adam puts too much faith in my criticism, because actually, his music is quite creative. Problem is, it's a niche. You wouldn't like this music unless you absolutely adored this person. His music is so strange and different, and he has not quite sussed out the hook, or the melody, or the riff, or the beat. His music is simple, but lacks effectiveness, and has no thread to it. 

But now, listening to it, I'm asking why I choose to be so harsh. Of course, when I say that, a new reason comes along to tell me why. 

I decided that I finally understand what Balance Inc. is all about. I've spent years wondering what on Earth is going on there, with his music, and the connected 'story' that comes along with it. Adam has written a book of sorts, and guess what? I'm the only one who has listened to it. I've been trying for years to figure out what the essence of Balance Inc is... In short, Balance Inc. is a band, but it's a movement, that Adam really, really, really wants people to get on board with, and it's an ideology, and it's entertainment, and I've failed continually to understand the point of it all. 

But then it hit me. 

Balance Inc. is about Balance Inc. 

It's in part both devastating and very clever, although I don't think Adam knows what he's done. Adam reads the bible and practically no other book. He loves Star Wars, and comedy, and stuff like that. His wife committed suicide, the poor bloke. He was raped as a child. The poor, poor man. The poor, poor child. 

Adam's music doesn't fit in with anything on Earth, and you would think that's a good thing. Is it Jazz? Is it funk? Is it rock and roll? His riffs make no sense. His lyrics aren't about anything. You can't dance to it. 

But although he doesn't have musical hooks as such, his lyrics contain a certain 'soundbyte' quality. I believe Adam does know this. He overloads his songs with these soundbitten words, that if any one of them were a chorus of some sort, he could probably make a hook out of it. In themselves, they're quite catchy. But they're so sparse and disconnected. 

I just wish Adam's music sounded the way he thinks it does. 

It doesn't. 

He's a lone wolf in a difficult world that will never understand him. 

I wish other people heard his music, and found at least one song that they could connect with. You know what would happen then, is that Adam's ego would take over, and he would think himself an icon, like Chris Cornell, but the truth is, Adam doesn't understand music like the world understands music. People want something pleasant to listen to, and Adam wants to blow people's mind with cacophony, or something. I don't know. I'm lost. I don't understand him. Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe one day, Adam's music will be discovered, and he will be recognised as a genius, and make a shit-tonne of money and be famous, and all the things the lovely man dreams of. 

To be honest, I'm a bit freaked out. I'm freaked out by Adam's life. I'm freaked out by his music, and his legacy, and everything that he does and thinks and says. 

He's got this song, "Intuition, heart and soul", and I don't know what to make of it. He's so weird the boy. I think he's probably a pervert. He's so asexual. I don't know. 

Hey, Balance Inc.!! Check it out!!"


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Saint Lucia

Good from Bad

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Welcome in blog!

Blogging about what, I do not know, but for journalistic purposes I continue. 

I guess the events of last night should be recorded. 

I phoned in to Iain Lee's Twitch stream chat show and, long story short, he hung up on me... after one sentence. Perhaps it was a difficult sentence, yet having written three short pages of things to say, I think his attitude was slightly rash. It certainly did not do my ego much service. In fact, I was most upset, especially since he said, immediately after hanging up, "I just couldn't be bothered with that!"

I suppose, ego aside, that I am just one of many weirdos who phone his show, that probably do not deserve respect. However, I find his show now to be compelling, and will probably tune in whenever I can. That's how I am. 

It certainly hurt, and was gutting, and it took a great deal of energy to recover from the incident. 

I had a great dream during the night, after a beer, and it was connected to something of a difficulty of my mind. I woke from it with a clear headed sentiment that I should repeat words in thought at least three times. And this! And this, after recently coming to the conclusion that somehow my schizophrenia requires a double take on every thing I say; that is, I should repeat myself, as a matter of acceptance of my condition, at least once on those occasional moments that I feel the action is required required. 

Now, however, my dream led me to realise that a third repetition is required. It was a lovely dream, wherein I was back at my childhood home, and atop the highest level, and listening to media, and watching media, and engaging in media from the internet, circa 2002, when I was at the pinnacle of the beginning of my academic creativity, and I was drawing and listening, watching, engaging, and I was loving it. And the moment when I realised I was to include a third repetition of thoughts, I was listening to a London pirate radio station, which helped me to come to realise my realisation, and what an apt source of media influence!  

When I realised it, it came to be the case that the entire known world was there already, awaiting my realisation, and my enlightenment was met by a knock at the door, which source was the presence of my happy brother and happy sister, and also more family, and I looked out the top sash window, and neighbours were happy at my own enlightenment, and I was able to joke with them, that "This man over here is mad!!" and they loved it. And yet, I have failed to enhance or outline the joy with which my enlightenment was met: It was the entire world that had sounded their approval, with cheering and clapping, and I had finally done it. 

I awoke, and wanted to emulate a piece of art, that had helped me in coming to enlightenment, that I had been working on in dream... and it was a fine and intricate abstract portrait of Soundgarden's iconic frontman, Chris Cornell, and I see it now. And the abstract part was that there was a honeycomb style texture, with vibrant colour, to the painting, and I wished to emulate that on waking, and came to the desk, and tried to draw it, but my dreaming talents are a far greater thing than that of my waking talents, although I do try! And also, I wonder at the content of what else I was working on, in dream. I would like to have seen the writing, or heard the music. 

Also, I heard my brain-voice for the first time in a long while, last night. It came, I suspect, from the stressful anxiety of such a public rejection as was incidental that night on the internet. I find that this type of stress usually gives rise to greater effort on my part to attempt to find my way back to happiness and contentment, that new avenues are found, and hence, due to this terrible stress, I did find my happiness and contentment, and found my brain-voice, and a hint of better cranial substance for future times, that has been lost to me ever since I was given medication. You may think this is no big deal, but it is the bane of my life that certain audibility of thought is lost when you must take antipsychotics, and I am glad I still have it available. 

I daresay this is an abstruse subject, but it is niche, and you are not obtuse in lacking understanding. It's me! 

For the sake of a concise blog, I shall leave it here. 

Thank you



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Saint Lucia

Morning not yet broken...

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Good morning all! 

And at three am what a morning it is turning out to be! I will say that so much sleeping shall fall by the wayside this morning, for such is the morning whim of such a new year. But of all things broken, it is not yet the morning which has done, and with promise, and opportunity. The medium of day, with which can be arranged a new theory of hope, will prove to have spoken to us once more, and we can openly listen and must be full with hearing, for the religion of joy is quick to speak with happy tones of things that can uplift the soul to light. 

Wednesday speaking has the effect of immediate sentiment with looping. This would be the strange loop that time forever leaves to be imprinted on arrangements (blueprints) to be tattooed on the skin of our emotions. The strange loop we are confirms the infinity that swirls in storms much louder that those which the ocean of our traversal could ever sound. And if Gödel feels as if his theorem should mention something which allowed inspiration to be transferred from God to blind science, that's his prerogative. I'm not saying it's a bad theory, however, the depth of self-reference signals the theory too quickly exempt. 

Yes, I'm reading Hofstadter's "Gödel, Escher and Bach - An Eternal Golden Braid".

Now I come to think of it, although they are beautiful and intricate and stunning, there is something slightly crass about Escher. Perhaps the beauty is too kitsch? 

Perhaps Gödel's incompleteness theorem is too kitsch? Perhaps Bach's music? 

Perhaps I am mad. 

Actually, Escher said, "What is kitsch? I do not know!"



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Saint Lucia

On what life has to offer (and other things)

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Hi, how are you?

Late last night, having been dozy all day, laying in bed, and having eaten a fifteen inch vegetarian hot stuffed crust, I realised on the cusp of sleep, that I rarely stop thinking about the Samantha Fox calendar day in the year. Who knows what the actual day itself could be, perhaps sometime in January, or even later on in summer, but it rarely leaves my thoughts. 

And later on, as I slept, I found myself on a holiday camping trip in Samoa, and had figured out a way that I might communicate telepathically with my sister, who was back in London, as I lay in my holiday bed by the beach, trying to avoid the lions. 

And later on, I was entertaining my old childhood friends, Helen and Jenny, and Scott, by playing them some electric guitar, particularly a tune by Pearl Jam, and Rob was there, and showed me how to play it right. 

But having slept most of the day yesterday, and also most of the night, and also being tired nevertheless, and it being a full and necessary sleep, I found myself questioning the possibilities that life at the moment has to offer. I mulled this question and found that, at the moment, life has little to offer anybody! That is, we cannot look forward to trips away, to holidays to Japan or America, or anything else like that, and, confined mainly to our homes, we cannot look forward to festivals or nights out... or barely even a coffee at the shop with our friends. It needn't be said too much that, at the moment, life has little to offer. 

However, I propose some solutions. This situation, whether we like it or not, of having to deal with the coronavirus and covid-19, is like unto the time of the world wars, and yet, perhaps not as bad as even that. Life had little to offer in those days, yet people pulled together, and they got through (after so many years). So what we must do, today, is pull together in a manner of "content-creation". 

Now, I find social media to be necessarily base by definition, so perhaps the legacy of the three-second clip put out on Tik Tok is not immediately the thing I mean, but, in the manner of The Diary of Anne Frank, we should pool our resources to create works like unto such as that. 

Education is going through a crisis, it needn't be said. Yet we know it, and it has begun to be a worry. Perhaps in our hearts we have this forward looking crisis, in which we all feel the limitations of the opportunities of life, and perhaps that is a factor. But now is the time to be creative, and keep up the spirits of our fellow citizens, and moreover we must keep up the hopes of our youth, and do so by the conviction that their education is worth pursuit. We must always look towards the future in which we have returned to a state of "normality", in which the fruits of our efforts can come to fruition. For example, we need people to write books, hence we need people to take creative writing courses. We need people to develop games, hence we need people to take computer coding courses. We need better technological advances, hence we need people to do science courses. We shouldn't let the darkness of the day blight our notions of a brighter future. 

When day to day living is as bleak as it is right now, we can also recognise that, if we wish to explore our sexuality, then that is also fine. It might even answer some questions, to decide that one is homosexual. For in this day and age, the legacy of "coming out" is never as concrete as it has been hitherto!! So come out! Do it for a laugh!

But in short, it is important to maintain a hopeful outlook. So work! Continue to make inroads into doing all the things you always dreamed of doing. Because we will work this out, and if we prepare for it, the future could be everything we prepared for! 

Good luck



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Saint Lucia

My parents are going to die...

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... And it really gets to me. 

Welcome, and hello, how are you. Greetings. 

I just had my family Christmas gathering, and not a moment too soon. Yes, I know, the rules have changed, and perhaps we should have organised ourselves around the government restrictions. But in any case, and whatever happens, and whatever has happened, our family Christmas gathering happened today. 

And I loved it. 

Firstly, I really cannot give my mother enough credit for what she does. I mean it! Every year she says, "This is the last time we're doing this!" .. And it never is. I think, no matter how much it screws off my dad, that Christmas is a fact of life. My mother is sixty four years old. She has recently come out of a difficult operation for her ear and balance - she had one before, and that time, she hardly came out of it with all of her faculties. 

Just as an aside... my mother was a very difficult woman, before her operation. She has a particular diagnosis, I'm not sure what without googling it. Long story short: now, she is not so difficult. Yes, she is still difficult, however, I believe that something, somewhere along the line, has changed. The issue with her ear and balance, which incidentally affected her mood and behaviour (possibly something to do with my own diagnosis), has been somewhat resolved, and although she has more in the way of recovery to go, she is a far more pleasant and amenable person than she has ever been. The issue is: I don't think she has noticed! I feel it is an indictment of my own standing as a son to comment on my mother's behaviour (for christsake's - I'm the schizophrenic!!), but I am hopeful for the future of our relationship. 

And that brings me to my main point. My parents are going to die. In fact, this last week, my father's own best friend in the world, who happens to be younger than he is to the tune of two years, died in his bed of a heart attack of sorts... Died! At sixty four? It must have affected my dad, for one, since who knows? It could've been him. Still, it won't stop my dad having a cheeky puff down the shed before dinner!! However, it could have been dad. And that is a fact. 

Now, not to concentrate too much on the psychotic thoughts that I have on a daily basis, it seems to me that I'm in a kind of stasis as to my parents health. In fact, for their age, my parents are relatively young. Yet something inside of me wishes for them to be alive for the duration of my entire life. I feel like I'm in a golden age. But even from an early age we know our parents will shuffle off this mortal coil. I'm at a tender time. And I call it a golden age because I have learned, through all the hard times wherein other family members have passed away, that effectively, the only course of action in all my fear of being left to navigate through life by myself, that I have merely just to cherish my parents. And I do. I cherish them. Till the end of time. 

However, sometimes my mother will not allow me to cherish her. She takes my cherishing advances as flattery, and if you know my mother, you know she will not be flattered. I guess that I'm trying to figure out the best to cherish my folks. Well... the best way to cherish my mother, in fact. My father is open to it, as far as I can tell, when I say the things I say in the manner of letting him know how much I appreciate him. But my mother is no fool. That's the problem. And it's a shame that it seems that the only way I can cherish my mother is by allowing her to find the good things about me. That is, it is easier, that trying to find the things I love (nay, like) about her, to allow her to find things to love and like about me. I find this to be a course of action in which I must merely be the best son to my parents (and not through words or flattery), and the best uncle to my nephews and niece, and let the actions do the work. I think that's why I like to paint for my old dear. No matter what the topic or essence of the piece, my mother always likes what I have done. So I'm happy that she enjoys those things. I suppose, at heart, the best thing to do is to transcend above mere sentiments and words, and let the real actions do the work. I think that's the best course of action. 

I think what I'm trying to say, despite the fact of it being something we all try to say at one time or another, is that, while they were alive, and in print to prove the fact, I appreciate my folks. In fact, I appreciate many, many people: from family to friends to builders to bus drivers to scientists. Heck, I even appreciate the government. Yesterday I watched the government address to the nation and, what with me being a medicated individual, a perpetual freeloader, a man who has slipped through the cracks in many more ways than one, and I was in awe of the capacity of Boris Johnson, who has to face adversity at great lengths on a daily basis in this age, to deal with the things he has to deal with. These people who have had no great hiccups as to the standard progress of living in this life, such as psychotic breaks, hospitalisations, violent altercations, and so on... well, it must be an amazing thing to be able to get out of bed each day, and get on with your working life in spite of all adversity. I aspire to be one of these people. I love these people. They amaze me. 

Perhaps these people look at the likes of myself and are filled with an amount of, say, pity, or compassion, or some such other emotional resonance... which makes them happy to give to us what they do, in this age and, especially, in this country. What a great country this is!! I forgive the socialist element, and commend the mix of political answers we have amalgamated to produce such phenomena as the NHS, and the social benefits system. Seriously! I have it as a real and immediate plan to give back into this society as has been given to me! I love you. You are amazing! 

And my parents are amazing. And my sister is amazing. And her man is amazing. And my brother is amazing. How they have it in them to day in, day out, take care of extraneous human individuals, such as like unto the ones which they have produced into life. I am forever in awe. I do not have the words. 

There that's it. I hope I have said what I needed to say. 




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Saint Lucia

A general overview.

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Greeting to you, 

And again I start aimlessly, but with a general view to outline some situations; there I begin, but whence do I continue on? 

The work, I maintain, is something on top of which I am, I believe. Yet it occurs to me that I have discovered a downside to my academic activities as well. That is, I have limits. It seems that I fail to fully engage myself in each and every exercise with which I am faced. In fact, it is true, I rarely complete the exercises. Nevertheless, my system, of writing down the main ideas (notation, formulas and derivations), and a few examples, seems to suffice. I then can come to the end part of the particular unit material on which I have worked, and, in effect, I complete the notetaking part of all units relevant to the given TMA, and then I have no choice but to pursue work with the TMA, and that involves the actual practice of mathematics!! I have nearly completed the notetaking part of the final unit related to this endeavour, and will have done so by the end of tomorrow. So all is well. Yet, on the issue to do with my limitations, I find this very irritating. It is true that you tend, as your studies progress, to further employ the tools of your prior investigations - that is, for example, I once struggled with many differential calculus topics, and many algebra topics. But, the occasional identity law, such as for sines and cosines, notwithstanding (and these are easy to look up when necessary), this is no longer a great hindrance. I have some knowledge about mathematics, having studied for as long as I have, and I imagine that you only increase that knowledge as you progress. That latter observation seems at times the strangest of anomalies and, although some say they have ceased their learning career, I believe I am only at the beginning of mine, at any given moment. 

I have letters after my name! I may now refer to myself as Daniel Frederick Best, Cert HE (Open). That is, I have completed no less than one year at higher education, and have the certificate to prove this. And very soon, within the next few months, I hope I will be able to boast a Diploma of higher education, too! I await confirmation of this recent achievement, for which I am in communication with the university to have my middle name printed on the physical credential. 

Today, a Saturday, I woke after a long Saturday lie-in, and had a shower, and looked at the internet. A facebook acquaintance's father had died, so it was all about him today. In fact I avoided the website, so as to pay my respects. Poor Neil. But soon I resolved to walk to the shops, to purchase some stationery, and drink a coffee with a friend, Charlie. He arrived, and we had coffee, and then I saw Tamsin. Since Charlie had to run some errands, it was meet to talk to Tamsin alone, and I interviewed her. "Tamsin," I said. "Have you ever been in love?" 

"Love is an illusion," she replied. 

"Have you ever loved anyone?" I said. I asked this as a psychological test, because I know she doesn't really love me. Tamsin doesn't love me. "I think you pity me," I propositioned. "You pity me, don't you?" 

She said she doesn't. 

"Sometimes, you talk as if you pity me," I said. It is true. Oftentimes, whenever I talk to her, I tell the good things, and I tell her the bad things, and she adopts this tone of voice like the bad things might be the end of my world. 

She said she doesn't pity me, but went on with a diatribe about how she imagines it must be a hard slog, all this work I'm doing. But I still can't get through to her. She's impenetrable. I have found some women all but too easy to understand, but Tamsin, I do not understand. 

"At least you love your mother," I said. 

"She drives me crackers," she said. 

"Good thing you like crackers," I joked. And then she had to go. 

I want to change my life. I really want to sort my life out. 

Sometime ago, I lost a lot of weight. I was, at my heaviest, over twenty four stone. And at my lightest I went down to seventeen stone. Since the first March lockdown, I have gone back up to perhaps nineteen and a half. I want to regain control of my weight, and that means re-joining the gym, which I will do in the new year. 

And I think my life would be a great deal better were it possible for me to stop smoking. I spend at least fifty pounds a week on roll-up tobacco, and I often fantasise the life I would have without the little bitches. I have quit before, you see, back in my college days, and I stopped for at least six months. Then, on a whim, I decided that quitting had proved to be the easiest thing to do, and I started again, and found I was unable to stop. Then they increased the price of tobacco, and stopped us being able to smoke indoors at bars and coffee shops. It's an idea I'm toying with, but at heart, I know I'd be so proud if the little bitches left my life, I say. There is one glaring drawback, and it pains me to admit but, seemingly due to the nature of my illness, when I go without tobacco for several hours, I literally begin to trip out! That is, I get high!! In fact, you would think this is a good thing, and perhaps the anomalous situation could be controlled with a nicotine chewing gum, or patch. It's one of those things you couldn't understand unless you had walked a mile in my moccasins, but it's absolutely true. I begin to hallucinate without tobacco; that is, tobacco brings me down from this high state. Nevertheless, I think it would be a fine thing, the life I would have without being a tobacco smoker. 

And the final issue, that could change my life, would be if I could sort the flat out. The kitchen is in constant need of cleaning, and I rarely do the bathroom chores. I do, however, make sure I'm on top of everything else, like the washing, and feeding the cats, and, now I have an electric toothbrush, cleaning my teeth more regularly. But what I'm thinking of doing now is borrowing a hammer and bolster from my father, and starting work on the things I want to do within the apartment. I want to make a start with taking out the mantlepiece. And my dad himself has suggested that, when he has a little free time, we can begin working at putting down wooden flooring here. I have told him I would like to pay him - but maybe he will see it as a project. 

I had a dream that I was back in construction. It was such a lovely dream, and I worked with familiar workmates on a room in a house, that needed rendering work and carpentry, and I was able to solve many evident problems. And yet, what made this dream so lovely was the fact that I seemed to resolve some issues I had back in the day, when I was in construction. And I woke, and wished I was a builder. 

Building is a job that is a far distant memory now. I was talking to Eugene, and I said, "I'm doing all this hard mathematics, and I know I used to be in the game, but nowadays, I could never do what you do." I think this was typical of the kind of flattery I like to impress upon people, which is perhaps false, and dishonest, but nevertheless I do it. And the funny thing is, people can be so narcissistic! Eugene said he would have liked to have done engineering. I said, "You have plenty of time." He said, "I know, I know." So why wouldn't he do engineering? Is it because, when all is said and done, he can't? Study is not easy, but everyone thinks they can do it. It belittles your efforts. I'm in mathematics and physics because that's what I've done. If it was so easy, why don't you do it? Anyway, in short, people are narcissists. 

And on that lovely note, I leave you! 

I'd better not. 

I'm going to play some guitar now. Then, after an hour or so, I shall play some game or other on Nintendo Switch, and then I shall go to bed, and it will be another day, although it will be the same day, and I will live it again and again, and I think that is rather lovely. 




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Saint Lucia

On a possible physics of consciousness.

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Hello, and without thinking, how are you?

I'm jumping straight in to talk about consciousness, it being something that science aspires to understand, yet has not made much headway, and I think that, being someone who possesses consciousness, I think that I can talk about it. 

I spend a great deal of time thinking about consciousness, and my favourite times are those when I am on the cusp of dropping off to sleep, when the physical world as we naively know it begins to subside into dissipation, and we enter a world of pure internalisation.

It seems we desire a theory of consciousness. I think that, in order to attain such a theory, we need to assess just what attributes the phenomenon possesses that we can all agree upon, largely in the same fashion as science has in terms of the physical world. Newton, for example, was able to conceive of laws, such as the laws of motion, to which all macroscopic objects adhere. I am sometimes astounded that we have not as yet found any laws outside of pure metaphysics that come close to describing consciousness. However, I think that this is because many of us have not tried. 

Hegel has come close to ascertaining some degree of consistency in his discussion of the internal workings of the mind (I have yet to complete a reading of his "Philosophy of Mind"). He talks about the apparent structures of the entity, and I must admit, he does a wonderful job in his introductory explanations. For example, he claims the properties of mind contain, for one thing, that of being "in" something, and in that sense, it is a private entity; that is, nobody else has access to its contents. Hegel talks about thinking in terms of an entity that is experienced as a type of string of points separated by time, and I admit, although a naively realistic assessment, it is not far from the mark. 

As an introduction to consciousness I feel it would be wise to avoid the esoteric curtailments of its description, however, I feel the following attempt in part avoids a complete reduction to such a restriction. One of consciousness's properties is that it is one. As I mention, not so esoteric, I believe, when one considers the glaring fact of its empirical evidence; that is, and from a personal perspective, consciousness can only be one in the sense in which only one person experiences it at any one time. In that sense it is true, but also on a more esoteric note, it must follow that consciousness is one in the universal sense; that is, there is nothing that I am given to experience that is solely within the confines of my own experience; that is, to reiterate, there is nothing it is like to be me that cannot be known by anyone else. It is a hard concept to grasp, but it is perfectly natural. Nagel asks: Is there anything it is like to be a bat? And I believe that, if we can mine our cognitive talents enough, we can understand that what it is like to be a bat is the same in many respects as what it is like to be ourselves, given the similarities in evolutionary survival struggles, and other such respects. Perhaps I am not being entirely clear, however, this point is a fleeting nod to the impressions left by the physical presence and worldly effects that others (in the naively traditional sense) have on us. (Am I justified in talking about an 'us'?) 

But Hegel's appropriation to the aspects of mind may give us a fruitful leg up in the approach to a definition of consciousness, that is, in the sense in which we must find common properties to it. I think that "consciousness is one" is a good approximation to such an introduction, in the flavour of what I intend to purport. 

But without messing around too much with particularities, I wish to define a second approach to something akin to an appraisal of a property of consciousness, and this relies on a cursory understanding of quantum mechanics and thermodynamics. In short, it is a physical theory, and perhaps relies, to its detriment, on an understanding of mind as a structural composition of thought. That is, thought itself is not consciousness (yet it does have connections), rather, thought is a structural component, the likes of which may or may not be similar in form to those which are common to each and every one of us. That is, it is consciousness which separates us (again, justified use of the word 'us'?), although having said that, how could I know? I am not telepathic. Yet these structures of thought, which are underpinned by consciousness, can be ascertained by experience and with skill, and skill that is a common undertaking to those with the disposition. So, momentarily, a discussion of thought. First however, I wish to illustrate a conceptual and intuitive definition of consciousness. That is - consciousness is a self-luminant observable entity. 

Consciousness is a self-luminant observable entity. Such a concept is self evident, and also it is self evident that such a self-luminant entity is an innate, that is, inner conceptual entity. To deepen the discussion, it may be necessary to state some obvious observations about this concept. 

Again, a self-luminant observable entity is innate. However, questions arise about the nature of 'inside' and 'outside', and it can be proven that a distinction can be blurred, and even switched upon its head, and also that, in light of relativistic concerns. Perhaps 'inside' and 'outside' are emergent properties? And perhaps consciousness itself is the mooting example of such a relativistic consideration. This is akin to considerations of relative size, mass, position, possession, quality, quantity, relation, place, activity, passivity and time and substance. 

A self-luminant observable entity is only attainable by the one. That is, it may only be accessed by he whom observes it, namely, it is private. In esoteric terms (forgive me!), it may be that the self-luminant observable entity (SLOE) is produced according to differences in the 'micro-evolution' of the human states of being. (Micro-evolution is merely changes to the constitution of being, which has numerable connotations, one of which I heretofore point out to be an effect of continual rejuvenation, brought about by the continuum of transference, in terms of the perceived coming to being, and dying away of external entities. A SLOE is self-luminant; it illuminates itself, and the structure of thought is the mechanism by which this occurs. 

That is why we must continue the discussion in the frame of 'thought', which appears to me to be a mechanistic structure, and can easily be defined. We may naively consider that, which we take to be thought, to be that which is an emergent property of the mind, brought about by the brain and its connections. I admit, I do not know enough about neuroscience to be sure of these following claims, but I have for many years sought to investigate the workings of thought, by introspection, and am most enamoured by science. That is, in short, the structure of thought is as geometric and logical as we can take it. One may imagine a fractal, or a network, indeed, a neural network, that is engineered to be experienced as a micro-evolution, and takes on different levels at different times of life. 

These innate neural networks can be seen to be structural by inspection. One is reminded of the physical mechanics of semiconductors, which employ the use of doping mechanisms by which lattices of configured atoms are electrically enhanced by the addition of 'holes' (doping), and these promote the flow of electrons from one part of the material to another. That is the long and short of it. Yet in terms of the structure of thinking, that is, the structure of thought, we can find a counterpart similarity. Yet here we have a subject that has not been much considered, at least in my line. 

Take a thought, and take it to be in the form of such a SLOE as we have been discussing, and call it a positive entity. This puts it in the same line as like a positive particle. In fact, electrons are the negative particles, and protons the positive, so hence we should put thought (SLOE) in the same species as a proton - yet, to be true to the physics, it is the electron which carries the charge, hence we should say that a SLOE is a negative entity. Nevertheless we experience it as a positive entity, in its self-luminant capacity. But such a SLOE is in pursuit of something which is definitely a 'missing' attribute. That is, the electron is fluid in the presence of a hole (a hole being a positive entity). Such a hole, in the manner of doping, can take the place of something akin to that which we seek to know, that is, the promise of knowledge; the gap in our knowledge; the unknowledge, or the innocence or ignorance. Yet we could not call it ignorance, nevertheless these things we seek to know are things of which we are ignorant. These entities, akin to doping holes, are really yet to be discovered. However, they act in the capacity of driving the negative entities to become a SLOE, and thus complete the mechanism. 

Hence we have innate neural networks. The properties of such a network are glaring and glaringly vast, yet as with anything, I believe they can be brought into crystallisation, and, furthermore, are common to all species of being, male or female, and so on. 

I will come to an end shortly, on this discussion of consciousness, but I leave you with the thoughts that follow. 

Consciousness, if introspection and investigation through self-examination have anything to do with it, is finely grained. That is what is so fascinating about it. That is what is so mysterious about it. The experience of the physical world, in waking life, for me personally, is a matter of light and touch, and the other senses. Yet it seems the human brain (for those who are aware of their own possession of such) is capable of storing light to be saved for such experiences as dreams, and lucid dreams, and imagination. The innate light that we possess can illuminate our unconscious experiences and, as I say, it is finely grained. That is, our dreams seem to possess such fine graining in the quality of our innate experiences, that it becomes harder and harder to appreciate that the physical world (which may be extended to synaptic and neural experiences) is quantum at all, or in other words, particulate. There remain to be had discussions of time, and space, and light, and all manner of other entities of which we may attribute the tag a limit.

For what is not a limit? 

I wish to say one last thing in this blog post. I believe that, whether or not you take into account the admittedly abstruse or inscrutable things I have said here, the goal of a true understanding of consciousness is to attain a state of universal access to a common innate entity. Perhaps our common origin (in that of the big bang) may go some way to afford this task, and perhaps the real wonder is why we have not already reached this achievement. But I would encourage people to make it a common endeavour to think deeply about the ways in which we can finally, through all our failed attempts, make a good go at finding a physics of consciousness. 

Thanks very much, 

Daniel Frederick Best, Cert He (Open).


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Saint Lucia

"Martin's in the Broadway selling confused notes".

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Edited by Daniel Best, Monday, 23 Nov 2020, 05:52

Corina says, "Martin's in the Broadway selling confused notes".

I know. Martin was a cool guy, there's no denying that. I have a Glastonbury ticket. I have a Jesus belief. I have schizophrenia - diagnosed perpetually confused. It's okay for Matthew to post to Facebook, he's diagnosed confused. You can trust him. You can trust me. I have the confused notes. Jessica's kiss was a confused note. I wanted a Manchester United note, and I got a fiver's worth of Arsenal. The magic mod was cool. I want a Jesus river. I want a university degree. I know. I got a Corina note. I got the coronavirus note. Once a day I have a calculus hankering. Daniel has a calculus note. Martin's in the Broadway selling confused notes. I bought one. It's huge. I know. They all wanted a mathematics and physics degree. I think I'll go for a tobacco character. You realise how lovely tobacco characters are, when you have a four o'clock am coffee, I know. 

I know. I know!! Let's have a little festival burger, and entertain us all, thank God. Thank Jesus. A microtubule clock, that sits like she's fascinated in the eigenvalues and eigenvectors unit. And I love her. She's got the Adidas mask, but she wants the travel bug, and I take the high road to the local high-street, upon which there is a waterfall, which gets her on your wavelength, and you've always known her. I have a crazy ticket. I have a Roman ticket. This calculus vibration is quickly becoming a mechanics oscillation. I got you girl. 

Dreams dissipate and now I have Oliver at the tent - an Ollie fruit juice - and he has travelled with us, and there is a Corina embrace, at least I thought there was. I have a Mill Hill farmland festival edge muddy pathway note and jubilant Julia passes, with her festival blanket note, and it's the most natural thing. There's enough Jewish household alarm to ensure that spectacles Henry has his travel ticket. I have a Scott-mobile, and a Eugene driver, and a cigarette is flicked at the neighbours tent but it is quickly stubbed out, and I have a friend in Sebastian. I guess on the one hand I could do with a Jesus Christ pose ticket for a tenner, and on the other hand I could have a buzzy smartphone incident. But for some reason I've got a chicken-shop incident next to my Oliver case. 

I really want a Jessica ticket. I once had an Eleanor ticket. If you have a Jessica ticket, the Tamsin ticket expires. I guess I'll never get a Jessica ticket, but I can make do with my Tamsin ticket. 

There was father in his Policeman's uniform, and a Lesley head, I know. 

I know. 


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Saint Lucia

For peace, calm, and relaxation

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Alright? Welcome. 

Blogging... and blogging for calm, blogging for peace, blogging... for relaxation. 

I may blog about a dream (if I can remember one). Or I may blog about family! If I'm truly honest, I have no idea what I will blog about. 

I called the police on John the other week. The foolish drunk had knocked on my door at 2am on a Friday night, and stupid me only let him in. It was ten minutes before he had insulted me, insulted my mother, insulted my girlfriend, and insulted my work, and had thrown a washing hamper at the television. I asked him then politely to leave, then asked him angrily to leave, then fake phoned the police - (which nearly worked, but my neighbour is sensitive to lies) - and he wouldn't leave, so finally I actually called them, got through, and John heard and left because he is sensitive to being arrested. In fact, a great deal of other stuff happened before I called the police. I kissed John in exasperation, for I knew not if he was going to hit me or rape me, it was as tense. 

My father has the right idea. Having told my family about the altercation, they have taken my side. Anyway, dad dropped me home the other day: we were talking about John, and dad said, "That bloke's a waste of space." It's true, the truest! John really is a waste of space, and that approximation is about as factual as it can get. Two weeks ago I had hopes for the drunken fool: he had managed to sign himself up to a course at college - some construction ticket or other - and I was impressed. He even bought a cheap laptop, and I was able to help set it up, and show him a few things, and get him comfortable using Zoom. Anyway, the weekend came and he got on the beer, and called someone or messaged someone affiliated with the course, to tell them he would like to take them up the arse. Anyway, long story short, he got kicked off the course. Waste of space. 

John texted me today and said his ex-missus had died. He was very sad, and knocked on my door drunk. I ignored him. 

Tamsin visited today. She turned fifty on Thursday. For her birthday I purchased her some Vans trainers. It was quite funny: I told her at first I would spend fifty quid on her gift, and to come and choose a pair to order. She said, "I've chosen a pair. These are the ones I want. I don't know if you can stretch to seventy pounds." 

I said, "Well, you can owe me the twenty..."

"I haven't got the twenty to spare..." she said. 

I tutted and said, "Alright then. But you owe me one." 

Tamsin is apt to always be sending her orders back, and I said to her, "Are you sure you're a size seven? I don't wanna be sending things back, Tamsin." 

"No, I'm sure," she said. So I ordered the Vans. 

Anyway, next week they showed up, and Tamsin came over to try them on, and guess what? They were too big. She looked like a clown walking around in those things. So after she accepted they were too big, we decided to send them back. I sent them back. Anyway, here's the thing: After I sent them back, Tamsin changed her mind about the type of trainers she wanted, and said, "I've changed my mind, I want these other ones." In fact, she had gone to the Vans shop in town to try some on, to make sure they were the right size, and the ones she wanted were a hundred and five pounds. "I'll pay you the thirty five pounds," she said. 

Oh really, Tamsin? So you can afford to give me thirty five pounds, but you couldn't afford the twenty from the first purchase? 

I paid for the trainers, and she did pay me the thirty five pounds. And I promised myself I wouldn't talk about it, that I would let this one go, but I think that's typical behaviour and, honestly, I feel a little used. But that's women for you. They'll claim their different, and to the point that they won't accept the stereotype, but that's women, all about the money. I do feel used. I'm glad I said that. Maybe one day I'll bring that up with Tamsin. You imagine she's different. She's just the same. Well, hey. 

And blogging for calm, peace and relaxation. 

I don't know why I don't talk about consciousness and knowledge a bit more. I am after all conscious, and love knowledge. I posted on Facebook this evening, "Other than thinking, what do you use your brain for?" I think I broke the internet with that one. 

I finished a book by David Deutsch the other night, and thank God. It's so lovely to finish books, especially ones as hard and long as "The Fabric of Reality." David talked about how you can experimentally prove the existence of the multiverse, by the existence of "shadow photons", which are antithetical to ordinary photons - they are responsible for dark bands in two-slit experiments. He talks about the philosophy of knowledge, and the fallacy of inductivism, and champions Karl Popper's philosophy of science, and Darwin's (and also Dawkins' neo-evolutionism), and talks about the "four strands", which include evolution, quantum physics, and two others I forget now. He's very good at explanations, is Deutsch, and explains his approach to time and time travel, and many topics. In fact, so good is he at explaining, that it's quite abstruse to follow. 

I have been playing games - computer games! I have a little idea about buying consoles in bulk, and selling them on for profit. But mind you, I don't mind if I don't make anything - however, it would be a fine thing to break even at least. But the idea is to try my hand at sales. The internet is the future, if not the present already, and many a pound has been made by its employment. I am expecting to be paid for some work I've been commissioned for recently, and soon I hope, so I am thinking about investing in these little consoles. Please don't steal my idea. 

But computer gaming is such fun! I have spent a little money purchasing several games, and systems on which to play them, and I certainly wish there was time enough to play them. I'm focusing on the course, at present, so there isn't a great deal of time, but I get an hour in the evening. I was playing my Nintendo 3DS recently, and it's quite an underrated system. The three dimensional effect is genuinely amazing. Luigi's mansion is quite a stunner. 

Knowledge, consciousness, physics, time and mathematics. There was a Zoom group last night, and everything went swimmingly, and it's a fine thing to know there are others on the same ship as you are. You can, in spending your days alone and in books, get quite accustomed to the idea that you're the only one. But I'm just saying, it's nice to have a group to communicate with. It's nice. 

I might hit the hay. 

Thanks for reading. 



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Saint Lucia


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Hi, how ya doin'?

I'm just writing down here some snippets of some dreams which I had earlier. Everyone knows that people are bored by the recollection of dreams, so prepare to be bored, I guess. 

My recollection begins at the top of my old house where I grew up. I'm there, and the bedroom is a triangular as ever, and there's a lightlike thrill tinting the edges of everything. I hear some music coming from the hallway, and then I realise I am not in my top room bedroom, but my folks bedroom, yet the music is still coming. I go out and investigate, and there is a small speaker at the bottom of the stairs and electronic music is blaring from it. I look at the speaker and I can feel the vibrations coming off the front, and they are directed up the stairs towards the door of the top bedroom, and I get my ear in and follow the vibrations up the stairs. The vibrations are very strong, and there is a thick stream of them, and as I follow them I become aware of some other speakers at the top of the stairs, and I try to find the sweet spot where the sound should be strongest. Yet when I find it, there is no sound at the sweet spot, and I place my head there, and look for a minute, and I face the door. Then there, standing at the door, are two men. One of them I know: it is Aaron, and he is responsible for the music. He is staying in my old bedroom. It seems that the other man is his boyfriend, but this is not clear, and in fact I am reluctant to guess that he is, for I wouldn't want to be presumptuous. In any case, Aaron was showing me the techno tune on which he was working. And the tune comprised several notes, with two phrases, and he played the first phrase, and it was fine, and then he played the second phrase, and the last note was a surprise, and went up, and was very surprising. 

A little before this part of the dream I was in a field where I lived in some type of cabin or shack, and what I remember was looking up at the stars, and some of them moved. Some of them moved back and forth, and I thought, 'There is evidence of alien life.' Yet before I could be exposed to this display of alien existence the entire sky became distorted, with all the stars moving back and forth, and I considered this to be some effect of transmission, and nothing to do with aliens after all. And there was a guitar in this part of the dream. I remember sitting at the shack which was on one side of the field which was in fact a hill, with perhaps a forest behind it or maybe a road. And on the other side of the field was another shack, with someone, perhaps Aaron, living there. 

Nicholas was in my dream, in his musical capacity. 

I often dream that I am living in a bungalow that is built upon an estate which, in real life, connects me to Shakespeare's Corner in Mill Hill. It is a quaint little one for an estate where roads interconnect and there are little houses and bungalows, and there is always a drug scene - that is, a drug scene in which a main occupation of many individuals is to deal drugs, and within this village there is a man and he delivers the drugs. 

At one stage of dreaming I am lucky enough to catch Nirvana playing live, and they are playing hits from Nevermind, and the stage upon which they play, to all but seventeen or eighteen teenagers, is small, and probably I am here where Kurt killed Smells Like Teen Spirit for Top of the Pops. I can get a close up of Kurt's face, and the more I look at it, the more he seems to take on features that my own face possesses. There is a young man here, and he seems like a younger version of Eric Weinstein. This young man is a new character in my dreams. When, at one moment, I am in the mode of remembering his name, it comes up as a double syllabled name - Wein ein, or Wein mein - something like that. Perhaps I am enamoured with his personality, for there is something 'cool' about him, yet nerdy at the same time. This young man has appeared in deeper parts of dreams I have had in the past. I am thinking of when Nirvana murdered his song on Top of the Pops. The young man reminds me of a character who would be a frequent presence at the parties thrown by my brother's friends. 

On the verge of dreaming it is often the case that I think about the mathematics I am doing. What seems to be apparent is the rumination of my unconscious of the form of formulas upon which I am working. And yet, the forms, recently, are never clear. That is, there is a fake quality to them, as though I am not really doing mathematics but imagining that I am. I think what is happening is that I am compensating for my lack of real ability in the subject. Nevertheless, the conclusions are as shocking as every 'eureka' moment I have ever had, and they are certainly compensation. 

Qualitatively, there is a graininess to my dreams. They say we dream when we are stressed about something or other. I think I may be getting stressed about the course, even though I am effectively ahead. In real life, I find it excruciating that I cannot wake up every morning at an early hour and do my work. For those days are the days when I really can get things done. Those days when wake late, say eleven or twelve, I cannot get my rhythm, and the day is wasted. This is a real frustration to me. Even those days when I have woken early, yet need to go out, even that one hour away from work disrupts everything for me. It is not that I haven't been working. But in my mind those days are too sporadic, which are those I get a lot done. I aim, with all eager intentions, to get eight hours a day done. Yet, this is not happening. Maybe once a week I can do that. 

I slept in the day today. I have done no work. But my intentions are good. It is now nearly half past one in the morning. I have several tasks I could complete. I guess I should try now to do some of them. 



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Saint Lucia

The Heat Death of the Universe

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I just had a dream. The dream was this. There I was at mine, in my flat, and at my block there are five other apartments: my neighbour John, some muslims, some blacks, a family of five, and an empty flat. In the dream a fat Iranian lives downstairs, and so does John, and some Muslim bloke, and some others. 

During the first few weeks of lockdown I was convinced I was the Christ. Something happened on television that gave me a message and convinced me of it. I got my crown, and cried tears of joy at the fact. Yet I was still on weed, and when that first clap for the NHS happened, I had missed the memo because I had switched off the television. And I was running out of weed. So when eight o'clock came and, having deliberated to go out to get some weed, I went into the forecourt, the clapping began. In my mind I saw everything. I saw the whole world, because I remembered the idea being put out on social media, and I saw them clapping, and I saw the world world clapping because I was the Christ, and I was going to give them a speech and explain to them everything I had learned by the media over the past few days, that Coronavirus was a 5G implanted chip that goes into your mind, and that you can control like some sort of iPhone technology, and that you will have advantages such as being able to switch environments and communicate mentally, using telepathy but a designed version, and that we were working to... do something... stop the devil... something... I can't remember... But I had to give a speech at this clapping, and the entire forecourt of my apartment block was clapping, and I thought it was me. So I had to give a speech. I was accepting the applause, as though having just come on stage to adoring fans, and something in me thought they knew what was going on, in a way. And then the clapping died down, and I began to speak, and my thoughts evaporated, and all I could say was, "You're as confused as me!" There was silence all around, and I sloped off, very, very embarrassed. So much for the end of days. 

Later on in the week I was mightily upset at the embarrassment. The event had got to me somewhat, and also I had been unable to work on my physics module for three weeks due to being stoned and paranoid and mentally ill. And all that. I spent nights crying in frustration at my huge failure, and vowed to get myself put away. And the way I vowed this was to wake up the neighbours, with music, as though I had a plan all along. I still saw that I was the Christ, and I opened my windows, and it was five thirty in the morning, and I turned on my electric guitar, at full blast, and began to fill the neighbourhood with the loudest electric grunge concert ending I could, distortion blaring, feedback screaming, riffs chunking, the amplifier turned to the highest volume. At five thirty in the morning. 

What I saw in my mind was that we were in a new world order, and that people needed to come to Christ, and also, that Kurt Cobain was in my soul, and he was in the highest level of heaven, and speaking to me, and all the world was communicating through this new 5G microchip technology. What I saw in my mind was that the people would gather, outside my windows, and see this modern day rock star playing the most beautiful music of Elysium that was stream into the streets, as I, the Christ, would be world renowned for playing these tunes and this sound. And I played, and for fifteen minutes, the sound blared all across the neighbourhood.

After that time, however, I suppose it was even a bit much for me, so I switched off the amp, having failed again to bring Earth to the highest level of heaven, and there was knocking at the door. I answered it, and my Muslim neighbours were there complaining and most angry, saying, "It's six o'clock in the morning! My dad works for the NHS." What I could hear him saying was, "It's beautiful music, my father is in the seventh level of hell." And I felt guilty for stopping. 

The idea was that after two weeks of annoying my neighbours like this I would finally be sectioned and placed in a mental ward - Broadmoor or something - and that would be where I lived my life. So I played the next night too, and stopped, and there was knocking on the door, and it was another neighbour, asking me to keep it down. 

In any case the dream was about those nights. Here, in dream, I was somehow ended up at my Muslim neighbour's apartment, and was hiding in the bathroom, and he had left a note with Arabic writing that told me everything about how beautiful he found my music and how relevant it was, and detrimental to life. And now, and I fail to remember why, perhaps because the music was so loud, the police were called, and the Iranian man was arrested, and I was brought out of the Muslim neighbours house, and the police were there, yet I was not arrested. Instead, a female police officer seemed to turn into a psychologist, and she took me back up to my own apartment, and we sat there and talked, in dream, and then we had sex, and I killed her. 

And then I was on the run, but my amplifier was there, as was my guitar, so I played in the manner of those nights, and couldn't muster the noise enough to save everybody. Every time I turned off the guitar something new happened: I had to leave the flat, and go into the hallway, and there was my guitar and amplifier, and I would play, and time would be running out, and I would stop, and another level of the dream would arise, to a diminished effect. Then I was transferred to another part of the neighbourhood, and tried to save the world again with my music, again to a diminished effect, and another level of the dream. And, gradually, the effects being so continuously diminished, I ended up in some kind of bunker, where two young men, perhaps Dean and Lee (two from school days), would attempt to stop my efforts of playing beautiful, loud music on my amp, and in fact, the amp was losing power, and my leads would not connect to the fuzz boxes, and I could rarely get a sound out, and only revel in the glory of old days. 

And then Charlie was helping me, in dream, by arranging things so that I could play, and yet there was always this looming threat of immediate death encroaching, and I was in the neighbourhood. And yet Charlie was only holding me back, although I could not escape the inevitable, and the effects diminished further, and I was losing my battle. Eventually, Charlie took me to a room outside of which there was a scaffold structure, and there were more people, maybe Sara, and Ryan, and Maddie, and Aaron, and I hung from the scaffold, and finally, the music was so diminished that I ended up in a parallel world, where there only my brother Ryan's friends, and the world was usurped and drenched with water, with little mountains being covered by the increasing oceans, and it was the end of time. 

And it being the end of time, and my brother's friends being there, they were sympathetic to my plight, which really, in a nut shell, was to avoid being caught by the police for killing the female psychologist. And I had to go, and leave for the mountains, and on the way there was an old man, in his late sixties, who was sitting at the bottom of the stairs and congratulating me for a fine and wonderful music career, and Glastonbury loved you, make no bones about that! And there my brother's friends, all reveling in the joy of the end of the world. Then I went out into the mountains, and slowly but surely, the world was drowned in water. And it was the heat death of the universe. 

But then I was taken in to a complex run by old friend Eugene, and he was showing me how to use his new gym equipment, and we spent the rest of the time climbing up ropes and across bars. 

And it was the heat death of the universe. 

That was my dream. 

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Saint Lucia

Dreams and nothing more

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Hi, how's it going? 

And in today's blog I shall be engaging in the pursuit of examining last night's dream. And to stave off the boredom I shall be delving into the investigation of the residual latent late night imagery of the dreams of nights, and any nights, I may be able to remember. 

But first there is a curious anomaly of the imagination which I wish to relate, personable to myself in particular, and particular to an experience that I had a little earlier on in the day. 

In fact, it was in the afternoon and, having awoken at an early enough time that, by twelve midday, I needed a nap. And so I lay down, and was relaxing in the weariness of the morning's work, and was drifting with the feeling of thoughts. It was such a feeling, that I noticed, that the experience of my thoughts was not so much an intuition of inner awareness, of some self-luminated observation, yet it was a feeling of the feeling of my thoughts - that is, the way the thoughts were structed in the biophysical structure of what I know as my brain. Thoughts would come, yes, but I was concentrating (in so many ways) on the perception of the constructs of thought, rather than the thoughts themselves. I enjoyed such an endeavour. Effectively, the content of the thoughts was lost, yet I felt that a self-illumined presence of light could be physically felt somewhere at the top of my head. Such was the subtle pleasure of the feeling, that in some nebulous state of half-consciousness, I began to visualise the sense in which my eyes were not closed, and could begin to see myself, still laying in my bed, yet in the light of day, as if my eyes were still open. 

I have fears, and am most concerned, that one day I will transition from the happy vestibule that is my own physical body, and into another mind, and hence will surely know my own death. Such is the legacy of my deceased acquaintances (hello uncle mick). Hence, I shook lightly out from the phase, and yet kept my eyes closed, and I was able to be refreshed within twenty minutes and no more. Therein lies the tale! 

However, last nights dreaming can be approached in discussion by the inclusion of a memory of a lane, and one which led to the house - somewhere far away, perhaps in Greece, or Saint Lucia - that belongs to the father of my good friend Adam, and he drove there in his good Mercedes, and it was a fine house. 

There is a nuance of a Miss Piggy type female, largely like unto that porcine version of a female acquaintance, Aoutif, upon whose large bosom was written some paragraph in some gothic, or other style of academic writing. 

Yet, I am failing to recall these reflections at the current time. 

Yet, I am at Glastonbury, and have gone there with Richard and Rob, two friends with very different characters. The former is a medical doctor, and the latter is an IT technician with musical sensibilities, and yet they had similar stature within the dream. Coffee is served at one of the festival's tented cafeterias, and I can hear the festival booming in the background, and I am now alone, and this is about hash. It is a lovely plan to visit Amsterdam, and the famous coffee shops there, and I am playing cards, and that is a dreamscape. We traipse across fields, and at once a boat can take us across some field, and I fell into the water, and was pitied by both the doctor and the technician. Yet the field is vast, and tractors and trees and worn paths draw my attention to something else, so far away. 

There is a building. Or, there are buildings, and there is a causeway, a canal, a bridge, art museums. It is London. 

I am glad I have quit recreational drugs. There are remnants of my druggy past in dreams, but now, and even in those, I am aware that I have fully come off them. The traversal around festival sites is now still nebulous, but grainy, and bitty, and with pixelated luminance. Sometimes I cannot tell the difference between dreams and reality. And I enjoy my thoughts. I suppose many people do. I enjoy the thinking styles, and the exploration of time and consciousness. I watch a central light. And sometimes I engage in the avoidance of the light, and other times I engage in the light fully. I was once enamoured with language and its games, and yet now I am more natural and more concerned with expressing momentary observations, within the limits of my own learned moral rules. 

Sometimes I have good days, and other times I have bad days. I feel I have learned a modicum of control I once never had. You have to have a certain amount of pain to know your limitations. Some of my behaviour has often led to painful experiences, and I feel this is a natural impression of ethical law making, by the intuition itself. I feel settled into life now, and I hope it remains like this. I am lucky in this sense. 

In the dream of Adam's father I felt as though he was of a mind to consider me troublesome. I would like to know to what degree he actually thinks this way, it being the case that I haven't seen David in many years, yet have recently had good conversations with his son. 

I daresay it is hardly worth pursuing the psychology of logic, yet it is tempting. 

I am afraid my endeavour has not been a success. I cannot remember my dreams. All I can remember are country pathways, and routes past tractors and haybales, going towards a distant compound, enclosed by fences, and I know this is a contained unit within which I envisage a perfect white woman, all brunette and full of druggy fun. There she is. I can see a festival, and these places are my most exhilarating environments. 

There is a machine, all cogged and churning. And there is a field. That is the entirety of the recollection. 

I have nothing more to add. 



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Saint Lucia

The kids are funny

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Welcome, and to every lover. 

Up until 2016, as much as we looked forward to them, Christmases around my family home were beginning to grind a little in the mode of becoming slightly samey.

There was, of course, one or two memorable ones, like the year when I was hospitalised for my life's worst misdeed. I remember the day. Mum, dad, Corina and Ryan visited and I was given a camera, and I did not feel very well at all, and it was not a good day, even though I can remember the ward's Christmas spread, with its turkey and pigs in blankets and stuffing and gravy, and I can remember the staff's nice gift of a set of toiletries. But yes, I was not very well. At the visit, I was still fortunate to have retained a modicum of thought, which was reserved for my brother - and thankfully so, for without an intuition like that, I daresay I would be a different person. And as for Ryan, I'm sure he was also thankful, that there was still a light of recognition within my mind. I remember that I had bought gifts for the siblings, in the form of movie posters, beforehand. I had such hopes for that Christmas: I had some extra money, for my disability benefits were being paid as well as my student grant. I had hoped to spend big, and buy some nice things, like a Nintendo DS for Besty, and... that's as far as I had thought. 

The year before that, I remember, was the one that mum and dad had gone away for a year, and us kids of the family had gone over to Cathy and Tony's, and spent the day with them. I was a vegetarian at the time. Cathy had managed to rustle up some vegetable stock at short notice of the news, and I enjoyed roast potatoes, peas, broccoli and other Christmas vegetables with a nice tasting gravy. Cathy's son Scott was kind enough to have bought me a book for the celebration; I'll never forget it - Shyte's Miscellany. It was a yellow book with much content relating to British culture. But I was poor that year, and was unable to buy any gifts for anyone, and I was full of shame about the fact. Cathy's sister Margaret was there, as well as their brother, who's name I am constantly forgetting. 

The year before that, Scott had come to dinner with our family, since his parents were away. Our cousins Darren and Nerys were also there, visiting from New Zealand. That year, Ryan had bought me a ukulele, and I fear I may have showed a slight disappointment in that, for I remember Darren and Scott reacting at it. It was a thoughtful gift, but I couldn't seem to find the desire to learn it, and in any case, I think Ryan really wanted to learn it himself. I remember Nerys and Corina singing "A la la la le long!" and I remember mum asking Scott if his food was edible, and him saying, "Very edible!"

Whatever happened at Christmas 2007? You can usually remember by the gifts that you bought and received... let me see... I think that was the year we played Nintendo Wii, and cousin Darren was there. I had had the Wii since the middle of the year, but mum had bought some games for it. 

2008? That was the year of the "Credit Crunch". Not a most memorable year, except that I was still living in Colindale, and probably still reeling from the injections. I'd love to remember something from this year. I seem to recall writing a diary and sleeping in the small bedroom. I seem to remember being given a journal for a present. In 2008 I turned thirty years old. I was at the Hammers with friends that year: Fiona (Ryan's girlfriend) buying me Jack Daniels, and Grant Nathan (the old cunt) smiling away his dirty faced grin, and Ross (the old knob) picking up Grant's gloves at the end of the evening and saying, "Eurgh! they stink of spunk!" The old git. I wasn't well that year, I remember. I wasn't enjoying life in the slightest. 

In 2009, that was the year I had been evicted from my Colindale flat, for various reasons, and was living in a shitty old bedsit in Friern Barnet. My ex-girlfriend Kerry's mother died that year. We all gathered round at Ross's to offer our condolences. Kerry is married now. 

2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014... The years went by, with not much to write home about. 

In 2015 we were noticing the lack of any memorable occurrences. But Corina had got herself a boyfriend, then, in February or March in 2016, the family were all sitting around the dinner table, when suddenly mum said, "Corina has an announcement!" I was aghast. I knew what it was. And when Corina told us that she was pregnant, I exclaimed, "There is a God!!" and then Corina was crying, and I was close to tears. And then Ryan also admitted, that Fiona was pregnant, and then he was close to tears, and he hugged mum, and I was confounded because there really must be a God!! Two pregnancies at once, in the same family. 

It was certainly a cause for celebration, and for so long I was unable to stop thinking about the sense of coincidence I felt at the whole situation. It turned out that, four years ago, in October, two children were born - my nephew first, and then my niece next - within two weeks of one another. I really was stunned by the whole coincidence of it. Nothing for years, and then two children within two weeks of one another. In fact, it made me slightly wary. For I could really see the symmetry of things playing out before me. There was my brother and his new daughter, and my sister, and her new son, and me myself sitting with no romantic relationship at the tip of this triangle, and I couldn't get it out of my mind.  

I write this in the intermediate weeks between Rio's and Sia's birthdays. Rio was four last week. Sia is four next week. It would be a shame to forget about the things have happened, in these four years. Yet I do not wish to recall merely the memories which we have caught on video and photographs. Yet, they will serve as good marker points for jogging my memory. 

According to Dayne and Corina, Rio used to call dogs "Ed". I remember playing on the living room rug with the lad, and holding him gently whilst seated on the couch. I remember Corina telling me that she held him as he cried, and as she was tired saying, "I love you Rio, but I'm so tired," and she cried. We used to joke about buying Rio a "baby-cannon". I remember buying the lad a Nirvana Babygro for his first Christmas, and I remember him playing in the garden, and crawling around the house. I remember dad holding Rio in the garden on sunny days, and Rio being absolutely and utterly besotted with the man. 

I remember first seeing Sia - her little hairy head, and her closed eyes - the tiniest package. She has a good memory for her age, the girl, and remembers how at Christmas 2018 I scared them as they played in the rocket tent which I bought. I scared them because I knew they would remember it, because I remember it when my dad did the same when I was aged two. I remember asking Sia if she wanted to open my birthday present, and her saying, "But it's your birthday!" 

Sia likes to fan out the cards - well, she likes it when I fan out the cards, and she likes to hold the fan, and she likes to throw the cards into the air, so that its raining cards. Fiona used to tell me that Sia would talk about me all day, and mum says the she said, "I love uncle Daniel, he lets me throw the cards in the air." When Sia was born, I used to sing to her - "Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I'm half crazy, all for the love of you!" 

This summer, the kids played in the garden, in the paddling pool. At parties, or gatherings, they always come to me after they're bored. 

Rio running around the field in the park. He saw me walking off the path, and followed me and walked off the path. We laughed together as we searched for bears. Rio and Sia, playing in the garden. 

Then there was Rocco, and Rocco was new. And now he is one, and turned one in June or July, and I can't believe I don't know which. Rocco is Rio's brother, and he is very intelligent. He likes to communicate, and copy you. He is the newest member of the family. Rio grabbed Rocco by the head, quite viciously, but I guess that's brotherly affection. 

There was Rio at the Mill Hill park dog show, where he played on the bouncy castle. There was Rio walking in the park, just a few weeks ago, and we walked and picked berries off the bushes. 

You want to remember specific things they've said. Rocco has yet to say words, really, but he's definitely communicating. 

Once, Rio was dribbling, and I asked him why, and he said, "I like to dribble!"

The kids are funny. 

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Saint Lucia

Tamsin and the book

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Edited by Daniel Best, Tuesday, 29 Sep 2020, 12:02

Hi there, 

And this morning I am sounding off about a curious and perplexing nuance that has graced my relationship to a girl whom I often claim to be my girlfriend, Tamsin. She will never read this, unless she suddenly becomes computer savvy, or if I suddenly die and my blog posts are somehow made available, but I'm not going to badmouth her - she's lovely. 

She read my book. I gave her a copy of the manuscript, and she read it, and now, in short, when I talk to her, he voice is filled with pity and ... some other emotion that I fail to pinpoint. 

Yesterday I had my final wisdom tooth extracted, and Tamsin was supposed to visit in the afternoon to print off some tracking slips for her Ebay buisness. But when the time came to it, I was out of it, my face was swollen and numb, and all I could do was sleep. So I postponed the visit. But when I did, she said, "Okay, I won't come over today because you're..." Yes, Tamsin, I'm.. "Because you're ill." 

I'm not ill, Tamsin, I've had my tooth out, and my face is numb, and I want to sleep. 

She has read my book, and that means I've let her into my life. Previously, she saw me as the worldly, intelligent and creative person I made out I am, and now she sees me as... ill. 

It is a strange and perplexing nuance of our relationship. She has read my book, and now, somehow, someway, she thinks she is better than me. Or somehow has some insight into my life that I myself do not have. But there is nothing in my book that I wrote that I am not aware of. Something she has read has given her a sense of superiority. Perhaps this is just an occupational hazard, but I tell you, I find it so interesting. There is something in my book that has been outlined, that has answered a question in her own mind, that has been unsettled for so long. And now she's read it, she thinks she has to pity me. 

I am so giddy to see her. She is visiting this afternoon. 

Myself, I like to be able to say the issue, and have done with it in one sentence. I'm likely to say, "You shouldn't pity me, Tamsin," and just say it like that. But perhaps I shouldn't be so explicit. However, her new manner is an unnerving and disconcerting feature of her behaviour. Although, it could be a good thing. Perhaps she will be more understanding, or something, or more motherly, or more likely to want to have sex with me. I am so giddy to see her - to put plain this curious nuance of her new manner. 

Perhaps I should merely go with it. That is, watch her new expressions, as she deals lightly with my ways, and pities me as I do everything in the same way as I have done since I have known her. 

But what's curious is what was in the book that made her seem this way? What particular sentence did she read that caused her to have this new and surprising superiority over me? It may have been my chapter about God, or it may have been that part when I've come home to my parents, hammer in trench-coat. Perhaps... perhaps she has found a new reason to fear me. Perhaps that, and she is afraid of me, afraid of what I'm capable of. 

Perhaps she just knows me in a new way, different than how she knew me previously. 

I'm so giddy to see her. 

She often changes her manner, from phone-call personality to in-person personality, and so maybe the difference will be slight. And I suppose I should be happy that my book has changed somebody. And, like I say, perhaps it will be an occupational hazard of having written a book, that people will read, and find things our about me, that should be left in the cupboard. Yet, at least we will be able to talk about the book. She will give me back the manuscript, and give me that look, like, "I know about you!" She will laugh, with the feminine shyness of an Irish imp, like she did that other time when we watched porn together. 

In short, does she now pity me? Has the book answered questions about me that she once had? Is she right or wrong? Can she trust me? 

I'm so giddy to see her. 



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Saint Lucia

My neighbour, John

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Edited by Daniel Best, Sunday, 27 Sep 2020, 21:30


Not good. It's that feeling again, where I've had a very nice day, and I've done something different, and the whole day has been turned upside down. 

Up until I made dinner at six o'clock everything was going fine. I made dinner, and now that my neighbour John has clocked on to the fact that I'm quite a good cook, he expects me to make him a prawn curry every Sunday. 

John is quite an unpleasant person. He's been inside several times, that is, inside prison. Today he was telling me about his conviction as a sex offender, how once several years ago, he was in an argument at the local shop, with a female who didn't like his dog, and he got angry and "flicked her boob". He was taken to court to get a sentence and they told him he had to go on the sex offenders register for five years. We were talking about if flicking someone's boob is a bad thing to do. Obviously it is. But he seems to think it's okay. 

He's this huge motherfucker, like a real dumb fucker, who can sometimes be tolerable. But today he outstayed his welcome. He really is an antisocial person, and has no idea whatever how to conduct himself in day to day living. The problem is, he's not a bad person really, but he believes things about himself that simply aren't true. I mean, I guess we all do, in a way, but to assume that somehow you are clever, or smart, or intelligent in one way or another, well that would entail that you have read a book or two, or know how to solve an equation or something. It's not that he is thick, but maybe, maybe I'm the one who is deluded there. He really is quite thick. 

He says that he's been to university, and i believe him, purely on the grounds that he claims to have done two years of a sports science degree, and never completed it. I do not know how he did that, it beggars belief. 

The man claims to be emotional. He is constantly being banned from facebook for his lewd conduct against women, and yes, he is not very nice to those. He has done time for assaulting a woman, during which time his mother died. I knew his mother. She was a small Irish lady who would walk her dog. I would sometimes talk to her. John thinks about his mother a lot, and he likes to sing songs, and he is very overbearing. He outstayed his welcome tonight. I made him curry, and he sat there in the front room drinking a beer and being belligerent, and obtuse. 

There's times when I can put up with John, and I don't mind him that much. But I have realised that he is partly to blame for the way I feel at the moment. And it's embarrassing for me, because I have to come online and spill my guts about things I would rather not face, and do so in public. John will never see this, so I could effectively say anything I liked about him. But in a way, I want to help him, although John is beyond help. He is an alcoholic, mildly. That is, he likes a drink and spends most of his free time watching television and drinking. He really is beyond help. He does nothing with his life. 

It's just so hard to communicate with stupid people. They're too thick to realise they can't communicate properly. John really has no brains, and nothing to say, and that's the worst combination with a guy like myself, who is patient and understanding, and quite naïve. He'll come in and be burly and obnoxious, and you just have to laugh. I laugh nervously, and I get put out of my rhythm and can't get it back. That's why I have to come here to complain. 

Some days are good. But I have a sensitive brain. What does John want from me? He wants people to be nice to him, but he's never nice to anybody. He really is an unpleasant person. It's hard to keep your distance from someone when they live within a stone's throw of you. I would have come to blows with him many times, for his meanness and obnoxiousness, and rudeness and obtuseness. But I have to live with him. 

I know why he comes round. He wants to make himself feel good, and this is the problem with people with no self esteem. They have to bully you and make a noise, and a loud noise, until you can't hear yourself think. 

John was laughing at an internet video, which is so base and irrelevant, where there's a naked woman in the bathroom, then a man's arse comes and farts, and he loves it. It's so frustrating. 

I wish he would read a book. If he could do that one thing, it would change his life forever. He would have something to say, and something to say that would compensate for the shit he talks, which is quite a lot. He will tell me what he saw on television, and claim to have something to say. He will claim to have an opinion about coronavirus, and the conspiracy theories, and I just haven't got it in me to engage him in a discussion about it. He is so obnoxious. 

And here I am wasting my time, trash-talking my obnoxious neighbour, because he's done something to my brain in the mode in which I have allowed him to believe himself my intellectual equal. He's not. But I have a way of making stupid people think they have a braincell rattling around in their brain. And I keep saying, I feel sorry for him, and I don't mind making him prawn curry. But for fuck sake, John! Lad, read a book, for fuck sake. Your brain is rotten from MTV, and being nasty to your girlfriend, who lives in Manchester, and who talks to you on the phone. God she must be as bad as you.  

You are not clever, John, I am sorry. You are just loud, obnoxious, abrasive, rude, and thoughtless. And I wish I didn't have to say this, but I do, I have to, because that's the way things are. 

I'm glad you're a sex offender, John, but sometimes, boy, I wish you were in prison. 

That's it, there's nothing more to say. 

Love from Daniel. 


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Saint Lucia

The promise of the past

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It's a hello from me, and hope you are well, 

A recurrent theme for me at present appears to be manifested in the form of an observation as to my life, that there is scant circumstance, and for fun, and for storytelling. But what if this situation was just the ticket? What if it was just what the doctor ordered? What if, as once evidenced in a solitary happenstance on the fields of Green Park one Saturday afternoon in 2005, I am actually quite boring? 

Then I would actually and most probably be in the mode of being most likened to any other self respecting sane person - that is, in a state of happiness. Do not take issue with this fact. For I am sure I am like many others, and such others as, you may have seen, are happy as the proverbial pig in shit. Do not mock me for my tediousness, for I am like the Caribbean pirates, and Dickensian plot-drivers, and heart-essence that gets at least a modicum of American ghostbusting television shows their viewership. I am a ghost. 

The year has shot by, and now it is September, and nearly October, and the weather drops in temperature, and the nights draw in, and evenings are more peaceful. And I should not forget the essence of the season, that after a stiflingly hot summer, we are content to watch such changes, and from the comfort of our homes. You have to appreciate the fact that in being encouraged to confine ourselves from fear of infections, at least we are warm inside. At least the world will move on all about us, and at least we are digitally connected. And in light of such connection, we can appreciate the delight that now, we are content to keep sparse our communications. That is, we keep them sparse in the sense of necessity, and only working life gets to have the key. And this is fine. Boring, but fine. 

For me, today marked the first of the really chilly days, the day that tells you of looming winter. And I know that for some, such days bring about a cause for complaint. It must be observed however, that this year we may not have the chance! For me, this time of year brings back memories of old days, being that I was born in the winter months, and have always had reason to look forward to them. People will want to complain, but they won't be able to, for we must keep inside in any case. But I will not have such need, and am yet anxious to extend the sensations and feelings I have at these days, as they draw colder, and become darker, and I can pull close the curtains earlier and earlier. 

It is good, that I am fully off everything, except those things on which I have to be. And even those things I have become used to. Some have spoken about their desire to re-enter that world of inner recreational strangeness, and I say, let them have it. I talk of old friends and, as I myself am seated at the entrance to phase one of true old age, I sit there with calm recollection. 

One good old boy sought to reengage, to a welcoming reception, with my life, and I suppose that is one happenstance. This is the construct of aging men's world's, that it all relies on past friends who have gone their happy ways, and returned, and just in the nick of time to regenerate the feelings that we used to have, and it makes me happy. It makes me happy that such subtle nuances of middle age can affect us so deeply, and make us pensive and nostalgic. The boy was our drummer. He has not been in touch for many years, and we worry about him. Yet for all our worry, there is nothing much to be worried about. For he is still that good old boy, to me, to all those who know him. He spoke to my mother, and mother called me, and I contacted him, and... the old boy has not changed. 

We took acid together, Nick and I. I have a sudden recollection of this specific instance once when, at the woods, when all our friends were there, and our girlfriends, and the music, it all got a bit much. His missus at the time, Sarah, she was closing down the hatches, and making the old boy very concerned... too concerned. She would fuss and mollycoddle, and bring up all kinds of unnecessary motherly feelings for Nick. And then the old boy got his hatches closed in - you could see it. It all got too much for him; he was under too much stress, getting confused with all the negative attention. Who needs it? In any case, the good old boy fell down to his knees, and then a whole crowd of them gathered around, fussing and mollycoddling, and I knew the old boy needed his space. All I can remember is the big man Eugene, getting in on the scene, with his big face and big concerns and I shouted... "FUCK OFF!!" It was all getting too much, and everyone went quiet. 

I suppose that little outburst is a cause of some personal embarrassment to me, myself. I often wonder if it changed their perceptions of me, these little friends. But I thought they might understand. Nick just needed his space. 

He still needs his space, I'm sure. One phone call, out of the blue, and after all these years, well, perhaps it's not enough to assume that the boys are back. But I know we want it. I know we want nothing more. People like me and Adam, we just want our band back. 

And I told Adam, it's not your responsibility to save Nick. We have to take him at face value. We have to let him drive everything. Nick is sensitive, and so are you. I could tell Adam was perturbed by the resurfacing of the good old boy, and I knew he wanted to reach out, to tell Nick he is loved, and that he is forgiven. But Adam is not good at that. When Adam wants to help someone, what happens is that he ends in the mode of destroying the person. Because in truth, it's Adam who wants the help. 

Adam, in fact, has a lot of untapped rage within him. He claims to have dealt with it, yet I know he really wants to lash out. Well, maybe lash out is not the right term. He is very sensitive. Adam wants to return all the pain he has had in his life, and instead of having the chance what has happened is that people who have hurt him have petered out and dissipated and there's no one to shout at. Now, Nick is not exactly back on the scene, but the good old boy represents something special to Adam, who wants to make Nick understand something about him. I shouldn't psychologize about it really, because sometimes I don't understand Adam, and perhaps Adam has tapped into some things that I myself wish that Nick understood. 

Do I resent Nick? It wouldn't be fair if I did. What I can however safely say I do resent is my own reactions to his personal behaviour when those good things did appear to be happening, at the time. I resent my own inability - not to control Nick, but to befriend him so that we could have made something of the band. I know, there's more to life than the band. But I had dreams like anybody else, and we were good. I have had the dreams of beautiful nights in the club, playing to the mosh-pit that heaved under the crunch of our deep, happy grunge. It hurts that me that I couldn't see it for myself. Things could have been so different. 

Adam is like me. He wants to shout at Nick to tell him WAKE UP!! THERE'S STILL TIME!! But curse the good old boy for his unconscious taunting. There's nothing more we can do. 

It is what it is. And that is the reality of the situation. Life, like the changing of the seasons, is turning, and from a physical entity into a subtle remonstrance of the past. When you can see this happening, you are already at a loss to prevent it, because in many ways you yourself have brought this about, and in the end it is what you wanted. But it happened. The lives of the youths, that they lead so carefree and even deep into maturity, you can sense that they are a million miles away now. You can see it when you look around, and even all the old people can't see you, because you are not attractive any more. You know you are not attractive, because you yourself have lost the attraction to those youths, that you once were. You have come through the problems of sex. You have come through the problems of popularity. You have reached the other side, and now it is time to reflect, and undulate in your maturity. 

This is phase one of true old. I suppose I am welcoming it, like welcoming back the promise of the past. 



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Saint Lucia

Christ in the Throes, and meandering about the unconscious

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Best to you, and welcome in. 

Hello, and several issues are playing on my mind at this hour of twelve midnight. It's not good enough, I tells thee - for well into my thoroughly and honed sleep regime was I when it occurred to me that, well, not a fair few misconceptions about these said issues are rife on the planet. And I think that the blueprint of these issues could be better looked at, and perhaps, like my sleep regime, thoroughly honed. 

The year is 2020, and the world is rife with concerns that we may at any minute be swept away into eternal rest by a deadly virus. Coronavirus! It has activated us all into a normalised mode of life, and we are yet conditioned into a way of such life, and yet! I am not a conspiracy theorist. 

But it is interesting. 

I suppose we would like facts, when responsibly theorizing conspiratorially, and yet I have few of these. I am not a political commentator, and not a historian. I am however a schizophrenic. Although, perhaps I needn't have been; perhaps that diagnosis was not "God-given"? In any case, here I sit, at my desk in my study, alone, that is, without a single other person to distract my mind, and yet, even in the world. That is, there are never the seven billion people on this planet - I don't believe it. There's just me, my mother and father, my sister and brother, my nephews and niece, their parents, my ever loving girlfriend, and one or two friendly people who I know. I understand them to exist, within the constructs of who I am as we speak, that is, the version of myself into which I continually awaken. Is it any wonder that there are seven levels of hell, seven levels of heaven, and three levels of evolution. Everything that could be said about the world, everything that can ever be known, well, everything in those senses is known to me, and furthermore, in the process of an education. Therein lies the secret of institution. (Yet I dare not intellectualise on these matters, for one must keep a thread). Coronavirus. 

So, factless and lacking political information, I proceed. 

I want to say, there are people who seem to think about the illuminative designs apparent on financial receipts (legal tender), especially those in the US, are those designs of man, and therefore strangely enough a design that could be made up by man alone. This triangle with the eye in it... the all seeing eye... why do they call it satanic? These people with their machinations about the top of the hierarchy being somehow the source of all evil, well, I fail to see how such things make any sense. And yet, the entire thing brings us subtly or otherwise to Christ! Perhaps I will remain open about my thoughts on that. Perhaps I will suggest a respectful privacy on the part of the reader. Those days of evangelism are long gone; nobody believes these things anymore. And yet, what use would it be were I to explain here the experiences which I have had?

What use indeed! 

Well, Sam Harris has called The Bible "Bullshit", and has done in the most off handed way. Everyone knows Sam Harris. The atheist? And David Deutsch. The atheist! In one sense I think it is relaxing to know these top intellectuals are atheists, and I could claim the same. I don't believe God would like that, though, and in my heart of hearts, I must say, I am a believer. In the same paragraph I express a concern for respect of my privacy, and I certainly wish I was good enough to activate the most succinct surreptitiousness. Yet, I am busting my nut to express the things I really want to express. 

Was coronavirus planned? The conspiracy theorists and I differ on the intricacies of this matter. For they would claim the existence of a satanic society, that controls everything. But I am a mere man, here, alone in my study, at my desk, and only a nuance of the representatives of the old age in my mind. Happily, mind you, do I sit. And yet with an urgency that is bonded in desire to express what I need to express. 

There is no such society. Man alone cannot hope to activate such a new world order. But we must remember, that vulgarity is meagre, and subtlety is key, and if you are reading this now, I hope you understand my mind when I claim that, in response to these conspiracy theorists, there is no such society. There is, however, a man, sitting at his desk in his study, trying to think about how best to put his point. 

What we need is a blueprint. And such a blueprint can be found in the deepest recesses within. Imagine we had an oracle! And an oracle that could tell us the outcome of every experiment we ever thought to undertake! We would never need to experiment, and I thank Deutsch for the insight to claim that we have such an oracle!! It is the world itself. And the world can be understood, and we have now a philosophy for the concept of A.G.I. (artificial general intelligence), and we have our computers. And, in the seventh level of heaven, we have the internet, and we have the written word and thought! Perhaps thought is not the absolute ending of human experience, or perhaps it is just the beginning. There is an infinite world, and not merely by conjecture alone, but there is a way the world works. Let me put these matters into context. Let me say these matters, in words. 

Let me outline the point, which may or may not have been lost along the discourse. Everything is true. And as we sit here, in our infinite wisdom, while all others in the planet are doomed to idiocy by our very intelligence, our mind is content in reading the words of a university student who seems perturbed by some or other issue which fails to come to meaningful fruition, by means of a point. The point is, we should not imagine Satan to be sitting there at the top of the seventh level of heaven, no! We should imagine that it is God! And it is God, yet not by any lay modicum. I'm talking about the fact that there must be people who have been privy to His Plan. They must, rather than have planned the atrocities and pandemics, well they must have known through the infinite copies of the system, of the thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, that are to tell us, through human logic - that is, the human logic of the unconscious mind, which in infinite terms is fully knowledgeable. Fully wise, fully capable of seeing infinity! 

And yet here I am, a man at his desk in his study, looking at a screen, with full capacity for thoughts, and a well meaning heart. I am a dear. And yet, I have not expressed everything which the blueprint requires - or have I? 

David Deutsch, with his exposition of the infinite worlds of quantum mechanics, may have a point. He may say the point better than I ever could, and why not? Artificial general intelligence is a matter of philosophy. Philosophy is a matter of thought. No amount of science will bring about a computer that is self aware, but we could have a human who is aware that he is a computer. We are so rich in humanity, that it could even be a forthcoming enlightenment. Worse things have happened at sea! 

And to hear, that we are coming into an age in which we are afraid, is to hear that we must be controlled. At current we are controlled by the virus. It is up to us to be happy about it. 

Watch television. Watch netflix, amazon prime, youtube, facebook posts, and have a beer. There is only you. Only you and God. Look at your life, as I wish I could see your life. I can only see my own life, yet I have never seen myself, and that is for your pleasure, and for you to treasure the experience. This world is your story. There may or may not be issues to awaken to, and there may be secrets in your life, and there may or may not be God in your life. There may be only a technological program at the heart of everything there is, and would that not be devastating? You are these people, these noisy drivers with their engines and tears, and pit bulls. There may be quiet trees, and friends with travel tales, and your mother may still be the only one to have the capacity to bring you to anger, and your father may be the blueprint of your brother, and there may or may not be a heaven. And yet, is there a heaven? Do they eat meat in heaven, and do they drink beer? Do they smoke continuously, and drink coffee, and think of science and mathematics, and yearn to speak to their maker? Are there people in heaven, talking to God? Is the New World Order suiting you well without your religious leanings to make bored the strangers you talk to in your mind? For we have a thousand and five hundred followers, yet only three people who we actually give a shit about. The world works, and not without you. But the world will work without you, and with or without your thousand followers. And there are only three people who give a shit about you. 

I struggle to say what I need to express. I hope that there is a chip, that exists somewhere deep within the cosmos, that can translate out to someone in the world who isn't a complete disappointment as I. I hope someone gives a shit, and I hope that the one spirit in heaven is made of all types of avatar. And I hope that my consciousness persists into eternity, and I hope eternity is borne on the waves of the quantum of time. I hope Planck existed, and Einstein existed, and I hope there are real people, and that we can access the thoughts we have when we are sleeping. I hope I wake tomorrow with a touch more intelligence and wisdom than I had today. I hope I am more economical, and I hope that the Christ in the throes was not just a mere joke. I hope the blueprint is considered readable by at least one or two high minded people, and more. I hope it, and some. 

And as I close now, I hope that my point was sufficiently subtle enough to have embedded itself at the heart of your unconscious, and there it is, and there we have it. 




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Saint Lucia

Overview of a dream

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Hello, and hi and how are you?

There I was having lost my phone within the studios of the secret art factory, and having been privy in this society by some historical route, that was that I was at the mean, and there was a cavity - a cabinet - and I found the cabinet, and it had some papers inside it. And the papers had notes written on it that had been written in 1981 - except it couldn't have been 1981, for then i was so young, so it must have been 1991, and the notes pointed to a memory. This memory was a scout master's presentation of some nature concerns - perhaps a link to the planting of a tree, and yes, perhaps that. 

And then the master was giving a talk in some community hall, and the full room listened adoringly. And then afterwards, I spoke to the man, who here was Weinstein, and I told him, "You are like Isaac Newton in your own head. And by "in your own head" I mean "in your own head"!! And then I was allowed in the society. 

And then in the society, I was given a canvas - a huge blank canvas. Except the canvas had on it the picture of American president Abraham Lincoln, and free reign was I given to paint over it, and I did, and was in the society to make this art, and there were others - other artists - at their stations, and one was able to go about and use any paint to make your own art, and paint on any canvas, and use any paint brush, or any colour, and be influenced by any way. 

And there were scenes; different scenes, and different characters, and different masters. And I was able to paint these scenes and change them in any manner in which I saw fit. And my favourite scene at first was that in which the scene was the muppets, and these characters in puppet form, in a scene of utter beauty:- that of the surroundings of wooden childhood, and I tried to enhance the scene by somehow trying to make the puppets bigger, by putting them higher, and they fell, fell behind the pianos and tabletops and then the next scene. 

I placed my phone down, and was brought to another canvas, and painted on it. The place here was a huge bunker, and very easy to be lost within. Then a girl from another world told me some joke, and it was very funny in its own way, and then another girl, from another world, shouted, "I've lost my phone!" Then I knew I had to find my phone. 

But before I searched for my phone a master here brought me to a place and said, "Open your mind!". And then the scenery was so vivid and clear - clearer than any scene I have ever seen in reality or dreaming, and I knew I had to represent this image, but there are no clear objects within it. The only clear object I have to go by is the here and now, in reality, that reality which is the immediate reality, yet it was in a dream. 

And then I did go on a search for my phone. And I found the lower echelons of the bunker. A television broadcast was taking place in which there was a muppet dog doing some children's show, and there and then I went to my left. And my paintbrush was still in my hand, yet bunged up with thick paint, and soon I realised I was on a boat, at the edge of the water - at the rear of the boat, where the water was so close, and I dipped in my brush and cleaned it, and was fluid once more, then went back inside the boat, water to the front and right. 

And there were a line of strangers, all in some echelon of realms, pulling like rowers on the rope of the painted road and its yellow, truculent lines, marking some boundary - and they rowed. Yet although they seemed like in some kind of tortuous hellish scene, they were happy to live in this echelon, and the light of consciousness took me through the night. 

So I woke up, and the world in the darkness of my room was painted like a canvas and I was able to follow the light of consciousness and did so, into the bathroom, and past the sleeping cat at the edge of my bed. So I realised, as I used the bathroom that my life is some kind of art, and you know I almost forgave myself for the terrible things I have done, for it could be seen that I have done them all in the name of art. 


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Saint Lucia

Cosmic thinking in the human body, society and the universe.

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Yah sas, and Kalimera! 

There is, I think, something certainly cosmic about the world in which we live. I do not know if this cosmic nature extends to every place in the universe at any one time. For example, to look at the world from perhaps a naive point of view, you might see that there is, in effect, a type of "biological" essence to various realms. The realms I am considering are all areas of the world, such as from the biology of the human body and that of the animal kingdom, through the political and social scene of the world in which we live, all the way up to the far reaches of the universe, that is, off and out into space. 

To begin with, in terms of the far reaches of the universe, into which we can see some 14 billion light years across, it is natural to think of this realm as indeed cosmic. We initially see it as static and infinite. We see it, in a sense, as self-regulating, and nothing biological about it. 

We may see, in the closer-to-home realms such as those in society, in a naive way, that there is a biological essence at play. When we look at the way social dynamics works within interactions, and we sense either the freedom or indeed the lack of it in those interactions, we sense that there is an expansive nature which is bereft of infinity or eternity. And the notion of death and time come into play here. 

When it comes to the human body, well, herein lies the entirety of our understanding of the "biological" essence of things. We sense it because, in being human and having experienced this from as long as we remember, and in being aware of pain and sadness, not to mention happiness and pleasure, we call these feelings natural, and our cue to know humanity. Humanity is by definition biological. 

However, whereas our primordial intuitions of our universe (in terms of its far reaches) are to consider it to be a cosmic entity, having studied a little into the ideas of physics one can tend to achieve a more rounded sense of world view as to its increasingly finite capacity. That is, when we know a little about the features of astronomy, such as space, time, stars, planets and black holes, and we apply the worldly physics of thermodynamics to those features, it becomes all the clearer to come to a view of our universe as more and more biological. That is, the universe loses just a little of its cosmic mystique, and in a sense its fleeting finitude becomes so much more evident. The notions of infinity and eternity, in terms of our naive understanding, ebb away, and we become so much more aware how we must be careful not to take it for granted. 

Yet having said that, the biological essence that we take evident in our daily social lives could also be given to assume something of a cosmic view. If we take into consideration all the things that tend to force the biological sense upon us - the fact of interactions, the fact of death, the fact of anger and love and all those emotions - and consider them for what they really are, which are devices, we can see that these devices are in play to ensure a fluid social mechanics. Admittedly, this may be a metaphysical concern, yet it appears to me that the cosmic intuitions we have about the far reaches of the universe can be interchanged with the biological intuitions we have about the society in which we live. Effectively, it is no longer biological "in here" any more than it is cosmic "out there". 

I tend to suspect that a type of quantum mechanical feature is at play here. For example, the outside universe may be cosmic when we look at it and biological otherwise, and vice versa for the immediate social scene. In any case, the point is there. But when it comes to the human body, this idea is a matter of psychosomatic medicine, psychology and well being. Perhaps everything is in fact cosmic, as you might believe if you are of a religious leaning. However, my thoughts on this topic come from a vast idea with which I have been imbued, or the universe that must be cared for and protected, and respected and understood. 

Therein lies the tale! 




Permalink 1 comment (latest comment by Jan Pinfield, Sunday, 23 Aug 2020, 08:38)
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Saint Lucia

A day in Mill Hill

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Blogging, and blogging.

Hi how are you? I'm frustrated. Perhaps it's the heat, perhaps it's something deeper and real. But whatever it is I shouldn't feel the need to be cathartic about it, because I just ranted about it to my girlfriend (fuck it, I'm calling her my girlfriend) for about twenty minutes over the phone.  

When covid-19 hit... in fact I'll go further back... before covid-19 hit, I have to say, I did not enjoy living in society. I'm sure I'm not the only one who felt it, but there was a belligerence, a tension and an antagonism evident everywhere you went - even in the town I live. I have several examples of times when I had to suffer the brunt of someone's internal insecurity, whether that would be coming from the attitudes of the right in terms of Brexit, in which their fear of a changing society would culminate in aggression, or whether it would come from their, admittedly ignored, psychological issues about their own sexuality. I have to admit, I'm happy in my sexuality. I have had problems, and perhaps these would be tedious to explain, but when I see others - closeted, undisclosed in their internal outlook about sex - I am bored by it. Bored because this problem they are having is none of my business; it is their issue; I have dealt with mine. Deal with it by yourself. So if I happen to walk by and you see that I am a happy person, living in the outside world, that has nothing to do with you. I'm not saying I don't want you to have dealt with your problems - because I do! I want you to know who you are, and not be deluded into lies that you have been led to believe by whatever algorithms you find yourself in submission to. If you think you are "sussed" in life, that you have everything in life "sorted", and then I walk into your view, and you can clearly see that there are things you have not dealt with, that is not my problem. I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not going to look at you and say, "There goes a bright man, with all his issues in hand," when all I see is a child who is too afraid to face up to himself, and say the things to himself he needs to say. If you're not there, you're not there. 

Perhaps I am a little arrogant in this matter. Perhaps I don't have everything under control. Perhaps that is true. The thing is that I like the truth, and I know things that other people don't naturally know, because I have worked to know them. I know, they think their intelligent. And maybe on some human level they are. But I don't know who they are, so how can I explain to them that they haven't worked as hard as me to know the things I know. These are very basic people. It doesn't apply to everyone. But those people to whom it does apply, I'm sorry but you're going to have to read a hell of a lot of books to catch up with me, because you're of a certain age, and I'm not going to bow down to you to recognise you for the things you have thought or learned or thought you learned, when really there is a whole other universe of knowledge that you have not yet realised even the existence of. I'm sorry. You don't get to look this smart by watching Game of Thrones, or drinking every night, and fucking your girlfriend every night. You'll have good things, don't worry. You'll have a wife, and you'll have your job, and you'll have your children. It's just that, personally, I am not interested in that life. I am not interested in you. So don't take your aggression out on me and try to communicate that I owe you something or that I should in some way look up to you. Because I find you very sad. I'm sorry. 

So, when covid-19 hit, in a way, I was glad. Society changed, and people like the sort of which I describe were no longer able to assert their masculinity in the way they had before, because by law we weren't allowed within two metres of each other. Society was sparse, there was respect, and people gave each other space. There were few people on the streets. And I was glad because I could finally go outside and never have to worry about these aggressive apes getting in my face about things. By law you couldn't do it. It must have been very frustrating to them. 

Yet it seems that my happiness in this matter has been very short lived, because four months later it is as if we have learned nothing. You can't go outside without this evident antagonism from all sides. It's as if you're being challenged by people for walking down the road. I'm trying not to say it, but it is too tempting, and I know that deep down, somewhere in the pit of your heart, you have realised you are homosexual. I'm not saying that you'll have to come out and go down to Soho and have anal sex with the first man you meet. But on some level, you have thought about it, and you are guilty of thinking about it, and we know. I'm sorry. Just don't take it out on me. I've dealt with it. I'm happy in my sexuality. 

I know. You now think you have to fight everyone about it. You now have made it everyone else's problem. But it's your problem, and that's life, and you have to deal with it. 

Look at you. You're sixteen years old. You think you're some kind of gangster. My friend's, we live in Mill Hill in north London. There is no gangland here. There's an elderly community here, just up the road. Do you think you will get away with looking at people in the way you're looking at them, and not get your arse kicked? Wake up. We are humans. We don't care what hole you want to put your little willy inside. Deal with it on your own, like the rest of us had to. Don't take it out on me. Don't spoil society like it owes you something. 

Anyway, in short, I think the social bliss that was apparent for four months here in Mill Hill was very short lived indeed. Perhaps it's the heat, perhaps it's a seasonal sensation. But for a while we were there. Maybe we'll get a few more months of relative peace out of the situation, but rest assured it is coming back and within ten years we can expect to live in gangland Mill Hill, and covid will hit again and we'll have to go through the whole thing once again. What a shame. 

Rant over. 



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Saint Lucia

What about the kids, man?

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Hi, how are you, and hello. 

What are we going to do about our kids, man? Are they becoming feral in the wake of lockdown rules? How will they adjust to going back to school? 

You can imagine they might become the delinquents of the future, and call themselves the "Covid Kids", or the "coronavirus era punks" or something much better. I'm worried, I tell you. Because whilst all the teachers are having the time of their lives, acting like they are on holiday, these kids are not getting an education. It is something we must ultimately think about carefully. There is going to be a whole generation of uneducated people, who will blame it on the "Covid-19 lockdown era education lapse." We need to reach out right now. It's not as though we are bereft of educational facilities, now is it?  

What are we going to do about our kids? 

I haven't yet personally seen many examples of outrageous delinquent behaviour, and I suspect that's because we have all had to share the difficulty of quarantine, etc. And there will be a great deal of youngsters who are able to keep up with the curriculum. But not every child is a "nerd" and willing to do home study. I'm just worried we're going to have to deal with a slump, in the form of a generational education gap. What are these kids doing for inspiration? Is government thinking about them, or has it forgotten about them? 

Whereas if this situation had happened to me when I was in the final years of high school I would have probably gone into a great life sleep, perhaps (and I hope) we are wiser now, and perhaps we can deal with it. 

Yet I predict that there will be something akin to a quantum mechanical "doping hole" that will appear in the system, and there will be nothing to blame but the state of the age. This hole will move up the generations like a bubble in a tube, and have detrimental effects on progress of society, and finance, and politics. They'll be completely left out. The country will suffer. 

I personally believe that now is the time to gather up our senses, and engage enough that we deal with this foreseeable issue, by making education a priority over, say, what we're going to do for our holidays. Because it is evident that there will be a residual effect not only in educational capabilities, but also attitudes to education. An entire section of our society are not getting an education. And, without blaming them, it will only turn out to be a disaster if we don't appreciate what is happening with our kids. 

In addition to this, the whole of the above needn't be an issue, in light of the fact that we have the entirety of human knowledge at our fingertips. So, provided parenting is not at risk of jeopardising the future of this anomaly of society, we'll be alright. But education should be a main concern. 

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