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Saint Lucia

The internet and it's place in the middle of the road.

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Hello... all? 

It's a very strange time for me in my life right now. I'm feeling very sober, very clear headed, yet very lonesome, fatigued and frustrated with the world. There are some things I would like to get off my chest, about this situation that I am in, and whether you read or not, it is not a bother to me. 

I suppose I shall start from the heart - well, I mean, from that which is most immediate. I am fatigued and frustrated by the internet and its nuances. The internet tries to come across as a liberal, forward thinking platform for free thought and free speech. But it is a stifling and toxic environment, and you could probably get cancer from trying too hard to be accepted. In music, especially in the eighties, you used to get all types of 'middle of the road' music - music that was safe and trusted: Genesis, Dire Straights, all the rest. I believe what we are experiencing today is a washout of middle of the road content which all companies, outfits and users try to emulate to ensure they get the ultimate amount of hits, obviously so that it leads to financial gain. But it's had a really deadening effect on the psyche and psychology of mankind. Everybody everywhere is trying to be as middle of the road and safe as possible. There's no true excitement, and the only thing that gives us any true happiness is making an order on Amazon. It is a very dire situation. And I think it's really true. But I don't know what else to say about it. We all try to be as amenable as possible, and worse still, we are blocked by the internet if we try to escape these confines. 

The other thing about the internet is that, not only is it fatiguing and frustrating, but we sit for hours watching clips and videos and memes, and reading comments, and we expect there to be something different from comment to comment. Some threads can have a thousand likes and a thousand comments, but have you ever tried to read past the tenth comment. After the third comment you seem to catch the gist of what is being said on that post, and you wonder why anybody took the time to say anything in the first place. It's hard to take the internet at face value in any case, but the point I'm trying to make is that there's no diversity from comment to comment. You do not need to read a hundred comments by a hundred different people, when the first comment says exactly what the last will say. In addition, it makes one pine for trolls. I miss trolls, I really do! And I would like to be one, but when you're as open-faced online as I am, you may be ostracised or blocked or cancelled. 

But about this point on trolls. For me, it used to be easy to get what I needed from the internet. That's because I was always stoned the whole time, and I could make fun of people, and also not worry about being made fun of myself. So now that I've been over a year free from weed and hash and all things Mary Jane, it's been hard to adjust. And I think that in the beginning, I was up for it. I was totally into the idea in which academia was the ultimate goal, and capitalism and monetary gain, and control were the right things to be into. And I think, in the long run, I'll be alright, especially if I remember to blog my thoughts from time to time. But fuck me is it boring. And it should be boring, that's true, if you want to earn yourself a little cash and live a stress free life - I mean, there's nothing more stressful than being high all the time, and wanting to keep high all the time. But in terms of how I'm adjusting... it's getting to the time of my abstinence from recreational drugs at which I have nearly beaten my record - that is, I'm fourteen months clear. Yet I have been fifteen months clear, so you see that I'm nearly at my record. But I'm starting to flake out. Well, I am and I'm not. I'm pining for a bit of excitement, and I'm busting to troll a few people. Trolling can be political, and can be nuanced and clever, or it can just be fun. I wish I was able to break out a bit more and troll a few more people. 

About this internet nuance: where we are exposed to the entire world's population in text on our phones... You know, it seems on the face of it that there are a lot more people than there actually are. You see in the streets - you walk the streets, and the situation is very much a case of "you and them". That is, it's you, walking the streets, and everybody else. We amalgamate all those people into a machination of illusory imagination. We imagine that the collective human, as the 'other' in society, is balled up into one idea. We think "people will think this of me, or people will think that of me..." But that is an illusion. When you're at the festival, and there are a thousand other people in the crowd, that lead singer is looking out on the entire crowd, and all this cheering emanates from the audience, and it seems like there's a thousand souls all screaming to be entertained. But that is an illusion. There is only one person. It's you. Consciousness is one. Thinking is one. There are not a thousand people, but there is only you. There is one person. So when we see the internet and all the millions of comments and avatars, it's true to say, we don't need them. We only need one person. One person can satisfy a man's needs by saying slightly different things each time, much more than a million people can by saying the one thing over and over again. 

I'm thinking of abandoning the internet. Facebook can do one. Twitter's no better. I don't get Reddit. Itunes is alright though, although listening to CDs is much better, much more enjoyable. And I imagine listening to vinyl is much better than that! 

In short, we need someone to look after us. And by looking after us, I mean we need someone to take care of all our needs. 

I have a girlfriend - although, sometimes I'm sceptical of that. But it's true, she is my girlfriend. I've recently journaled some bad things about her. I mean, they were born of real issues I was having. Like, sometimes I don't like to kiss my girlfriend. It can be spitty and phlegmy and not nice at all. So I said these things, and mind you, I was anxious at the time; full of anxiety and not at all centred. I was agitated, and I get like that at times. I was questioning our relationship. I mean, she should be here, right? She should be here, and not just here for an hour on a Monday afternoon. She should be here, but the question is, do I want her to be here? Perhaps I don't, not really. Perhaps that's why she isn't here, and not a reason on her part at all. But I have things I need to get on with in life, and relationships can get in the way. My cousins all have kids, and so do my sister and brother, but I don't, and in that sense I don't have a life - not in the way it's written to be lived. I can do anything I want. I don't know what I'm saying. I guess I'm saying that I'm having to adjust. 

I'm going to stop there, because that's all I have the energy for. 

But there's more to say. 

Till next time. 



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Saint Lucia

Something to clear up

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Hello, darlings. 

Not my monkeys; not my circus. 

That is the best placative thought that entered my head during the course of last night's failed attempt at a good night's sleep. It very nearly led me into a relaxed state of mind but, by the time it occurred, it was already morning. And now, the day is early and a serious sentiment is rife for the blogging. 

This serious sentiment appears to me as being highly important for the same reasons as I often blog in the past, although those times are usually when I have had a deep and resonant dream, or if I'm worrying about study. I also blog when I've had a perturbing day, or am having a difficult period. And I like to investigate these things, and what better way to investigate than through a personal record? They always come to something. 

Now, I am not a misogynist. At least, I don't see myself as such. I do like to make fun of women, sometimes, as I like to make fun of my friends, and family, and celebrities and politicians. I do not think I am a misogynist. I think I may have said some edgy things about women to certain people, not least one of my best friends, and these have always been tongue in cheek. I don't like it when people talk down to women, or when they talk lowly of women, or when they are vulgar about women... Just like when people are racist - I don't like that. 

And when we interact in society, there is a threshold. With the advent of technological advancement, and social media, etc, we have been conditioned to feel like we have to interact a little more than is strictly necessary. We are actively encouraged to post comments on every news item or other nuance of media; that is, we now feel it is our duty and right to make a comment on whatever topic that is put before us. It is indeed an anomaly. Society is now interactive in a way in which it never used to be, and perhaps we are only getting used to it, or perhaps we have gone down a wrong path. There is no God-given law that says we absolutely have to get involved. This brings about the advent of trolls, and it is a natural progression of technology. I miss the days when we only had four television channels. 

Now, this pandemic, with it's restrictions in the form of social distancing, lockdowns and masks, considerations of hygiene, and conspiracy theories and the vaccines, well, it has encumbered a difficult year. We have had a year of these restrictions and this narrative, in which everybody has been involved. So now that things have recently eased up a little, I guess it's only natural that we should have to relearn to adjust to social interactions.

As soon as the day arrived, I got myself back in the gym, and started going as much as possible. Things seemed to be going well. If you'll remember before the pandemic even began, I think you'll recall that things were slightly tense, and I myself put this down to Brexit, and the tensions of that anomaly. They certainly were tense, I recall! I recall having to put myself through some sort of "beef" whenever I chose to visit the local shops to have a coffee. It was a frequent occurrence that I would find myself in some sort of trouble with some or other man or woman, and so frequent that it started to make me unwell, and I vowed to commit suicide. Of course, in the end, I was exposed to a miracle of nature and science and religion that meant I did not have to hurt myself, and things turned out alright. To a degree... 

Last week at the gym I was standing outside in the forecourt, and smoking a small roll-up. I had had five minutes to kill before I was allowed to enter, due to their new rules of the app. And I was minding my own business out in the open, next to a fence. Occasionally, people would walk by, and pay no attention to me. Then, a minute later, a mother with her child in a buggy walked by and stopped by the corner of the fence. I had no idea why she stopped, but she appeared to be tending to her child. I was nearly done with my roll-up, and had previously tried to smile at her, when she said, "Can you go away, please?" 

"I'm sorry?" I said. 

"Can you go away, please?" she said again. 

"Can you go away?" I retorted. 

It turned out she was upset by my smoking a cigarette near her child, or more accurately that there was a nursery nearby. Was she right to be so rude? I was way out in the open, and the lady continued, "Just be a pleasant person!" 

I was astounded and said, "I am a pleasant person!" to which she looked utterly exasperated and to the sky and said, "You are not a pleasant person!"

In the end I told her to fuck off. I mean, the nerve of it. To literally stand there and tell me to go away, and then accuse me of being an unpleasant person. I wonder what about me affords that effect. 

And then today, on two accounts, something strange happened. 

First, and I don't care too much about this - although I would love to know what is going on in her mind - an old friend of mine was walking past and I tried to say hello, and she basically ignored me. It's perturbing and unnerving, but I won't talk to her again. I think she is arrogant. 

Second, as I was sat outside the coffee shop reading a book, with a recently purchased Americano, waiting for the arrival of my two friends Charlie and Julia, I was approached by a lady, who went to take a chair, you know how they do... "Can I take this," she asked, already half off with it. 

"I'm waiting for my friends," I said. 

"There's two chairs there," she said. 

"I have two friends coming," I replied. 

"Well, they're not here so I'm taking it," she snorted and smugly smiled, snatching the chair away. 

Unbelievable. So rude. 

So anyway, whatever happened next is of no concern to anyone, and I will relate it in due course. But the whole day has left me wondering, what is it about me that these women think they can be as rude to me as they please? 

Now, I'm not a misogynist. I love women. But I haven't got the time for these plain ladies to whom I owe nothing, but to whom they seem to think I do. 

Are you a plain lady? Do you feel like I owe you something? Please explain to me what I owe you in the comments and we can arrange a meeting. 

Yours sincerely, 


Not my monkeys, not my circus. 

Permalink 2 comments (latest comment by Daniel Frederick Best, Thursday, 29 Apr 2021, 15:01)
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Saint Lucia

A plan of action

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Edited by Daniel Frederick Best, Tuesday, 20 Apr 2021, 23:47


I feel the entry of a blog is close to my pursuits, and necessary, in that I daresay I have not truly done much in the way of active construction for a while now, and yes, necessary could be the word.  

The things which I must blog about now, these things which perturb me, are all very palatable, and sensible to the ears or eyes of a reader, especially one for whom the prospects of examinations are present. 

I have not worked. Or perhaps I have, yet I feel that I have not done enough, and this is intended in the representation of mathematics. Yes, I have read, and read profusely and diligently, widely and comprehensively. Yet when it comes to the actual implementation of having done some mathematics, I am afraid I fail to be able to say I am pleased with my output. 

I think it could extend to the concept of any physical output, and in that sense a blog post could be the best way in which I will able to approach the situation. It will certainly get me in the zone, I hope. 

But the blog post of current - this one - well, it is finished already. I have already said that the task of writing mathematics has been subdued by me of late. I have already said that a blog post may get me started. However, I think it may help to devise a plan. 

That is, I have completed all necessary TMAs bar one, the last, TMA08, and I am working on that now. I am a week ahead in the reading. I have completed the first of twelve questions on that TMA. Now I must complete the second question, which is about Unit 20, which is about circular motion and contains a rather complicated derivation that uses the reverse chain rule, and which I am not familiar with. I must get my head down on that. 

But the good thing about this unit, Unit 20, is that it pertains to a very question that was asked me by a friend, Charlie, last year, and pertains to the motion of an inverted pendulum. I thought last year that I would be able to answer his question (which was admittedly unformulated, yet contained an interesting model), yet I could not. And it was not until recently that I realised I was able to approach this question by using the mathematics of Unit 20! In fact, this unit could teach me very much in the way of mechanics, and I am pumped to learn about it. I am encouraged and motivated. I will get into it. 

And in this final TMA08 there are twelve questions to answer, twelve problems to solve, and the bulk are revision questions. I must say, and in no uncertain terms, I am shitting myself about the exam. And I guess that is the cause of this post - I really am worried. I am tense, and unnerved, and nervous, and my worry is causing me to sleep a lot. The exam takes place in June on the 11th, which is a Friday. I am thinking about sleeping through the previous day, and waking up just in time to begin the exam as soon as it becomes published, at 12 o'clock midnight. That way, I shall have a calm four and a half hours of peaceful work, and it will pass, and I shall pass the exam! And all will be well. 

I must remember to think about a practice run in terms of using my scanner. That is certainly causing me a little worry. How long will I have to scan in my work? The exam is supposed to last three hours, and we have an extra one and a half for the purpose of scanning in work. How long can I get away with, if the scanning takes less time? This is what I want to figure out. 

And then, once the TMA08 is finished, I will have two or three weeks to delve into revision. I plan, now, to use the time to write as much mathematics as I can, and this involves at least twenty one examples of equations, corresponding to the twenty one units, but also more than twenty one examples. I want to know this course through and through, inside and out, every nuance and secret of the knowledge. I think I can do it. 

So, in short, the plan is: 

  • Finish TMA08 - Do Q.2., and read accordingly, and do Q.3., and read accordingly. And do the other nine questions, reading accordingly, in the manner of gaining a start on revision. 
  • Practice using my scanner, and uploading to PDF - I did this well enough last year, but it would put me at ease if I did this sooner rather than later. 
  • Revision - This involves writing my own version of the handbook, with formulas, notes, procedures and examples within. - It involves writing and performing a sufficient amount of practice questions, and actually doing the mathematics!! - I shall write a list, and consolidate my learning. - I shall do and redo the practice quizzes. - I shall reread my prior TMAs. 
  • Do the exam - This involves waking up at an appropriate time to make a start as early as possible. 

There, I think I've covered everything. 

Now to make a start, on that reading! 



Permalink 1 comment (latest comment by Jan Pinfield, Wednesday, 21 Apr 2021, 08:44)
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Saint Lucia

The nightmare of the little girl's toybox

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Oh, gardens, gardens! Oh sleepy cinema headquarters, where you can stay and watch the movie from the box. 

Oh blimey! It all used to be so simple! The terrible story of the man with the oxen axes was always that one which put us all to sleep so soon. And at this early in the morning you couldn't blame the pastor for his best attempt to come up with a distraction, otherwise the book franchise might seem all the more unpalatable. And blimey, blimey! The upper echelons of the box-rooms at which many fuckers used to stay the night and wonder why they had so happy a group of friends, well, they were cosy enough, to sleep and read, and read through your comings and goings of the prior years, and all the hateful nastiness that they had brought. 

Blimey, blimey, blimey! Did the public readings of the tomes of many classical scholars give you the feeling that things were going so well, until that time that you could realise you yourself had written a classic. It must have been so difficult to have had to rekindle the times you had been through. And not only having to have gone through the times you went through, but actually having gone through the times you went through! Those were the worst things. But it was never so pleasant actually, and trust was a big issue, make no mistake, and there were the friends and the friends within the night, and the nightmares with friends in them. I don't know why I have to be so scared of these people. However, they are scary when you put it all into context. 

We start, in case you haven't realised, in a box room above a cinema, and I am sleeping. Well, I may or may not be sleeping, but in any case, I may or may not have already had a little nap, or have been watching a film, in the cinema, and one gets the impression that the film was The Pink Panther. I'm pretty sure Maddie was there. Nevertheless, I myself certainly was, and I was reading all the classic books, the novels, the memoirs from my mattress in that upper room, and smoking roll-ups, and it was all so very interesting. 

I think one of the books was by a Frenchman, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, but probably not him after all, or merely Albert Camus. And yet, his book, The Outsider, well it was indeed my own book, and I myself was rather impressed with it, not that it mattered. For the only thing inherent in anything, and that means in anything whatsoever, is the meaning beneath. Whereas I do not know the meaning beneath these nightmares, I do know that a book written in the style of a hapless warrior of the mind would become a classic like unto those which have been written by Frenchmen, or even that other writer, the one who wrote A Clockwork Orange. So that would be a good thing. You could instantly grasp the style, and there I was reading away and writing away in the box room of a cinema, trying sleep and yet smoking roll-ups. 

While all this was happening, and the books lay strewn across the floor in front of a television no less, I received a knock upon the door, and said door opened and it was a long old creaking event, and very ominous, I can tell you. But I tell you this now, I have never been so scared to have been the recipient and receiver of that young man we all know, Aaron, who appeared there fresh from fucking his girlfriend down the hall. It was a strange thing indeed, and, I suppose to keep from being a bore to his new squeeze, he himself was asking, by way of implication, at the chances of perhaps having a roll up. I must add, and it certainly pains me to do so, that at first I was not best inclined to honour this request. Yet the fear that fell off the ceiling, and through his slight and slightly boxer like young frame, came into my confused and schizophrenic head, and I relented and said, "Yes, of course, you may help yourself!" The young man laughed, as though he knew he would always get what he wanted, and laughed also because he had just been fucking his girlfriend down the hall, and I had not been. And it was a scary, scary thing. 

What am I so afraid of, I wonder? I think what it is, perhaps, is the feeling that I myself am missing in action. That is, when all the war rages on around, my worst fear is that I myself and cosied up at the fireplace reading Albert Camus. But funnily enough, there is something that scares more than that. While there are things that have meaning and things that don't, the type of thing that I know has meaning, that is, the other-worldy essences of these little instances of the type of things that go in in my head whilst I'm asleep, they show that there is such a depth of meaning that the whole thing seems a little to vast. And I am scared of this vast meaningful chasm, and worry about the zombies and ghosts that live in the cracks of the things which I am unaware. That is what I am so afraid of. 

Then, to make things worse, another scary thing came from the shadows, merely to scare the pants off me. It was Charlie, who had been down the stairs in another room fucking his girlfriend, and he had come up to see me to ask me for a roll up! What it was to this dual instance of a repetitive circumstance that perturbed me so much I daresay I shall never know. Yet ask me he did, and reply I did, and gave him access to all manner of my tobacco stores. Even though it transpired that the main theme of the dream was whether or not I could keep the attention of a reader in books, it seem that a secondary one would uphold the first, and that secondary one was whether I had enough roll-ups to go round. Yet it transpired that, whereas I myself had thought I was a good writer, and had written all these classic tomes which were upheld in their capacity for quality by a footnote from an old college buddy John-Paul Smiley, the least happy outcome to our little adventure was that one was being exposed in the sense of not being a good writer at all!! So there was Charlie in his playful and meaningful capacity, and even though I love Charlie, there was an undercurrent of thought, that went, "You are a homosexual, Daniel!" or some such other nonsense like that. They all knew it. Anyway, thus run the undertones of a dream like this. 

Then there was a child, and the child was talking to me, and I to her, and she looked Chinese, or like an Elon Musk type figure. I guess you can circumscribe these thoughts when they are you most private, for she was more like a Dean Alexandrou than Elon Musk, yet she had a wisdom, and she spoke and I wish I knew what it was she was saying. Therein lies the tale! 

Therein lies the tale of the nightmare of the little girls toybox. 



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Saint Lucia

One-fold syndhams and identity bending algorithms

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The best thing to do - always, always, always - is to write down your deepest dreams of alien technology from the future. 

As I lay there in my bed, trying to ignore the door-knocking antics of my drunkard neighbour at twelve midnight, I began to feel guilty, that I might not be paying enough attention to his life and topics of life content. And went deeper in dream. 

And I went deeper in dream, as Johnboy went further downstairs, and I could begin to hear his voice in my head as the well meaning sweetheart made his way, with dog, round the external vestibules of this estate. I could hear him say, "Oh, it's one of those ones, is it now?" And I knew what he meant - he meant that we are at battle!! 

So later, when he knocked me up a second time, this time the door was unlocked, and John entered, this time with a hammer. Yet at least it was a small hammer. But in no danger was I, because he apologised profusely when he realised that I myself was trying to sleep and was in bed, and he busied himself in my bedroom, as I went to address the other situation, that was that my Indian neighbours, the ones who own the convenience shop over the road, had also taken advantage of my open door and had entered and were inside the kitchen. 

So I went to see about the situation, and there was a lovely Indian woman, her husband, and daughter, and it transpired that we all began to have sex on a mattress on the floor there. 

Then, when we had finished, I went to make a cup of tea, and this time the situation was that Sid was at the counter, chipping sections off my favourite tea mug with a tile cutting device, to the point that said cup was now damaged in the shape of a castle, and was ruined. I told him to stop, to salvage the item, and Sid was indifferent, and went away. Then there was a knock at the door, and a very nice lady was there, whom had heard that there was some good sex available in this apartment, and yes we had sex, and it was very nice, having sex with this lovely white woman. 

There were also two others here now - a man and a woman, and they stood beyond the stairs, and waited patiently. 

Then, when the sex was done, I found myself milling around in the darkness of the apartment, in a wing of the building where, were the lights to be turned on, I would be exposed to the entire neighbourhood. I could see, from my darkened viewpoint, the existence of other members of the estate, and saw a woman at her desk, writing on the internet, or reading, or in any case working at the computer, and I was hid from sight. 

Then I found myself careening up the A41 in my old grey Ford Escort, and found myself coming to a junction, at which there was some Jaguar in front of me, and to avoid crashing into it I pulled into a driveway where I thought I could catch a shortcut back through Hendon and home again. Yet there was some sort of children's party going on there, and I had, at the instruction of an over-riding adult, to perform a U-turn and pull out, and I did so barely missing a small child. Yet I niftily missed the child and was home again. 

Now, inside the apartment again, I began to notice strange things, but not notice them such that they could give me a lucid dream, no - this was not a lucid dream. But I noticed small things, such as the existence and presence of a small piece of graffiti, that looked like a blue third eye, written upon the ceiling of the kitchen. And I wondered how on Earth it could have gotten there since I had not let anyone inside the flat, and concluded that someone, some strange spirit or woke individual, had access to my flat. How many other people had access to my flat? It was a strange circumstance. Yet I accepted it, and went to sleep. 

And I went to sleep in the dream, in my bed, and dreamed lucidly of a friend of mine, Mr Warman, and told him, in dream, to give me a call on the phone as soon as possible. 

So I woke up, from that dream, to a phone call from an unknown number, and answered it. It was someone asking to speak to Daniel Best. "Who is this?" I queried. He gave me a name, and suggested that he was responding to a request by some authority to give me a call. I realised that this was the result of my request that Mr Warman phone me, and that something special was happening. As we began to speak, like unto the manner of a phone call that I received from a fellow student at the OU quite recently, my apartment shifted and changed, and I realised I was atop a great bridge that overlooked a motorway or river far, far down the side of a mountain, and at one stage or other it seemed like I was the king of the seventh level of heaven or hell, for my abode was a shifting and changing mansion, and the man spoke. We spoke, and chatted, this new acquaintance and I, of the content of courses, and in a strange language that we both knew, and which deepened our understanding of matters, and it may have been Steven Hawking. 

Then, towards the end of our conversation, Steven mentioned what course he was on, and I knew it, and I said, "Watch out for such and such items of interest; they are very striking." 

And then Steven said, "Look out for something called the 'One-form Syndham' and the 'Identity bending algorithm.'" 

So then I woke up into this reality and google searched these subjects, and only found an item called, "Bent functions", which has something to do with cryptography. 

I wonder if Johnboy really did knock on my door earlier on, or if I dreamed it. It certainly felt real - nevertheless I ignored it, no matter how persistently he tried. 



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Saint Lucia

A dream of Chinese mathematics.

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I had a dream I was a mathematics genius, staying in China. At first I was staying at Kelly's, with her family, and we were dating, and talking about Mrs Sharago, who was the French teacher. We smoked a little and I suppose fooled around, to a degree. 

But then it turned out that Kelly's family owned a swimming pool, and I wanted a dip, it being a hot night in China. And that was fine, and I pursued Kelly in the pool, yet no advance was made. And Kelly's sister was not far away during the whole advance. It was a little humiliating. 

Yet, during the swimming session, which was a dip in the pool, above a golf course below, it transpired that I, being a mathematics genius, had stumbled upon a serious piece of mathematics, on which I had come to the conclusion that mathematics was not worth doing. And it was a fleeting and momentary realisation, and I thought nothing of it. 

Meanwhile, Kelly's family, living in a Chinese household, with several members :Kelly's father, mother, two brother's, a least one sister, and two small children, well they appreciated me. Yet it could not be foretold nor ascertained if my advances were from a loving perspective, or a sexual perspective. I handed a card each to the two children and named them tickets, and Kelly's mother said, "Tickets or God!" in a way of explanation to me. In any case I think I had outstayed my welcome. 

So, notwithstanding the fact that Kelly and I had had no sex, I went home and got to my abode next door, which was England, or English. And the first thing happened there, I received a p[hone call, the phone which was passed to me by some fellow, perhaps a postman, or friend. Yet the phone call was one that said I was to be taxed, with the loss of my mathematics course, for the fact of my realisation earlier, that mathematics was no worth doing, well, what with I myself being the mathematics genius I am, the world had caught on, and now mathematics in itself was deemed a waste of time, and I had destroyed the legacy of the academic subject. 

Yet I hadn't meant it. I had meant, in the approach to my mathematical insight, that mathematics was in fact a most worthwhile topic, and had meant to champion it. 

So then, it transpired that my own family was here living in China, my brother, my father, my sister and mother, and in any case, I had gone back to see Kelly to apologise profusely for destroying the western tradition of mathematics. But I had gone there, and Kelly's father was in the garden, and many were upset at me, yet all that was needed was that I explain my culture. And all the while, it seemed that either Kelly's family was in fact Chinese, or were merely ex=pats who lived in the Area, much like my own family were partly Polynesian. And my family had ended up in the garden of the family of Kelly, and we were beginning to discuss the differences between Chinese and Samoan culture, and in this dream I said, "We say Aloha, and this kind of means, 'How's it going?" And we all laughed in recognition of the truth of it = my father sitting there, over there, and Kelly's father to my right, and Ryan being there, with a guitar. In fact, Ryan's guitar playing was influenced by my own, and Ryan himself was a most accomplished player, and he is so modest, and was modest in the dream, yet was a most accomplished player. And I would like to buy Ryan a guitar, and might do so. 

And then, on a trip through the ex-oats' apartment, to have a wee, I found a packet of red fizz, and it transpired that this was the Chinese version of whiskey, and I was able and allowed to pour some out, and drank it. And then, of course, Kelly being the mediator of our excursion, well, she said and admitted that this was fine, and was in fact encouraged that we drink the whiskey. And the rest of the night was spent, the two cultures dinging and discussing each other's ways of life,. and in fact, everything was allowed, and we chatted and discussed well, and I even learned the new Chinese mathematics. Ryan was pursued in an advance by Kelly's sister, who was now a young Chinese woman. He was most happy, for he was nonplussed that anybody would find it in them to flirt with him at all, and was flattered. And in any case, the Saki was flowing, and the two cultures go on greatly. 

I vowed upon waking that I would like to learn the new Chinse mathematics, and realised that one thing wrong with the world is that the Chinese are not understood by the western world, and it would be something to investigate their mathematics, and culture. 

I woke and came straight here. 


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Saint Lucia

Boring day and the attitude of God.

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Hi, hello, all that. 

And blogging - my pain, my sorrow, my frustration and loneliness. If it is possible to get out of bed on the wrong side, even at four in the afternoon, then I have succeeded today. And what I noticed was the residual effects of the medication running through my system - something which a year ago would have been eased by a dose of weed. I am off the mary jane these days, and for a year, but boy do I miss it. I can't seem to engage with this empty feeling. 

Now, a year into lockdown, you could say it's taken it's toll. I am sooo lonely, and there's not much I can do about it. This empty feeling does not help. You wake up and you have to deal with this indescribable sensation coursing through your veins, like a negative replenishment, punishment. Like God has said Fuck You. That's what it feels like. 

I need something good to happen soon. I wouldn't mind if someone phoned me up to ask me how I am. It's strange how soon we are forgotten. 

But I must remember, I am not alone. It's a lot of people, and I have some things very good. 

I have finished and submitted my TMA06 assignment, and now there's TMA07 and TMA08 just to complete, and then the exam, and then it's four months until Level Three university physics undergraduate life begins. 

I actually think I'm a pretty strong person. A year in perpetual loneliness, solitude, and all the while I have not wallowed in my own pity. But it takes its toll. 

I could do with a smoke. And there is where I wish I was stronger. 

But the problem is, my brain changed. And not to go on too much of a schizophrenic psychosis tip, but my brain significantly changed. If I ever smoked weed or hash again, I would crumble. That would be the end. I would fail so badly. I would kill myself. 

There are negative aspects that I need to think about. There is the goodness of having an occupation that involves a modicum of credential attainment, that is, my student life. And I mind it not. And I know it's only a fleeting feeling, but I must not dwell on the feeling, and perhaps get down to writing, and study. 

The exam will go well, and I will pass with a reasonable mark. I will pass, and that is enough, and perhaps I will pass with a modicum better than the grade 4 pass I made with last year's physics course. I hope so. But it is not withstanding. 

I wish God did exist. I find myself in a position of frustration, that is, I am a deeply frustrated agnostic. The weed would bring God back, and the weed would bring back everything else... everything else which being a recovered schizophrenic prevents me from explaining. 

And yet, I have my physics. And I pine for quantum mechanics, and something into which to get my teeth. They say it is an abstruse and difficult course, but I know I can do it. For I can understand anything. 

Yet there are gaps in my learning. Yet not everything is about learning. 

I must write in my book. I feel like that's a release. I must type up the passages of my new book. 

I greatly anticipate the coming of the time when I am paid for my services as a television consultant for channel four. I am happy that Lee has been nominated for an Oscar, it's quite an accolade. And I very much hope that this accolade promotes our work on the script. I would very much like to see our work put into practice. 

And I am happy for Adam. He seems most excited about his movie. Although, I don't think it will be the hit he imagines for it. It will be funny, and I can only give the lad ideas, and would like to take a bigger part in the making of it. Adam? No complaints. What a privilege to have a good friend as he, to be able to talk for an hour every one or two days. He has a lot to say for himself. No complaints. 

Tamsin. No complaints. She has made a lasagne. I am to visit her apartment on Saturday to feast upon her creation, and I should feel happy about that. It will give me a chance to get out of the house. And I need exercise, yet I suffer laziness. I am so lazy, and I wonder why I am fat, and out of shape. 

Having said that, pizza is good for your self esteem. I just had a pizza and chips and icecream feast. It filled a hole. The hole in my life. 

I am a very dire person. I am very boring. I might go for a walk. 

 I'm bored now. 

I love you all. 


Permalink 1 comment (latest comment by Gill Burrell, Friday, 19 Mar 2021, 14:29)
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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 Frederick 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 Frederick 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 Frederick 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 Frederick 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 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. 



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