I’m watching the show Brothers & Sisters sisters again; i must have seen it in 2006 when it first came out, almost 20 years ago, and i remember very little of it. Since I don’t remember it, it’s basically like watching it brand new.

A lot of my life is like that — having bad memory recall means getting to do things for the first time over and over again. Since there’s an obvious downside to not remembering things, at least there’s a little upside; i’ll take what i can get.

Because part of the downside is things like when i use an electric toothbrush to brush my teeth at night: a minute after i finish, i can’t even remember if i did brush them — i have to go back and look at the little flashing light on the toothbrush that means the battery was discharged and is now recharging. but part of that is distraction. I’m usually thinking about something else — ideas for writing or some task i have to do that i don’t want to forget.

I learned to live with it. I compensate well enough to make up for my deficits. But it is a little annoying.

I pretty much always remember enough to write something, every day. Do i have more to write on days that I don’t take THC or drink alcohol? It would be pretty to think so, but that’s not the reality, i guess; it has to be a balance.

Part of the struggle is getting myself to do something — anything — and not just retreat into comfortable habits, like reading or watching videos.

I cannot in good faith put another person through trying to have a romantic relationship with me.

There just isn’t enough of me left for it anymore … maybe i was never fully capable of that kind of relationship; and it’s just foolish to try to convince someone that i am now, when clearly i am not.

Fortunately it’s not a problem that i’ll likely ever have to face again; no one wants to go out with a lug like me anyway. It’s one of the advantages of being plain: people leave me alone.

Now if only i can leave them alone, the cycle will be broken. I don’t hang out in cafés so much anymore, so it’s easier to stay out of trouble. No play for mister grey — my short beard does a good job now of signaling my lack of interest.

Not that i was ever besieged by prospective mates; people pretty much always just let me be. (Thank the gods i was spared my father’s Irish good looks.) It’s so peaceful, being retired. I no longer have to do things i don’t want — having no responsibilities and no commitments is heaven.

If i want to sit and read, i can do so without distraction. If i want to watch an old movie, i can. If i want to take a nap, no one stops me. Or a walk. Romantic relationships were interesting, no doubt. But i’m glad to be on the other side of them; my thoughts are so much clearer!

I get the feeling that women are pestered about relationships a lot more often than men are; that just seems how society is shaped. No thank you!

Some of my friends have told me that they’re done with romantic relationships — i can so understand.

I wish you well finding your way!

I have been so blessed in so many ways; i’m so thankful for how i’ve been able to live. Not having children has been central to that. It’s fine if other people want to have children; it’s just not for me.

I’m certainly glad that i don’t have to battle with children over such things as what an appropriate age might be for, say, a smart phone. I barely had enough energy for dealing with a spouse, let alone children. For me it’s much easier to just be alone.

I did get to be a step-parent to an eight-year-old girl for a couple of years — 15 years ago — and that was more than enough, believe me. At least then i wasn’t responsible for any of the big decisions.

Now i can just go back to my regular job of taking care of a severe traumatic brain injury patient; at least i have lots of practice at that. It’s a living.

And please don’t let anyone give you a bad time for being alone and preferring it that way. Spending most days in solitude, for some people, is 100% fine. Not everyone thrives seeing people IRL every day; i’m so glad not to have to anymore unless i want!

Every time you read something, you are forcing your brain to say those words, the words written down; you’re forcing your brain to say them and then obviously to think about them a little — that’s why reading helps you learn.

If something seems too easy to believe, too neat, i recommend that you suspect it of being made up — of being a story, that is; fiction.

Real life is messy. It’s not neat; so just because you see simple words somewhere, don’t believe that there is a correspondingly simple reality to go along with it. Those sparse words are probably a vast oversimplification; that’s what storytelling is.

So don’t believe simplistic accounts you read in a newspaper or a magazine, online, or in a book; it’s always more complicated than that, whether it’s history or current events — it’s always messy.

“Write what you know” is the standard advice for wanna-be authors, and it’s usually a good starting place. “Write who you know” is the pronominal corollary, and some of the best books ever written (Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises being the foremost example) followed exactly this directive — and much of the story was lifted directly from reality (to the displeasure of some of the participants).

Most writers start off by copying the styles of writers they like, and that’s also a perfectly valid practice — especially if the writers you choose to emulate have diverse styles. Don’t be afraid to reach for the greats!

Some writers read their favorite books many times, training their neural nets (so to speak) repeatedly on quality texts; they may gain the ability to emulate the emotional tenor of a classic, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Different people will naturally develop different writing styles. Don’t be afraid to be distinctive — just be consistent. Some people can proofread their own writing; others have more trouble and have to seek outside help. Sometimes it helps to read the text aloud so you can hear how it sounds; there are separate areas in your brain for language: receptive and expressive. So reading out loud (and listening to yourself) employs more of your brain than just reading silently to yourself.

Try different methods of writing if you’re having trouble; switch to pen & paper instead of a keyboard, or try composing your text by talking to your smartphone for a change. It’s all you; switch it up, and different parts of your style may emerge with different ways of writing. Try writing in a quiet place at home; try writing in a noisy café; try writing on a beach, or in the woods. Don’t be afraid to experiment!

If you keep at it, you may find yourself creating a world you wish to inhabit — that’s the joy of writing.

Maybe i’m telling the story again this time so that I don’t have to ever tell it anymore.

Maybe i’m finally sick of the story, sick of telling it. My friends certainly will be relieved, because i know they’re sick of me talking about it.

After all, this is supposed to be a progression beyond my original problems… to new and exciting things.

Do i give up on computer programming? No, i shouldn’t give up on it because now i can cheat using AI to fill in some of the boring stuff that I don’t have the patience to figure out.

And i’m not giving up on writing, either; i just won’t torture myself over not writing fiction.

So there’s the answer: computer stuff and writing stuff — what i’ve always been interested in. And i’ll probably have to brush up on my truth-functional logic stuff, too. (And finally learn some modal logic, too.)

I know Professor Keith Simmons would be proud.

Maybe my suicide attempt was the best thing that I’ve ever done for myself. Yes, my injuries were so severe that I barely survived. But I was finally able to find my true self, where I had sort of lost myself before.

Yes, my injuries reduced my IQ by 20 or 30 points; but maybe that was a good thing. So perhaps it was both the best and the worst thing i did for myself.

Maybe i thought about stuff too much. I had a lot to learn about letting go; i still do.

From my point of view, i regard this reality as perhaps being the afterlife. Maybe I did die and this is the afterlife. Why not? Any evidence to the contrary?

So i try to live like this is it. (And i hope to all the gods i know that this IS it — if there’s a whole other life to endure, boy i am gonna be pissed.)

So i just write what i write, and i don’t worry about it. It’s not worth worrying about anything anyway. Everything is temporary.

So I suppose i should tell you how I came to jump off the bridge — i keep not doing that.

My girlfriend, who lived in Ottawa, had unceremoniously dumped me — through a dear John letter, no less — and so i had decided to kill myself. (I know, right … get a life.) And by this point, I was a true Cornellian; so the proper way to kill myself was to jump off the bridge.

Typical of the early 1990s, i wasn’t confiding my difficulties in anyone … let alone actually seeking help. Nobody paid much attention to how i was doing, believe me — i gave them no reason to.

What might’ve been a clue is that i wrote a story for my Creative Writing class about a kid who jumped off a dock high dock at low tide in order to die, but it was the early 90s and a lot of the short stories were probably a little violent or gruesome. I probably should’ve just made a little more of an effort to talk to this Creative Writing teacher more — i was very attracted to her, but not confident enough to meet with her outside of class.

Ironically, i became a lot more confident after the whole jumping-off-the-bridge thing. And i purposely ran into that same teacher during a book signing in 2013 and joked with her about having a big crush on her as a student. She seemed very not-available in 1992, and even more-so in 2013 (with young kids) — and very successful, with more books and a teaching gig at Boston College.

There’s nothing significant in the details of a failed young romance. Happens all the time. Hey, at least it earned me mention in the Wikipedia article titled Cornell Gorge Suicides — the first survivor off of the main suicide bridge.

So here i am, still going.

I promised myself that i would put together a second book out of these blog entries, a sequel to anomaly (2001) that i was going to call Better Off.

I made it through Cornell University all the way to my senior year … before i really went crazy.

My earlier interest in Anne Sexton set the stage for my fascination with the writer George Eliot (the pen name of Mary Ann(e) Evans) when i became an English major at the beginning of junior year.

I guess i was just lucky to have taken a class early on where we read George Elliot at all — how did i know who i would really like? I’d like to think that i took good advantage of opportunities i had — maybe enough to make up for the opportunities i missed. Lots of people probably end up finishing college with majors they didn’t really want, but they did it because they thought it would prepare them for the “best” job. I suppose i was really privileged (as well as ballsy enough) to be able to do what i wanted — i didn’t care about making money.

Maybe if I hadn’t embraced romance, i would have made it through college more easily (i.e., without going crazy). Maybe i would’ve ended up teaching physics somewhere, if i hadn’t switched to English … if i hadn’t fallen in love.

I really don’t know whether that would’ve been better or not. Maybe my fascination with love was as misguided as my fascination with math and physics. Maybe in the end i’m happy to be alone and have lots of time to do whatever i want.

Maybe i never had any idea of what i really should do, … what would be best for me.  Like most of my classmates i mostly stuck with things i was good at. Maybe none of my choices would’ve made any difference.

My troubles with depression probably go back to freshman year of college, at Cornell University.

I may have been a little depressed in high school too, but nothing like what happened at Cornell. I had gotten in over my head academically, and i retreated within myself. My physics professor didn’t care that i had stopped coming to class, and my friends just let it slide. Outwardly, i seemed OK most of the time; but inwardly, i had become obsessed with suicide.

There was something of an under-culture of suicide at Cornell in the 1980s & ‘90s. There were many grisly jokes about self-harm (and roommate harm) going around in those days. When it came close to exam time, people would yell to each other as we were crossing one of the bridges (especially the one with no guard-rails) that went over the deep gorges cutting through campus — “Don’t jump! It’s not worth it!”

That’s what suicide had been reduced to — a joke.

And i had become obsessed with a Peter Gabriel song, called “Mercy Street” about the poet Anne Sexton who eventually killed herself. I used to put the CD in my stereo and set it to infinite-repeat on that song; i would lie on my bed and listen to it for hours.

Oh no, i didn’t have any problems.

[There’s a YouTube link at the bottom of this entry, in case you’re not familiar with the song.]

My roommate was so busy with school that i rarely saw him, and he didn’t know how bad it had gotten. I used to go up to the study lounge on the top floor of our high rise dorm in the evening and think about how it would feel to jump off the balcony. And of course the bridges too.

https://youtu.be/DYw9UrsFJa4?si=prGW0KxoSC-dMDck

This was a day of missing Sandi. It’s the 13th, and 13 was always our number. We got married on the 13th of the month in the year 2013 at 13 o’clock.

Plus, Sandi was a witch. Either you get it or you don’t. I was about to go to bed without having made any entry for today. You know, maybe give myself a little break. It’s frickin’ Saturday!

So yeah, i was missing Sandi. I was missing having my friend here with me … my love … but not to be. Everything is temporary. I know that’s a lyric from the Sundays, but i don’t know where else it’s from — and right now I don’t feel like freaking asking Google. (and don’t even get me started with ChatGPT.)

Of course I was missing Ojo too. The photos program on my iPhone made me a little Ojo video yesterday, i think … it was very sweet … of pictures from 2024.

Just keep getting up every day: Ignore the losses. Ignore the defeats. Just keep going as best you can. Don’t listen to the haters. I hope you have a good voice inside you that you can listen to. I don’t think the voice inside me was always very good; it is now, but it took some discipline.

Love takes discipline. That’s what I learned in marriage. Not some abstract, romantic view of love; but a practical one.

I hope you find love out there, my friends. Even if only from yourself.