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There are ghosts

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There are ghosts. 

*Disclaimer*: I'm a paranoid schizophrenic.

You expect ghosts to appear as white sheets, floating at the end of the bed. But they're everywhere - in objects, in another dimension, in your heart. 

People keep dying. My auntie died last week. That night, in the throes of midnight mourning, I said goodbye. I wasn't amazingly close to auntie Ann, but I had a better relationship with her spouse, my uncle Mick, who died a few years ago. My heart goes out to my cousins, Gareth, Kirsten and Cathryn. 

What do I do to deserve these dreams? What it must've been, was that I must've spent the day taking notes from the wrong mathematics book. I'm so tired. But I need to give myself a few minutes to readjust. I've just had a terrible nightmare. Let me explain. Let the breath of God fall lightly across my lips. 

I wake up, in dream, and I'm dreaming, and there are several scenarios. The first is that I'm in my flat, and I'm playing my Epiphone SG, and I'm writing a new song, and it's got the flavour of a Led Zeppelin ballad. (In fact, I feel like I should be writing that song now, but I had to come here). And my flat is my flat. I notice someone has thrown something through my kitchen window; that is, there is a ball-bearing shaped hole in the pane - the pane seems quite thick, and I can trace the trajectory of the ball-bearing, and at once I do so, and it appears to have come from the nearby mental hospital, across the town. But the hole ceases up, and the hole appears to now have been made from this side of the window. And it is capped with a piece of solder. I know. Very boring. I know. 

Yet there I am, in this dark dream on this dark night, and I have a huge house that is haunted. And in dream I am working on this song - I have the chords in my head right now, and I wonder if they really work in real life. But there I am in dream, writing this song, this ballad, like Led Zeppelin. 

And halfway through the night, from the moment when I was going to sleep, to the moment I woke up, I was subjected, subdued, subordinated to the crying of my cats, and they kept waking me up, and I was in Catland, where cats themselves have a real life, a real existence, a real internal experience, and theirs is a huge reality, and I myself was drawn into it, and saw, when I woke up several times, that there was a cat in my room other than my own cats, and it was a human-sized cat, like a pirate size, and most frightening. But there you have it. 

There you are, and there I was, in dream, playing guitar and writing a song on my Epiphone SG, and old Rob shows up, and there he is, sitting there, Roberto, enjoying the guitar, and my flat is huge and there are steps leading everywhere, like Labyrinth. I want him to get a picture of me hanging on the balcony, and I ask him to take it - because, before, I was hanging on the bannisters, and I had thought, "This would make a good picture!" So I asked him to take it, and I've searched all around the house, for the correct bannister to hang off, and Rob has gone off, looking for it, and he's walking all around the house, and he's then divided into two... and there are now two Robs walking around the house, up and down stairs, and now there's a third... walking up and down the Labyrinth that is my flat, and in any case, I found where I wanted him to take my picture, and I waited, to see if the Three Robs would come together and meet over the other side of the hallway, yet when they came together, they turned into other people, and there was now Rob, and Judy (my dead ex), and another woman - a young girl. 

The picture was taken, and now I'm feeling tired. Have you ever felt tired in your sleep? That's dangerous. You might die! But there's a knock at the door, and in comes Eugene, my old best mate, and I'm very thankful, and he's here to skin up and watch the football, and I'm very thankful that he's here, and now Eugene, Rob and Judy are here. 

But they're not here for long. The next thing you know, I've gone back to bed, and I'm trying to fall asleep in dream, and that's dangerous - you could end up in hell. But now I'm alone, and it's me, and my guitar, my Epiphone SG, is with me the whole time, and I'm constantly trying to write this song. But there's a weird feeling; an ominous feeling, so I look out the window. And I don't want to be seen looking out the window, because people always look up at me. Yet I look out the window - I peer out the panes - and it is a dark and late night, and there is a man walking down below, among the Autumn trees, and under the dim lights of the streetlamp, and he's walking away to the right, down the road, and he turns back, and takes a look at me - a deliberate look at me, and it is most perturbing, and I'm nonplussed and scared. The man has disappeared (because he walked away). But then I approach the window a second time, still playing this Epiphone SG and writing my song, and I look leftwards down the road, from my high place up here in the window, and there is a woman. "Don't look up! Don't look up!" I think, but as she's walking, she looks up. She stares for a minute. I skulk back inside the room. Don't strange things happen in dreams? Whenever two things happen similarly in a dream, that's something of which to be wary, because that doesn't happen in dreams; that only happens in real life. 

Then, there is a woman in my room. I'm playing guitar... well, I'm trying to play... and she is a ghost, and she grabs me and takes me. She hugs me and embraces me. She is a black woman. She kisses me and grabs my balls, and I think, "She's going to rip my balls off!" but it feels good. And I'm still trying to play guitar. The woman disappears. 

I walk into the hallway, and there are people there. At a glance, I have seen Jimmy Saville, but I walk past thinking nothing of it. But then, as I go into my bathroom, he is there again in a different guise, and he says, "Why didn't you beat me up?!" So I think, 'Yeah, I should have!' and I push him back, down the hall, and now to the left, in another bedroom, there is another Jimmy Saville, lying on the bed, and a third, and they all look different. It is fucking petrifying. 

I try to wake up, and I'm so tired, but I shock myself out of it, and wake up, and there's Chris Cornell standing at the foot of my bed, in pirate gear, looking kind of short, kind of 'Pirates of the Caribbean', and it is fucking petrifying. I get out of bed and I come here. 

That's it, that's the experience. But it leaves me wanting to have a black girlfriend, and to write this song on my Epiphone SG. 


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Thoughts, snippets of dreams, and residual perceptions.

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Edited by Daniel Frederick Best, Wednesday, 7 July 2021, 02:33

Hello, you good?

Today I'm writing for the purpose of recreation and elation. I spent at least the last day in my overused bed, dreaming a little, and machinating a little, and although I can't recall the entire depth of every scene I imagined whilst asleep, I can remember snippets, and I want to put some down; those I can remember. 

There I am in school; and now, I recall, it was my first day of secondary. I'm sitting at the back of class, but it is not unlike the theme that I am a forty two year old gone back to relive the experience. The teacher appears to be my old history teacher, Miss Adams, and Ballard is here, and Andrews, and Alexandrou, and Alden, plus some of the girls, and there is a cupboard that was never there at the time. 

With my new attitude, or rather my current attitude, to study, this makes getting on with work an easy task. I am a swot, and I approach English work with alacrity and brightness, and it feels good to be on top of everything. 

The day continues. At one point I'm walking about the school grounds during lunchtime and, it seems, I'm quite popular. I am surrounded by students in uniform and I'm talking amongst them, and then, when the small crowd has dissipated, a girl in a younger year has soon approached me, and with a request that I help her with a situation in which a friend of hers is being bullied. It's one of those situations in which, in dream, I normally enter into a conflict, with troublemakers and (for want of a better term) more 'evil' types of people. 

These evil people appear in my dreams, as I say, as like the theme of a nightmare. These evil people torment me in dream, and I am often drawn into the depths of a crisis, which goes from scene to scene, with me myself completing each task, with a single unfinished thread that leads onto another frightful scene of terrorism. 

To revert to the younger girl's request that I help in her bullying situation, somehow or other it does not arise that I am recruited in this endeavour. Yet, the entire themed situation passes in a second and, whether this is because I am not in reality tired enough to transcend the depths of such a vocation, I fail to engage with the task. However, such a task being fully familiar to me, I consider it completed, and I walk back to class. 

And I remember that, in those days, pupils had to walk around a one way system through the corridors. And I have entered in the correct entrance, and there are pupils everywhere, and I have made my way back to class. And inside the class I continue with my English work, and although there is a modicum of the resonance of how things were when I was actually a pupil at this school, namely that I was a middling student, and this reflects in my dream's English work, there is a stronger nuance that I have finally sussed out the notion of academic diligence; I am a model pupil - at times even to the degree that Miss Adams is unprepared for me. It is nice being in this class. 

Somewhere else, in the depths of sleep, I find myself in and around the Edgware area, walking there with Eugene, with whom I have gone to eat pizza, or some other takeaway food, and there I am, with a box of soup in my hands, following Eugene around as he marches off ahead, on to some unknown destination of his desire. And as we walk, I see some young Muslim men. They are standing near a seat in the middle of the Station driveway, and I place my box down, for one reason or another, then walk away a little way, and come back to the box. I see that, in the seconds it has taken for me to do so, one of the Muslim men has gobbed in my soup. 

I can't quite believe that this has taken place, yet I did see it for my very own eyes. Somewhere, I have placed my trust in the Muslim men, and this expectation has been failed - yet I fail to quite believe in it. In any case I take the box and walk away with it, harbouring hopes that the whole incident was merely in my mind. But the Muslim men become thematic within my dream, and there are factions of the group plotted at varying spots in and around the area. In short, in the case of my box of takeaway soup, I have carried it around, and not eaten from it, and finally placed it back down on some seat or other, and fished out the offending pat, in the efforts that this might make the food good again. It doesn't, inevitably, and I have to leave the food. 

I walk around Edgware, sometimes in the wake of Eugene's marching, others having broken off to explore whatever car parks or back ends of the shopping mall that I find myself. And I see colours, and I see that I may have some or other issues with Muslim men who, in reality, I have little dealing, and perhaps I do not know them well as I should do. 

I suppose this theme, that there are unknown factions of society that I have little dealings with, is prevalent in reality as well. For example, as I sit at the coffee shop and I watch the many people attending to their daily lives, I see and think about how my own relations with the myriad of individuals passes itself on to some or other nuance of how others see and perceive their own relations with others. How, for example, does this person (yes, the bleached haired lady with the large glasses and black jeans) perceive this other person (yes, the small Asian lady waiting at the bus stop with her shopping)? I myself have witnessed the reality of such a triad of consciousness, but how has this effect been witnessed in the eyes of the perceived? Perhaps they were merely unwitting of the instance. For example, I can see across the street the frame of a young barista serving customers at seats outside her place of work; and I can see a couple with a small cockapoo walking toward her, a bit further along the road. What is their experience? I daresay it personally drives me loopy! Is there an experience in which an unwitting human is made aware of a relatively innocuous specimen, and in addition, do they think about the experience? Why does this type of thing cause such interest in me? 

Could it be the case, for example, that my own sitting here behind the keyboard, with the various objects of familiarity placed around the desk, is somehow an equivalent experience to those in which an entirely separate human, be they somewhere else entirely, on the other side of the planet, even, is embroiled in those speculations of human interest, and is engaged in entirely other situations, with their own objects of familiarity, or nuances of energetic foreboding, such as... well... anything you could think of? There is a man in India, cooking curried chicken at a restaurant, and he must serve his customers! What does the chicken smell like? What do the customers do for a living? Are they rich? What did they do this morning? What is their experience like?  

Harry Kane, the footballer. It is his time. He is England's top boy today. Wherever he may be, be he sleeping now, or sitting at the balcony of his hotel... What is his experience? And I daresay that the existence of Harry Kane is one to which my own paltry existence and experience pales in comparison. That is, Harry Kane is a God! He must be! To have that kind of energy, coupled with the mental tenacity, to keep entire nations engaged not only for the duration of a football game but also for the press conferences and all other media engagements, it is quite astonishing. I am astonished! 

But as for Gods, it is one thing that I exist as a meek schizophrenic, and another that it is a truth, that once upon a time it was possible that I could have been so much more. I have complained that medicines, i.e. medication, i.e. sulpiride, piportil, and amisulpiride, are not "God-given". Herein lies the discussion of another nuance of life, which is whether our lives are determined or not, and I hope to discover some better insight into the problem when I have studied Quantum Mechanics later this year. These latter adherents might lay claim to the possibility for there to be the cause to think that what we see as the basis of our lives is not the be all and end all of everything. Our consciousnesses could eventually be strewn across the vast expanses of the universe, and the sum total of everything that can possibly be experienced is more like the reality of our lives. Well, my life in particular is a meagre and meek thing, but that's not for want of something more. Perhaps the reality of life is that... well... God Himself needs a break! There are billions of us - billions of others, as they'd have you think - and some are running about a field, some are making curry, some are writing what is likely to be a lost blog entry, and some... some are in pain. Some are in a great deal of pain and are fearful for their own lives. That, as some would have you believe, is a reality. 

Yet, I know what pain is like. I know what discomfort is like. I know what luxury is like. I know what love is like, and I know what morality is. I know many possible examples of what it is to experience humanity. What remains is the problem and problematic conundrum of other human's lives. And not merely human lives, but those of animals, and foliage, and dare I say inanimate matter. Could the experience of everything that harbours the capability of having an experience be bound up in the solitary existence, namely mine, yours, and everything else that exists? And given that the capacity for the billions of sentient beings (orangutans in African jungles, polecats in the Alaskan tundra, bus drivers all over the world) to have their own experiences is real, could such a capacity be found, namely, discovered within the recesses of our own consciousnesses? 

This would amount, in short, to a personal investigation. I would personally wish to engender a global engagement with this investigation; that is, it seems a moot point to pursue any claims pertaining to my own experience. That is, I would rather that the entirety of humanity would engage in such an investigation. However, I can say, without qualms and without embarrassment, that my investigation is two-fold. 

One: I see nothing whatsoever within the reaches of my own sensibility that tells me there is anything whatsoever to be said for the reality of a breach of consciousness laws, be they naïvely realistic, or otherwise. That is, when I have dreamed, and have dreamed lucidly and deeply, I have had no indication that anything like a tunnelling of my "atomic consciousness", into other consciousnesses, is at all possible. That said, on paper, it seems like a viable theory, and perhaps there is something in it. Perhaps there is a grand unified theory that connects it all. The reality of it would not only be life changing, but would change the world. Yet I suspect that these things are more in the realm of a spattering of individual's interests. 

Two: All scientific and quantum mechanical speculations notwithstanding, there is a residual experience which I can lay claim to having, which is neither dream nor reality, yet is altogether cerebral. And I digress:

Do you, like I often do, ever experience that anomaly of perception in which you can spontaneously see a distant spark of light, within the midst of your visual expanse? That is, are you ever disposed (washing dishes, or brushing your teeth, etc) to witness a very strong and very miniscule spot of bright light that appears upon your retina? Said spot, spark, wisp of light, is rarely talked about. It is one of those unconscious features of perception that we forget could be of importance. What could this anomaly represent? 

In the one instance, admittedly, perhaps it is a trick of the brain; a mere hallucination. 

In a second instance, perhaps it is a hint to something that exists within us all, at a deeper level. I find that when I experience this spark, I am led to recount a previous momentary resonance in which I myself was subconsciously elsewhere. Such a perception, in this case, seems to have awoken me from a subconscious slumber, in a sense to say, "Wake up into your life!" (I find, usually, that such a perception is followed by the same kind of feeling one may have when, having once woken of a morning, trying to recount the previous night's dream, namely, a dull kind of "resistance" or blockage to an open mind, whereas the preceding sensation was one, intuitively, of pure unconscious freedom.)

In a third instance, perhaps such a bright spark of the consciousness is indicative of the possibilities of an eternally light mind. That is, could there ever be such a thing as the experience in which every atom of our consciousness - every morsel of our conscious capabilities - is finally alight with consciousness; on fire from the swathes of pure perception. I like to think the possibility a reality, and its truth would mean that it is now on the sentient being to try to find everything within their being to attain this form of conscious experience. 

It's admittedly a bit out there. But it's a nice thought. 

So, in summary, dreams never give you access to other people's minds and lives, yet we naively believe in the existence of these other lives, and indeed we attribute quite a lot that we rely on to these minds, and so the possibility of a transition of perceptions is not to be sniffed at, theoretically. Dreams never give you this access, but there are residual, latent experiences which are not mainstream experiences, but which should be brought to light, so to speak, so as to round out the capacities and possibilities of human experiences, and ones which should help shed light on modern enlightenment consciousness. 

They had one two hundred years ago, so why not today? 

Anyway, with that, I leave it there. 

Thank you,


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Meal, medication, mum.

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Edited by Daniel Frederick Best, Thursday, 1 July 2021, 23:38



Lots to complain about. Woke in such a bad mood, and also in proto-psychotic funk, from dreams that tell me I could once think better, more freely, and more happily than I can today. 

People will say, "You're doing a maths and physics degree, what's the problem?" When have the nightmares that I have, which are the most horrific psychological torture you can imagine, only then you know the problem. 

So, I've gone out last night, for the first time in over a year and a half, to eat out with the boys, in honour of Ashley, God rest his soul. And we've gone to El Vaquero, which is an all you can eat meat grill, where they keep bringing out all manner of pork, beef, lamb, chicken, in all different flavours and styles. Only thing is, I'm vegetarian (pescatarian), so I've gone for the fish option. Said fish option is all you can eat salad and a couple of fillets of seabass. The meat option was something like twenty five/thirty quid, and my choice was twenty two fifty. 

So I've got there - early - and met Steven and Lee, and eventually helped myself to some salad. I loaded my plate and it was admittedly nice. They started bringing out meat for the boys, and they start filling up. We're joined by some others and they also start filling up. Then eventually my fish is brought to me. It's two fillets of seabass, and it was gone in three minutes. So I sit there watching the boys fill up, and we're joined by some more including Eugene, Ollie, Daniel and Charlie. There's eight of us. They're all filling up on every fucking meat under the sun, and I'm sitting there watching, drinking tepid tap water. 

I brought some photos, of a holiday we all went on to Magaluf twenty years ago, and the boys look through them, and we see some shots of Ashley, and the boys appreciate. The boys are filling up on all manner of beef, chicken, lamb and pork. I'm sitting watching them, occasionally sipping my tepid water. 

About an hour later I get another plate of salad. The boys are filling up on meat, and they are getting pretty full. Some boys order drinks. It's all good. 

The boys are talking and laughing, and occasionally I am noticed. 

I daresay, from these type of meetings, there is no way that the boys can possibly have seen the best of me. I'm quiet the whole time, occasionally saying something, while full blown conversations go on all around me. Eugene is his normal raucous self. People just don't seem to be very interested in me. I've got so much more to offer than what they see of me. They're nice guys, don't get me wrong. But they talk too much about subjects. I mean, for God sake, it's Covid time. How can you possibly have had the life you've claimed to be living. I've resigned to accept that the boys just don't think I'm very interesting or have much to say for myself. Yes, cheese is nice. Yes, I watched the football. Yes, I like strawberry jam on toast. 

Jesus, guys, I've quit weed, I'm doing well on my degree, I'm doing computer coding, I've written a book, I've got a girlfriend - I've sorted myself out! Someone ask me what I'm up to? 

I think, perhaps, with the nature of what these boys are more used to, success is natural. They've all got money. There is at least one millionaire among them. So they don't care about my petty successes: it's all natural; you should be successful. 

So I'm not very interesting to them; I accept that. I was sat so patiently and nicely. I'm off all drugs. I just wanted to be good. They talk loudly, and fair enough - their vibrant enough. And in fact it was nice to see them - nice to see Shneider, Gold, the Kerns, Jackson, Gaughan, and even Silver. Although Charlie has never so much as asked me a single question - never seemed very interested at all. That's life. 

So I've gone out for a cigarette or two, come back, and now the bill has been discussed, and it's come to £280 between eight of us. So they've worked out that we'll split the bill. Everybody paid, except Eugene who has very little money at the moment, and Ollie sorted him out. And it turns out to be thirty five quid each. 

The waiter has walked off before I've had a chance to pay, and he's saying it's all good, it's all paid. But I haven't paid, and I tell Lee, "I haven't paid". Anyway, long story short, the waiter finally comes back and says, "You're right, we're short," and so I paid thirty five quid from my card. 

And I tell you, it was gutting. I've never felt more ripped off. 

Okay, so there's eight of us, and we should split the bill, but Jesus, guys! You just each ate about six times more meat than I even could sniff at. When I looked at the bill, my meal was exactly £23:00. I drank tepid water all night - no alcohol, no coke, not even a mineral water. Why have I just paid one point five times the cost of my meal. You all saw me sitting there with two measly fillets of fish, while you all ate ten pounds of meat each. I have blatantly over paid to the tune of twelve quid. 

For fuck sake guys, we've got a millionaire over there, we've got the guy who wrote Borat next to me, we've Ollie who is paid highly enough. We've got some rich people here. Why is the person who is on a living wage paying for the bulk of drinks that everybody had? 

I was absolutely gutted. Thirty five quid for two plates of salad and bit of fish. That's a tenner a plate of salad and fifteen quid for the fish. It's not good enough. What a rip off. 

Anyway that's that. That's what happened. 

Okay, fair enough, Eugene needed a little helping hand. But that's after the fact. I didn't know about that. You don't say, "You're paying for so and so's meal," after you've paid. 

I just wish there was a little thought. 

So it bothered me. I went to bed, admittedly stuffed, and had a nightmare. There was a lot to this nightmare, but the only part I can recall is when I dreamt that Lee was actually black, and he had convinced me that he was Jewish my entire life, and part of the dream I was trying to twist my mind back so that I could see him as the Jewish person I knew he was. 

Actually, there is no way of explaining the psychological horror that this dream gave me. It's a mental thing, and it has to do with the fact that I'm medicated. I often have these dreams, that remind me that I was once not medicated, and once had a perfectly fluid brain, and even once had a massively lucid brain, with all manner of thought at my disposal. I no longer have the fluid thoughts I used to have, and I woke up fully aware of the fact. 

I woke up in a foul mood, and could feel the antipsychotic effects as strongly as if it I had just started taking them yesterday. 

It's an imposition. When I first took medication, I had done nothing of the sort of thing that could possibly warrant the shock and pain that they cause. When you're hospitalised the law is that they must monitor you for a month before making any attempt at diagnosis, and especially before medicating you. These corrupt part-timers diagnosed me and medicated me within five minutes of meeting me. Okay, I'm pre-empting the diagnosis. They hadn't even diagnosed me. 

I saw Tamsin today at Costa, and I complained a bit to her, about the injustice of it all. I say it like that, in a way which makes people think it's a minor complaint. But the type of treatment I have had is barely even reserved for those people who are criminally insane. For fuck sake, all I did was have an argument with my brother, and the wankers gave me a lobotomy. I know, you think I'm exaggerating. I'm not. Medication is a lobotomy. That's why I'm complaining. Every so often it becomes a real issue. I hate the way medication makes me feel. All patients do. That's why they strive with everything in their might to try to get away from it. 

I'm so tired of trying to make people understand what medication is all about. IT'S A LOBOTOMY!! Mum doesn't understand it at all. She lives in her little fancy world where birds tweet and crickets chirp. Mum, do you realise that a part of my brain is missing? Fuck! It's impossible to get my point across. You can't do that people! All because I had an argument with my brother. 

So I saw Tamsin, and had a little complain, and she understands; she gets it - she's one of us... she's medicated. So she made me feel a little better. 

But once I got home I lay on the bed and started machinating about all the times I've seen psychiatrists, and how utterly stupid they all are. They spend years in medical school, and they learn nothing practical whatsoever. They learn no mathematics: no mechanics, no algebra, no calculus, no matrices, no group theory. They learn nothing except what medication to give to which people. That's judging. They learn to judge, and they spend five years doing it. What a waste of time. What a waste of life. They see someone like me, animated and anxious to communicate, and even though they haven't got the first clue about what might be going on inside my head, they put my behaviour down to a thought disorder. If I'm sitting in an office with a psychiatrist, and this psychiatrist has for some unknown reason been given the power to decide what my characteristics mean psychologically, by someone who is not qualified to know the contents of my thoughts, then I'm in that environment. And they are clutching at straws. Because if I was a drummer in a rock band, I'd be expected to be animated. If I'm in a psychiatrist's office then of course you're going to think there's something wrong with me. 

And all you can do is judge me. That is all you can do. You think you have dispensation over what goes on in my head - you don't. All you can see is my angry face, angry because you're so imposing and rude, and you hear my words, that should be talking to people who love me, who aren't judging me. That's all you can see. But let me tell you. You haven't seen the best of me - I'm not this face, I'm not this body, I'm not these words I say... 

I live in here..... inside my head. 

You couldn't possibly know what's going on in here. Even if I were to write for a thousand years on the subject you wouldn't even have scratched the surface!!

Anyway, long story short, I'm absolutely gutted that life is continually unfair to me. 

There is nothing in a doctor's intrigue that has afforded even a modicum of respect from me, because they have fucked me over at every step of the way. 

Every step of the way. 

Here I sit, like a good boy, doing exactly what I'm told. I'm the worst kind of sheep imaginable. I even like the government, can you believe that? It happened. Medicine has won. 

And you know, through all the experiences I've had, which you yourself could never imagine possible, and all the treatment I have had, all that I've learned is how to lie. 

I'm a great liar. 

I'm not deluded. The things I've seen are real. You are the deluded ones, for thinking that this is all there is and all there ever could be to life. Life is capable of a thousand, a million times more than you know. It is an amazing gift. It is full of secrets, and secret rooms, and secret levels, and secret cities. There are angels. There are gods. There is a God. 

I spoke to mum earlier, and tried to complain about the events of last night. "Suck it up!" she said. I hung up on her. I've been doing that more and more often recently. It's becoming more and more what I do, and I think she might notice. Mum likes to live in a world of cheeping birds and chirping crickets. But that's not the world that we live today. She might not like it, but you know.... 

Suck it up. 


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Worried about exam

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I am heretofore... drunk!

And now, without a moment's further ado, we are have drunk Daniel!

I am worried about this exam. 

I am petrified about this exam. 

So petrified am I that, lord only knows how petrified I am! 

There. I think I said it. I said it all man. I said it all man. 



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Religious dream of loft-space and the needy and meek.

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I am now going to write a blog post that documents a dream about which I know the meaning already. 

There in life I was staying with somebody, and staying with their son, within my childhood and within a loft-space at their abode. This somebody happens to be a friend of my mother, yet also a friend of the family. This dream is about what is important in life, and how we manufacture meaning by clinging on to past flames. 

I am sleeping in this loft-space. My sister is here, and Scott, the son of Cathy, my mother's friend. Actually, she is my friend as well, and more so that Scott, who is a past 'flame'. 

We all sleep, and it is a sleep over. Cathy is looking after Corina and I for the night. We sleep among many books. I cannot get this idea of the loft-space trapdoor out of my head. The trapdoor is filled with books that I have read, and Corina and Scott and I sleep, and we have a nice night, whilst Cathy is downstairs sleeping with her husband Tony. 

But there is some kind of altercation or misunderstanding that has seemed to have happened between Scott and I, although Corina is not in this event, But Scott and I have had a falling out, and we are not friends. Yet Cathy is the overarching motherly influence, and still a flame is fanned for the hearth of our friendship. I am to leave. 

And in leaving, I want to take my books with me, that it seems I have entrusted to the holding of Scott and Cathy and Tony. I have many books. I have fallen out with Scott, and I must leave and take my books with me. Yet I have left so many books, and they are all inside this loft-space, hidden in between different joists, and some on shelves (what is it this about shelves? Yes I like shelves.)

Cathy is understanding, but Scott is fuming. I don't know why Scott has turned on me. We've just had an understanding. I want to have collected all my books, that have been stored over the years in this loft-space, and there are some magic ones, and some history ones, and some science ones. And I want them all back. And I nearly have them, but there is one book, that they have, that I remember that they have, that I especially want back, and it's a magic book. And every time I collect a book I want, I remember another book. I keep remembering the other book. 

Anyway, I have collected nearly all my books, and it turns out that this is the sum total of nearly all of Scott's possessions. And he becomes more and more humble with each book I take back. I am nearly out of the house. 

Then, we are in the lobby, or kitchen, or religious area of the house, and Sydney Crocker has come in, and yet, Where is my father? Syd is fixing the kitchen, and I have not the excuse to yet leave the house, into the day and onto where I do no know, but it feels like there is a church out there. 

Syd is fixing the kitchen, and there are other characters, like Dean A, and it seems we are in a church environment. And John Kenny is here, and he has some issue with a woman. We are at the church, and we sing our praises, and the church makes a lovely scene, but the woman John (or Dean) has entertained has turned out to be slightly mental... a bit of a broken woman. She calls John (Dean) on the phone and is acting all mad and bunny boiler-like, and I devise a plan to fill this woman's head with lies, such that she believes those lies, and eventually goes somewhere else, from having lost interest. 

The woman, having been lied to, and subsequently having had her heart ripped out, decides to pursue John (Dean) through crawl-space underneath this church. And meanwhile a Hollywood movie has been made, and yet the woman (Jeanette or Alice), she has been spat on, and finds all this going on by popping to say hello, from behind a holy counter, and up from the ground underneath the church, and through a cupboard. The woman is mad enough not to care about the abuse she has had to deal with. 

But perhaps she is not mad. 

Anyway, I know the meaning of this dream. This dream is about those who care about us. This dream is about those we care about. This dream is about religion, and Christ. 

Christ has driven life, and we are in Christ. We are geared and primed, taught and conditioned to believe in the Christ, and perhaps it is a clever ruse, a very wise and cunning ruse, to ensure that we are each looked after in life. 

Some of us fail to understand what the meaning of 'being looked after' is. But just as I am inside a room, sheltered from the weather, I am in Christ's light. 

The appearance of Scott in this dream comes as an issue or nuance, or element of my own misconceptions, that there is something special about our acquaintance with one another. But that is an illusion. It is illusion that I place Scott on a pedestal, merely because I knew him in childhood. 

In the dream, I was taking the books back, and this could be a hint towards the idea of a multiversal existence beyond my own, that is, a recognition of what I am perceived as. However, we know in our heart that such an anomaly cannot be true, but the hint is there. 

This dream is about neediness, and the recursive nature of religion, as a ground. There is something very sorrowful about my perceptions of religion, and something very dour about my perceptions of women in this dream. 

There appear to be two types of women in this dream: the needy, and the needed - and it pains me to say it. They are both my mother, but one of them is a lover. 

I have no reach with women. 

I leave it here.

And good morning. 

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Exam dread

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Something is bothering me about this upcoming exam. I feel really nervous, dissatisfied, despondent and unhopeful. I'd like to work out why. 

I know what I've got to do to make me happier - that's if I was doing four or five hours practice a day. And with two weeks left to go, that's really what I need to do. 

So why don't I do that? I think this really despondent, unhopeful feeling has something to do with it. I just need to get organised. 

It's these days. The exam will come and by that point I'll have no other option but to sit down for four hours and do my best. But I need to practice. 

My dread is causing me stress which affects my ability to study. 

Really, all I need to do is to get a heads up on a few little topics. The big one is Unit 19-21, i.e. systems of particles, circular motion and rotating bodies and angular momentum. 

There's a little situation with Conservation of momentum that my head is struggling to deal with, even though it's relatively simple. 

I can only hope. 

I just need to work on these last units. 

So what I'll do is, I'll restudy those units, i.e. I'll take notes, and do some exercises and examples, and finally some practice exams. 

What really gets to me is that there are some people on this module who are already there, and are able to work and revise without thinking about doing other things the whole time. I feel like I'm the worst student here. 

Bottom line: as long as I can sit here for the entire day, maybe take one or two guitar breaks, then I'm bound to get something done. 

They say not to concentrate on concepts too much, and merely to practice. I really hope I'm prepared on the day. 

I leave it there. 



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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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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. 

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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! 



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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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"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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