How to be a fully conscious human being

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My dream begins way back in the night, and at my folks house, and, at the earliest point I can remember, I am looking for my socks.

My folks are leaving - for a shopping trip, or for a weekend away - and I am in a hurry to get down to the library. But I have to leave soon, or the door will be closed behind me. I also need to find my jumper.

My parents have left. I have failed to find my socks in time, and I have not found my jumper. In the living room there is light from cars arriving, and young people begin to arrive for a party that is happening since my parents are going away. Eugene has turned up and there are more people here - girls and ravers.

I go into the back room, and there is a ravertard talking about physics - in particular, momentum. I say to him (among an audience) that momentum is velocity dependent on mass, and I talk about velocity having a hidden property, and I write down the equation for velocity on the board. That is a section of the dream.

Then Eugene is leaving for some reason or other, and I ask him for a lift to the library; the library which I could easily have got there in a quicker time had I gone alone. Eugene says jump in; we go - he drives backwards, and goes the long way around; I am annoyed about that. Yet it turns out that the long way is in fact a short cut to the library - however, along the way Eugene is pulled over by a cop, and I must leave the car, and consequently do.

I am in the local park, and I find an alternative path to the library, which involves going past and via a certain underpass, that leads to a supermarket behind which (or, at least, down some secret paths) there is backdoor, and stairs, and, with the help of a young woman, I somehow stumble upon a secret level that has a staircase that leads to an underground and secret entrance into the library. I go in.

It is closing time at the library. The librarian has given me the grace to search for the book I am wishing to borrow. I go to the appropriate section of the library, and I find the shelf I need. Meanwhile, with the library about to close, the librarian has been expecting me, so that I am asked to spend some time watching a video about myself. The video is played on a small television, and a classroom of children have gathered to watch, and the video is intended to incriminate me on some level.

The video plays and is a series of scenes in which I have been secretly filmed in incriminating circumstances in different dreams. So for example, there is a scene in which I have been in the park, and have taken a shit in the bushes, and there were a line of people walking by all the time, and the cameraman has been filming me. I can see that I have been caught. And there are several scenes like this, and, once the video has finished, we can see there is a scene within the library in which the class have taken to drama lessons. At once, we see that there is a single member of the class who stands out, whilst the others take to acting, and this person receives a nasty smack on the face, from some chavvy young lady. It turns out the recipient is black, and that the attack was racist, and she goes and cries - that is, she acts like she is crying, yet she is really crying in reality.

And then Boris Johnson, who is familiar with incrimination on a daily basis, is in the library. There is a short time before closing. He himself stands upon the raised stage area, and I am directed to a letter that has been framed upon the wall. I do not know who has written it, though perhaps Boris. I read the letter.

Then I wish to find my book, before closing. But the science section is hard to find, and all I can find is the law section, and the legal philosophy books there. It contains books I have already read, but am anxious to start. It is closing time.

The library closes and I am inside. It then transpires that there is a secret "after-hours" club with several juiced in members dotted around the library. I walk around. I find Tamsin sitting there, and she is nonplussed that I have found her: I never knew she was such a dark horse. She is reading on the floor. I am part of the club now. I think my own sister is here.

But now it is time to leave. I go into an underground passage, and find myself in the stairwell behind the supermarket from before. The lady from before is there as well, and we are having difficulty finding the right stairs to the right level. But eventually we find the right level. We go home.

Daniel.

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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.

Regards,

Daniel

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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.

Dan

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Tamsin and the book

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Edited by Daniel Frederick 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.

Dan

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