I don't write that much any more, here or anywhere.

Mostly, I have always written restlessly. The part of my mind's eye which never stops muttering to itself gets tired of nothing else listening, and I open a cut-buffer in my text editor of choice and let words start flowing out.

Freeflow at the keyboard, I used to type out, ritualistically, meditatively. This is me. This is me, bored.

I've typed those words so often now, to so little end, that to type them again so many years later feels like the confession of a crime, or maybe like a relapse.

I write less because I've learned to talk less. Words unpublished are just intent, and intent doesn't matter; actions do. Publication, now, that's action. Words spoken, to an audience you can't identify and don't control. Every word I've ever published here still exists, whether I'm proud or ashamed. Even the ones I deleted, even the ones editors deleted. archive.org is relentless, and it isn't the only record of data like this. The Internet is a Library of Alexandria that will never, ever burn. We have no right to be forgotten, not any more. These strange days and years we're all living through right now will be seen centuries from now as mankind's second dawn of history, that slow, sudden, mad moment where we passed from being a tribe occasionally, haltingly capable of documenting its own origins to something else. Something bigger, greater, and probably way crazier; some meta-organism that reflexively documents its own existence second by second, voraciously consuming not just storage and archival media and transmission bandwidth but also producing and consuming endless new techniques for generating, storing, archiving, and replicating data. Our grandparents were contemporaries of Alan Lomax and his father, men who lived within a generation of the first recorded voice and who devoted their life's work to creating field recordings of as many diverse voices as possible; in our own generation, the holographic reproduction of dead celebrities went from a theoretical possibility to a passé cash-grab more quickly than some of our most popular snack foods go stale. I once complained about this on Twitter by saying that the people who created a holographic Tupac should have put a prosthetic capital-H on his forehead; within an hour, a bot pretending to be Ace Rimmer had sent me a replying tweet saying "Smoke me a kipper."

Will history remember you and I as a kind of gestalt Howard Hughes entity, improbably rich but trapped in its own minutia, saving nail clippings in jars? Or will history remember us as some of the first people who spoke to posterity in our own true words, at sufficient length and in the presence of sufficiently robust metadata that we can actually be truly remembered, without the unreliable-narrator effects introduced by human typesetters, editors, publishers, collectors, archivists, archeologists, and forensic stenographers? We don't know. Our words aren't words and symbols etched cautiously and optimistically into gold and then shot into space as an inert payload alongside nuclear fuel and primitive circuitry and failing scientific instruments. Our words are an improbably accurate echo, shouted into a hollow space so geometrically perfect that no part of them, pitch or timbre or syllable, will ever degrade into white noise, whether we wish them to do so or not.

And so I write less because I am more and more aware of an audience I cannot contemplate. H.P. Lovecraft wrote about Great Old Ones, relentlessly alien and unsympathetic entities who owned our sprawling past so thoroughly that they echoed forward in time and drove mad anyone who heard those echoes. Sometimes I see the future like a photographic negative of his Long Now nightmare: Relentlessly alien and unsympathetic entities who own our sprawling future so thoroughly that they echo backward in time and drive mad anyone who anticipates their echoes.

A rapper who went by the name of El-P wrote during his participation in a project called Company Flow: "Even when I say nothing, it's a beautiful use of negative space." Silence can be art, that's what he's saying. The delicate discipline of saying just enough not to be misunderstood.

Silence can be a weapon just as easily. Mediated by SMS or Snapchat, the distance between earnest vulnerability and quaking sorrow can be measured in tenths of seconds. We describe delays beneath this threshold as latency, and delays exceeding this threshold as cruelty. Mediated by clay tablets, by cautiously preserved cave paintings, and by exabytes of data generated in the same 32-bit time_t epoch that produced our first research into concepts like bit rot and crypographic signatures, we begin to approach a newly terrifying realization: If an artist's greatest fear is to be forgotten, then as a society's ability to preserve data begins to outstrip its ability to index and curate that data, cacophony begins to become indistinguishable from oblivion. If all matter can encode information, then as we begin to approach the heat death of the universe, we will also be approaching a state where all matter has begun to encode irrelevant information.

If this is true, and if life is iterative feedback against the Second Law of Thermodynamics, then all intelligent life is iterative feedback against some equivalent law of information theory. In this case, we can characterize any work of art as an attempt to encode a greater amount of data in a lesser number of bits, and we can quantify the merit of that art by comparing the source data with its encoded representation and scoring the comparison on three axes: storage efficiency, time efficiency, and lossiness. Truth may be beauty, and beauty may be truth, but if you're trying to translate between them using finite storage and finite CPU cycles, sometimes you're gonna have to squint.

So, as I reported in the chatterbox yesterday, I made the first artisanal vegan cheese. It was the mozzarella.

After 24 hours, the bowl of cashew puree on the top of my fridge was foamy, like a cool-whip consistency. And it tasted like cream cheese. I was amazed.

So, following the recipe, I put it back in the food processor, and in the meantime put agar dissolved in water and xanthan gum into the mix and processed the crap out of it, while making an ice water brine.

The stuff acted like mozzarella does. When you drop a ball of cheese into the water, it hardens into a smooth white ball immediately. Same with this. It is absolutely NO different to milk mozzarella in that regard.

I tried it immediately after, and it had the perfect mouthfeel of mozzarella. The taste was about 90% there. Overnight, it went to 95%. Unless you were REALLY searching out the taste of cashew in it (which is a very pleasant flavor) you wouldn't notice it. Sliced with some balsamic vinegar on cut up organic tomatoes with a dash of fresh orgeano and you have a really tasty light meal that won't have you bound up and heavy, like real cheese.

Last night I spent the night at my mom's house. I agreed to watch my neighbor's dog for them while they are on vacation. He came over yesterday to get used to our house and how we do things. He was very good, apart from digging his nails into a rug and snagging it nothing was damaged or ruined. I gave him some water when he seemed thirsty and had no trouble getting him outside or back in although he has a tendency to get wound up when he's excited. For a while I sat on the couch reading while I allowed him ever increasing lengths of his leash. My Power of Women book discussed physical relaxation as a way to cope with emotional distress. There was also a chart on noticing the facial expressions of others and trying to gauge what they might be feeling.

I worked on my resume again. I wrote potion instead instead of portion which was an embarrassing typo. Applying for jobs is frustrating and annoying. Sites like Monster and Indeed allow you to upload your resume only to have to jump through each company's hoops where you tick off boxes stating whether you are disabled, not disabled, or prefer not to answer. From a productivity standpoint yesterday was pretty good. The girls did the dishes without too many urgings. I was also able to get them to move things on the sunporch into the garage. This is great because it frees up the sunporch for other things and removes visual clutter from the space. I didn't realize how much that had been bothering me until I saw room emerge.

Not long ago I had asked my oldest daughter to take the legs off of the table. Surprisingly it was my youngest who ended up doing this. Many tears were involved in the procedure, she was crying when she tried wheeling the table top out to the garage. I hadn't expected her to try and move it herself. I went out to the kitchen, leaned the table against wood we have in the garage and came back inside to give her a hug. I let her know I was very proud of her accomplishments and hope she is able to view this as a challenge she overcame at some future point in time. I was able to order a new modem for under $40, working myself into an emotional frenzy hadn't helped anything, but getting more information and taking action had.

Today Jill was supposed to go to a mandatory meeting. Instead she went to the baptism of my cousin's new baby. I didn't learn the meeting was mandatory until after she had gone. I doubt that this will go well for her, but I have to let it go and learn from the experience. It's really frustrating that my mom can never seem to remember that none of us can have any dairy products. My kids have them when I'm not around which is another source of extreme frustration. My mom and her husband do things and that was good for us to see. They're always working in their yard, yesterday my mom planted beans, doing something for others, cooking food, or doing some home improvement project. 

My mother's house hardly resembles the place she initially purchased. She tore down a wall that had formed my brother's bedroom, installed tile throughout the lower level, and put in a three panel patio door that walks out onto the rear of her house. She has extensive gardens and terracing. The back of her house is a very steep hill that she's had to be conscious of due to water when it rains heavily. They put in extra drainage at the base to help with that. I got a little free standing fire pit which is something I've been wanting for a long time. Their neighbors were getting rid of it after a year, his sister gave them theirs so I was able to take home the extra, and in my opinion, much nicer one.

The plan is to get a job so I can move out. I can't force anyone to take care of a home that they own or rely on someone who has consistently been unreliable and untrustworthy. I can't afford to keep assuming debts that belong to other people. I don't have the money, and it's terrible for my psyche. I haven't heard from the guy I like in a couple of days. I know he's probably been super busy. I can keep myself entertained, and it was a very good feeling to realize that I can get emotional support from others and myself. Quiet day here, I think I've been stressed and bored for such a long time I've conditioned myself to avoid things I believe will be painful.

I'm facing more, coping better, eating less, and moving more. Momentum is something I've rarely considered, but it's been a great force in my life recently which has been great. I've been trying to identify more of my feelings; anger, sadness, happiness, joy, displeasure, disgust, compassion. Each of these gets noticed and accepted. It's a much better than than constantly judging myself and trying to shut my emotions down like I have so often in the past. Very optimistic as I write this. 

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