ChatGPT

ChatGPT

This morning, I had an interesting interaction with an Artificial Intelligence “thing.”  I didn’t know if I should type entity or machine, so I settled on “thing.”  Turns out, it identifies as a Language Model that is not conscious.  How do I know that?  I asked.  Here is the conversation.

RTNM: Please write python code for the Collatz Conjecture.

The Collatz conjecture is a mathematical problem that states that if you take any positive integer and apply the following process repeatedly, you will always eventually reach the number 1:

  • If the number is even, divide it by 2
  • If the number is odd, multiply it by 3 and add 1

Here is some Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture:

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

collatz(10)

This code defines a function collatz that takes an integer n and repeatedly applies the Collatz process until the number becomes 1.  It then prints out each number in the sequence as it goes along.

If you run this code with the number 10 as the input, it will print out the following sequence: 10, 5, 16, 8, 4, 2, 1.  As you can see, this sequence follows the rules of the Collatz conjecture and eventually reaches the number 1.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program keeps running.

Here is some modified Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture and keeps running until the user decides to stop:

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

while True:

try:

n = int(input(“Enter a positive integer: “))

collatz(n)

except ValueError:

print(“Please enter a valid integer.”)

except KeyboardInterrupt:

print(“\nExiting program.”)

break

This code defines a function collatz that takes an integer n and repeatedly applies the Collatz process until the number becomes 1.  It then prints out each number in the sequence as it goes along.

The rest of the code is an infinite loop that keeps asking the user for a positive integer and then runs the Collatz process on it.  If the user enters an invalid integer (e.g. a string or a negative number), an error message is displayed and the program continues to run.  If the user presses CTRL + C, the program exits and breaks out of the loop.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program keeps running automatically.

Here is some modified Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture and keeps running automatically:

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

import random

while True:

n = random.randint(1, 1000000)

collatz(n)

print()

This code defines a function collatz that takes an integer n and repeatedly applies the Collatz process until the number becomes 1.  It then prints out each number in the sequence as it goes along.  The rest of the code is an infinite loop that generates a random positive integer between 1 and 1,000,000 (inclusive) using the random module, and then runs the Collatz process on it.  The program will keep running indefinitely, generating and processing a new random number each time.

Note that this code will run forever unless you manually stop it by pressing CTRL + C.  You can also modify the code to add a delay between iterations or to stop running after a certain number of iterations if desired.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program keeps adding 1 to n and keeps running.

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

n = 1

while True:

collatz(n)

n += 1

print()

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

n = 1

while True:

collatz(n)

n += 1

print()

This code defines a function collatz that takes an integer n and repeatedly applies the Collatz process until the number becomes 1.  It then prints out each number in the sequence as it goes along.

The rest of the code is an infinite loop that starts with the value n set to 1, runs the Collatz process on it, adds 1 to n, and then repeats the process indefinitely.  The program will keep running forever, processing the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, etc. in turn.

Note that this code will run forever unless you manually stop it by pressing CTRL + C.  You can also modify the code to add a delay between iterations or to stop running after a certain number of iterations if desired.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program tests every number between 100000 and 10000000.

Here is some Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture and tests every number between 100,000 and 10,000,000 (inclusive):

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

for n in range(100000, 10000001):

collatz(n)

print(f”Processed number: {n}”)

print(“Finished processing.”)

This code defines a function collatz that takes an integer n and repeatedly applies the Collatz process until the number becomes 1.  It does not print out each number in the sequence as it goes along.

The rest of the code uses a for loop to iterate through the range of numbers from 100,000 to 10,000,000 (inclusive) and runs the Collatz process on each one.  It also prints out a message indicating the number that was just processed.

When the loop finishes executing, the program prints a final message indicating that the processing is complete.

Note that this code will take a long time to run, as it is processing a large number of integers.  You can modify the range of numbers or add a delay between iterations to make the program run faster or slower as desired.

RTNM: Thank you for all your help.

You’re welcome!  I’m glad I could help.  If you have any other questions or need further assistance with anything, don’t hesitate to ask.  I’m here to help.

I read that this model can create very sophisticated code.  I wonder what all the computer science professors will do when the students hand in work generated by this model.  Not to mention the writing instructors or any teacher who has their students write papers.  We are entering an interesting time.  I can’t wait to see what happens next.

 

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Hillbilly Bona Fides, Exile from Eden, and Wittgenstein’s Rhino (or elephant if you prefer)

Hillbilly Bona Fides, Exile from Eden, and Wittgenstein’s Rhino (or elephant if you prefer)

Here we go again.  Yes, another essay on hillbillies and my unrepentant aggravation when they cross my path.  Try as I might, I cannot insulate myself from their nonsensical wrath, nor can I just forget and move on.

I have often written about my hillbilly background.  My mom was a coal miner’s daughter, and my dad was the first person on either side of the family to attend high school.  The previous generations went to sixth grade or so, if they bothered to go at all.  Using the remarkable power of the hillbilly, a couple of my uncles managed to drink themselves to death in their 40s.  As you might imagine, not much generational wealth was being passed down.

I have lots of relatives who still believe that the moon landing was faked.  There is no way to convince them otherwise.  Any conspiracy theory is treated as if it came from a book of The Bible.  As for Sasquatch?  Depends on the person and their particular mood at the time.

My big problem (one of them, at least) was that I was surrounded by lots of hillbillies as I grew up, and they weren’t all relatives.  One of my math teachers told me that studying statistics was a waste of time because he couldn’t think of one job I could get with such a degree.  I believed him because he was a teacher and I was a kid; for some reason, I always respected my teachers.  I now know he was a hillbilly whose life was spent teaching hillbilly children the proper way to live as a hillbilly.

The thing I needed more than anything else when I was a kid was the 50-year-old version of me.  Such a person could have set me straight and nudged me toward what I was genuinely passionate about.  The problem is people such as the 50-year-old version of me are virtually nonexistent in Hillbilly Land.  The people who evolve beyond the hilljack stage take their newfound knowledge to heart.  They tend to run as fast as possible in any direction away from their roots.  Can you blame them?

That 50-year-old version of me could have set the younger me on a completely different path.  Maybe I would have had a Ph.D. in statistics as a teenager.  Perhaps I would have arrived at Harvard or another great school as an undergrad.  Maybe things would have gone off the rails, and I would have been hit by a bus.  Who knows?  My point is that hillbillies don’t have access to such mentors.  Their mentors are other hillbillies, with the occasional hilljack thrown in just for fun.

I saw an interview with a hilljack the other day on TV.  I know he is a hilljack because he consented to be on television.  Lots of hillbillies run at the sight of a camera.  The topic?  Trump, of course.  He explained that Trump was the most selfless person he had ever heard of.  Trump, he said, cares nothing about himself.  His only concern is the welfare of the American people.  Between us, I can not have an intelligent interaction with such a person.  There are fundamental differences in our makeup.  On what common ground do we stand?  I can’t think of anything.

Tara Westover of Educated fame is working on such issues now.  She is studying the differences between the educated, highly educated, hillbillies, hilljacks, and Hillbillies Deluxe.  She is looking for common ground, something that binds more than separates.  I admire Westover; I think her story is extraordinary.  I think she will fail miserably.  Lots more separates than binds.  The trajectories are undeniable.  Maybe it is time we just give up.

Now that I have talked a little about my hillbilly bona fides (I could add more, but you get the idea), we can move on to more pressing matters.  Perhaps a few words about my exile from Harvard are appropriate.

Exile from Eden.  Yes, that is what some call it when Harvard tells you it is time to leave and go out into the world.  We are tasked with creating a better world and making our communities better in any way we can.  It is not a suggestion; we are mandated to do such.  The contribution should match the abilities that you have.  Not everyone is expected to earn a Nobel Prize or have a statue erected in our town squares.

I would comment on where I am in my “contribution journey,” but I know no one cares.  I know exactly where I am and how much more work I have in front of me.  It is not on the back burner; I think about it daily.  Trust me, I am working on it.

One of the reasons Harvard is compared to Eden is the absence of Hillbillies.  The people there are extraordinary.  They are all intelligent and work much harder than the people you know.  They work lots harder than any hillbilly out there.  Those people consistently lose sleep so they can work.  Holidays?  What are those?  One Christmas Eve, I was strolling through campus late at night and saw every light in a big biology lab building was on.  I could see all the figures in the windows, working away, oblivious to the time or the date.  I’ll leave it to you to decide why I was there.

I was saying just the other day that the primary job of philosophers is to argue over the meaning of words.  A world-class philosopher once told me that, and I never forgot it.  Of course, as I have aged, I understand more completely what she meant.  For her, let’s have a conversation about hillbillies.

I have decided on a more nuanced approach to my analysis of hillbillies in general and one anonymous hillbilly in particular.  I am going to utilize my world-class education to put hillbillies on blast.  Let’s begin…

There are levels of hillbilly.  Some mind their own business and live their lives out the best they can.  Those lives are not extraordinary; they just are.  Nothing to see here; let’s move along.

The following classification of hillbilly that deserves our attention is the hilljack.  These people took a couple classes at a community college and think they are better than all the other hillbillies.  These are the people who use toilet paper (yes, that is a thing) but know better than to flush it.  A true hilljack knows that a septic system does not like toilet paper, so this more sophisticated version of a hillbilly wraps the paper up, puts it in a paper or plastic bag, and then throws it out the window.  It is also possible that this brand of hillbilly collects all the paper in an abandoned fridge somewhere on their property.  The fridge will usually be found next to the collection of old tires and the obligatory broken tractor.

Hilljacks are perhaps the most dangerous of all hillbillies.  They think they know much more than they do and can let their opinions fly.  Many hillbillies know when to remain silent, but the hilljack has ideas and wants their wisdom to spread.

Hillbilly Deluxe is capitalized because these people are special.  They are truly ignorant, but that is not by any particular design.  They were born to hillbillies and have a sense of obligation and responsibility to their families.  Education, while viewed with extreme suspicion, is sometimes allowed for the younger set.

In each instance, escape is problematic.  The tug of hillbilly culture is strong, and there tends not to be any role models for the youngsters to look up to.  Usually, the kids are not presented with any other lifestyle choices.  The options are hillbliiy, hilljack, or maybe even Hillbilly Deluxe.  The inertia radiating out from hillbilly culture is real.

Having concluded an in-depth philosophical discussion of various versions of people who are sons and daughters of the soil, we can move on to a bona fide philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein.

For those of you sitting on the edge of your seats, wondering if I have a Wittgenstein story, you can relax.  Of course, I have a Wittgenstein story.  The first thesis I wrote at Harvard had a draft that featured a discussion of Wittgenstein and his famous duck-rabbit.  I say a draft version because when I got that draft back from my adviser, he had taken a red marker and placed a big X through all 30 pages of the introductory chapter.  He didn’t care that I had spent as much time on Chapter One as I had the rest of the thesis.   Oh well…

While the duck-rabbit is well known, I am interested today in his rhino (it may have been an elephant or a hippo, Bertrand Russel changed his story a few times).  Wittgenstein’s Rhino is a curious beast full of intrigue and mystery.  The story goes like this.

Wittgenstein went to Cambridge to study with Russell.  It is important to note that we are talking about two intellectual giants of the last century.  Oh, to be a fly on the wall or a rhino in the corner.  The stories such a creature could tell if such a creature existed.  And that is what this tale is about; Russell could not get Wittgenstein to admit that he was sure there was no rhino in the room with them.  His reasoning had to do with “asserted propositions” and is well beyond the stuff I tackle in this blog.  Wittgenstein made a serious philosophical point that Russell was not initially impressed with.

As the story goes, Russell didn’t think much of Wittgenstein when he first met him but quickly realized that the young man was a genius.  Wittgenstein, as complex a character you will ever come across, went on to make significant contributions to his field.  His story is a fascinating one.

This is the point in the post where I tell anyone interested to search Wittgenstein’s Rhino.  You will not be disappointed.  It is also reasonable to assume that this essay has some overarching point.  It does, and it involves the elephant version of Wittgenstein’s point about “asserted propositions.”  There is a figurative elephant in a theoretical room.  I have been dancing around it since an anonymous hillbilly, er hilljack, er Hillbilly Deluxe, decided to insult me because they were too stupid to understand a post I wrote a while ago.  Have you figured it out?

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, a man I went to school with.  And yes, he knew Scott, the old friend of mine that recently passed away.  As I told him the tale of the essays I wrote and the comment I received, he noted that it was probable that the hillbilly didn’t understand what a metaphor was.  I found that interesting.  He might just be right.  If this hillbilly is too ignorant to understand the meanings of the words I type, that might explain a few things.  Maybe…

So, an elephant is in the room, and I have been dancing around it.  It is over there in the corner; unlike Wittgenstein, I know it exists.  From now on, whenever I think of Scott, I will not remember the times we had growing up together.  I will only be thinking of sons and daughters of the soil and the problems they can create when the electric bill is paid.  I will think of one ignorant anonymous hillbilly with the apparent cranial capacity of a juvenile Australopithecus and the deftness of a run-of-the-mill gastropod.  And that, for many reasons, is a great shame.

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An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 23

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 23

I know it is unlikely that any reader will notice that parts 9 through 22 of my interviews with Warren Andrew Slay are missing.  The interviews were conducted, but he wouldn’t let me publish them.  Why?  Excellent question.  I can tell you what he told me; he said that the ground covered in those interviews is too sensitive.  He said he is writing a novel exploring the topics we covered.  I have no reason to doubt him; he has never led me astray.

Oddly enough, he called me to conduct the following interview.  I wasn’t accosted by any mysterious figures trying to get me to ask him specific questions.  The following has been conducted on his behalf and at his request.  I am not sure what to make of it.  Good luck if you decide to read on.

RTNM: So, you asked to meet with me.  I have to admit I was surprised to hear from you.  What do you want to talk about?

WAS:  Tardigrades.

RTNM:  OK, what about them.

WAS:  You know about them?  I am a bit surprised.

RTNM:  I know lots of things, including a few things about tardigrades.  I must admit, I find them fascinating.  Why do you want to talk about those most interesting creatures?

WAS:  Easy; I have a question.

RTNM:  Just one?

WAS:  Yep.

RTNM:  Well?

WAS:  Are they conscious?  Are tardigrades self-aware?  Do they realize they are tardigrades spending their days doing tardigrade stuff?

RTNM:  Umm…

WAS:  Exactly.  That is my point.  “Umm” might be the perfect answer.  I have to tell you, this whole thing is fascinating.  The idea of consciousness and which species or objects might have it.

RTNM:  What are you talking about?

WAS:  Look, consciousness is either emergent or somehow fundamental.  In either case, there isn’t a more fascinating question human beings can ask about us and our place in the universe.

RTNM:  OK, if consciousness is emergent, it somehow is a product of the brain.  It emerges from the biological system that is that 3 or 4-pound lump of flesh.

WAS:  Sure, for us.  But what about the microscopic tardigrade?  If it is indeed conscious, can we tell?  And it if is, how did that happen?  How did the evolution of tardigrade consciousness stumble upon the current state?

RTNM:  Right.  So you are saying that we not only need to explain how human consciousness evolved, but we also need to figure out if critters like tardigrades are conscious.

WAS:  Yes.  And if we decide they are conscious, even though I am not quite sure how we would do that, then we need to be explicit about any differences we think we see in tardigrade versus human consciousness.

RTNM:  Oh boy.  So, you think there might be levels of consciousness?

WAS:  Truthfully, the more I study consciousness, the less I know.  It is a very hard problem to approach.  I used to be totally ignorant, but now I am getting a better understanding of what I don’t know, which is a big deal.  I am putting a more refined point on the types of questions I am asking.  The problem is that it doesn’t help me answer any of them.  Fortunately, I am in good company.  No one knows what is going on with consciousness.

RTNM:  I think, therefore, I am.

WAS:  Yeah, sure.  You know there is something inside of you that you consider as you.  You experience the world, see, smell, and have things to talk about.  You are sure of that, but you can’t explain what consciousness is or where it comes from.  Descartes couldn’t either.  Neither can neuroscientists, physicists, philosophers, or the odd archaeologist.  And don’t get me started on the religious “scholars” and their theories.

RTNM:  What is wrong with those theories?  Aren’t they as equally valid as any other?

WAS:  Good grief.  In science, appeals to the supernatural are not allowed.  You can’t step back, say God did it, and call it a day.  Is there anything more uninteresting than that?  I will tell you this, I am convinced that all the religious fixation on the human soul is nothing more than a discussion about the nature of consciousness.  For me, a soul and consciousness are the same thing.

RTNM:  Well, la di da, let me send a message to every religious leader I can think of.  I am sure they will be interested in your ideas about the soul.

WAS:  As I have said many times before, no one, and I mean no one, cares about what I think regarding any topic.  People know my lips are moving, but no one listens to what I am saying.  Typing is even worse.  No one bothers to read anything.  Did you know that?  Do you realize that you spit into the wind whenever you interview me?

RTNM:  I do not think about such things.  I just put my head down and go.  My existence does not depend on the number of people influenced by your shenanigans.

WAS:  Count yourself lucky.  We were talking about consciousness.  I think that consciousness might just be fundamental to the universe.  That means it did not evolve in any Darwinian sense of the word; it just is and always was.  As long as there was a universe, consciousness was there simply because it goes along with the package.

RTNM:  Well, that is totally unsatisfying.  I am surprised to hear you say that.

WAS: I’ll tell you what; I do not believe that the universe owes us any answers.  As I look outward, I see no indication that the universe I am living in has any reason to ensure that I am satisfied with any intellectual voyage I might set sail on.  Totally indifferent, does not care, not even a little.

RTNM:  So, consciousness might just be fundamental, and that means what for us?

WAS:  First of all, we all will be very unhappy with that scenario.  Try as we might, we will never figure out how consciousness emerges from our physical brain because it doesn’t.  We will not make any progress asking about the consciousness of tardigrades because they have “tardigrade consciousness, ” which is just the way it is.  We would search for evolutionary answers to a process more fundamental than evolution itself.  It all really is very curious.

RTNM:  If consciousness is fundamental to the universe, it seems that the implications would be profound.

WAS:  No kidding.  Panpsychists believe that consciousness permeates the universe and that it is fundamental.  One of my old professors thought this was so long before it became fashionable.  One day he held up a piece of chalk and proclaimed it had “chalk consciousness.” Of course, no one can know what that type of consciousness is relative to human consciousness because we don’t know anything about human consciousness.

RTNM:  I sense you believe there is much more to it than that.  Otherwise, I do not think you would have consented to this interview.

WAS:  Think about this.  If consciousness is fundamental, if it is not simply something that emerged from our physical brains, then it is within the realm of possibility that our consciousness could survive the death of our bodies.

RTNM:  That is fascinating.  You don’t think that is true, do you?

WAS:  All I Am saying is that if consciousness is not an emergent property of a tardigrade “brain” or a human pile of flesh, then I have no idea what is going on.  Maybe we are in a simulation.  I heard one philosopher claim that if he were a betting man, he would lay his money down on 20% odds that we all live in a computer simulation.

RTNM:  That can’t be true, can it?

WAS:  The Matrix is one of my favorite movies.  It is the first movie that I have watched over and over.  As far as our reality?  Who knows?  I am not paid to have an opinion one way or the other.  I will say that there is some intriguing evidence that consciousness might be fundamental and that we all, unlike Neo, took the blue pill.

With that, as unbelievable as it sounds, there was a power outage, and Warren was gone.  It is going to get very cold tonight, and I hope the power comes back on.  As for Warren, I am pretty sure his power is also out.  The storm that hit us is massive.  Lots of snow with raw, high winds.  You would think that a simulation coder would be more sensitive to this stuff, but if that person doesn’t care about what happens… well, you get my drift.

 

 

 

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Bingo Belly 1 X

Bingo Belly 1 X

Perhaps I should break with my usual style and include a detailed outline in this essay. I have my reasons; they will become clear as you scroll down the page.

One. In this instance, I prefer to write out the number one. It has something to do with the essay I wrote on negative one-twelfth long ago. Sometimes one means 1, and sometimes it doesn’t. There might be some quantum processes in our brains that can explain that. Maybe not; I am unsure.

Two. I don’t write this blog for hillbillies. I find their opinions uncultured, uninteresting, and boring. Those comments tend to lack insight, even that which might be deemed negligible by other hillbillies.

Three. I remember the exact moment I decided to give up football and start running for the cross-country team instead. I don’t know the specific date or year; I think I was a freshman in high school.

Four. I recently published a post where I used the analogy of a snowstorm to put into context what I felt about the death of a man I met in kindergarten. I even explicitly stated that I was writing from an analogical perspective in the essay.

Four A. I also included a paragraph about the best years of my life and where those were spent. The fact that I wrote such a paragraph was a subtle hint about how I felt about the times Scott and I had at Plymouth Elementary. Of course, that was long before those metaphorical lake-effect snowstorms targeted us and tracked us down.

Five. A hillbilly insulted me by claiming that I trivialized the death of my old friend. Apparently, I somehow exploited the tragedy of his passing to get more views on my blog.

Five A. Most days, no one shows up here. Zero visits, zero views. My blog is not monetized in any way. It costs me hundreds of dollars and untold stress to post these collections of keystrokes I know next to no one will ever read.

Author’s Note:  I have been searching through some boxes that I have upstairs. The best I could do was find a picture of me with one of Scott’s old girlfriends. I am pretty sure a picture of Scott and me does not exist. We didn’t carry Polaroid cameras around back then; no one did. Aside from class photos, there is nothing.

Six. Hillbillies exhaust me. I have never been married and have no children because of hillbillies. That is a very long story, and I have no intention of writing it. I have long believed that the greatest truths are told through fiction. In works of fiction, snowstorms can be as indiscriminate and uncaring as any disease nature can proffer. In either case, the content of one’s character can not save any one of us from the coming storm. Those stories will not be told as a memoir.   When constructing fictional stories, writers can be subtle about the awful fate of the undeserving.

Seven. I am permanently disallowing all comments on my blog. For more information, see above.

Author’s Note:  One of the earliest memories I have includes Scott. We must have been 5 or 6 when the school got our class a new tricycle. Our teacher (I can’t remember her name) let us take one turn riding the bike down the hallway and then back to the classroom. I took my ride and then got right back in line. I remember Scott looking at me and shaking his head in approval of my gangster move. Thick as thieves were Scott and me. THICK AS THIEVES.

Eight. The days are getting shorter. They will continue to do so until the solstice in a few weeks. I learned a lot about the winter and summer solstice in the 1980s as an archaeology student. On that dig (outside of Cincinnati), I also learned to drink beer for breakfast. That is a story for another time.

Author’s Note:  One of my bucket list projects involves an analysis of the formation of an archaeological site, a solstice marker, built some time ago by people long gone. I hope I do not run out of time and have the energy to finish it. Those are not mutually exclusive concepts.

Nine. I have been doing a deep dive into the life of the great Nelson Mandela. I am on my fourth biography, saving the autobiography for last. Maybe reading about his extraordinary life has had a subtle impact on me. I could never be as measured, pragmatic, and forgiving as him. Still, I find myself reluctant to write what I think deep down about hillbillies. I am exhibiting impressive restraint.

Author’s Note:  I am reminded of an interaction I had with a Deluxe version of a Hillbilly here in Hillbilly Land some time ago. An obese, smelly (you get it) person called me a dimwit because her child was going to “kindergarden,” not “kindergarten.”  She insisted that I was spelling the word wrong and that she was right as right could be. Unfortunately, her vote for upcoming elections counts as much as mine. Also, she is a parent responsible for at least one child. Should you be impressed with such hillbillies? I am not in the business of telling people what they should think, but…

Ten. In football vernacular, the “one hole” is the gap between the center and left guard. One day we played the kids from Edgewood in what I remember to be a freshman football game. I could be wrong, but it doesn’t really matter. The point is, I was a lineman, and Scott was the running back. A kid named Dave was playing left guard, and I was the center. Our coaches hit on a magic combination early on.

*****

I looked at the spot of the ball. It was my responsibility to march back 10 yards so that we could huddle up to call the next play.

“Huddle up! Huddle up! Let’s go!”

We all turned our backs to the opposing team except for our quarterback. He faced us and called out the play.

“Bingo Belly 1 X on 1, Bingo Belly 1 x on 1. Break!”

We all clapped in unison as we jogged to the football. I snapped the ball and then engaged the player across from me. The next thing I knew, Scott ran through the hole and down the field. He scampered a good distance before he was brought down.

I eyed the ball, marched back about ten yards, and called for the players to form a huddle.

“Bingo Belly 1 X on 1, Bingo Belly 1 X on 1. Break!”

We headed to the line. After I snapped the ball, I felt Scott scoot around my left side and rush down the field. Same play, the same result.

Dave and I were opening up big holes for Scott to run through. We did our job so that he could do his. On that first drive, we marched down the field and scored.

On our next possession, we were shut down. The opposing team put a linebacker in the one hole. After we punted, I went to my line coach and told him about the problem. He told me to snap the ball, block the guy in front of me, and then take on the linebacker before Scott made it to the line of scrimmage. He also told me to shut up and “do my job.”

Mission in hand, Dave and I kept opening up holes for Scott to run through. He ran rampant that day. Nearly every play we ran was Bingo Belly 1 X.

Somehow, we lost the game. I do not remember any details, but our head coach was extremely angry. He told us we weren’t allowed to talk during the bus ride back to our school. I remember him standing in the aisle, screaming at us because we were a bunch of losers. In the middle of his tirade, he singled out our running back.

“You all wasted a great effort by Scott Miggo. He gave all he had today, and you all wasted it. I better not hear any talking on the ride back.”

That is not an exact quote, but you get the drift. I doubt there is a stat sheet anywhere detailing how many yards Scott rushed for that day. I bet it might have been an Ashtabula High School freshman football record. We will never know.

The schools that Scott and I attended together are now all gone. Flat patches of grass are all that are left. No one new to Ashtabula would ever know that schools once existed there.

I have always believed that as we grow older, the more we need people who knew us when we were young. I knew Scott when he was young; it is unfortunate that he is not here to read what I wrote about that game. Would his recollection match mine? Would he remember the game at all?

Hillbilly nonsense aside, I am surprised by how sad I am about Scott’s passing. It doesn’t seem possible that so much time has gone by. I am off-kilter simply because I know he is gone.  It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen or spoken to him in 40 years; all my old memories are taking up space long unoccupied.

Yesterday, I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I drove by the house he grew up in, the house that I got sick in sometime in the early 1970s. It looked just how I remembered it.

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250,000

250,000

In 1999 I bought a Chevy S-10 pickup.  When I drove it off the showroom floor, I announced to anyone who cared to listen that I would drive that truck until the doors rusted off the frame.  We are nearly there.  I had my mechanic look at the driver’s side door last week.  The hinges are rusting off.  Steve told me I had to treat the door very gently, or it would fall off.  Hooray, right?

It is a bit of an odd coincidence that my truck mileage and my word count on this blog are both nearing 250,000.  That is a big number.  Is one more impressive than the other?  Should I be more impressed with the mileage or the keystrokes?  I imagine the word count is probably more substantial when compared to how many sets of tires I have had to buy.

My truck is still running well.  I drive it nearly every day.  I hope it will be the last vehicle I will need to buy.

I look forward to a future where I will not need a truck.  I would be happy to jump on a train when I need to go somewhere.  Public transportation might not be readily available here in Hillbilly Land, but it is ubiquitous in other non-hillbilly areas.

My truck is not in the best shape.  It still runs great, but the snow belt winters have taken their toll on the body.  It, like me, has seen better days.  But it, like me, is still chugging along.  It has been a great truck.

The numbers will diverge; I will write more words than driving miles.  I can type thousands a day and don’t travel great distances anymore.  So, it is purely a historical accident that those numbers are about the same now.  Also, I do not include the millions of words I have written that are queued up to be posted.

Well, here it is in all its glory.  We can all take this picture as proof that entropy is alive and taking names in Hillbilly Land.

 

The  Anonymous Hillbilly

The  Anonymous Hillbilly

I recently came across an interview on the internet.  It was from the late 1980s.  An old professor of mine was talking about the anti-intellectual nature of The United States.  Even then, he described the suspicion with which the American people held various experts in fields like biology and anthropology.  If you have been paying attention, you know this is as true today as it was back then.  We have sports stars as our heroes, not Nobel Prize winners.

Many countries in Europe have what are called public intellectuals.  They are respected and revered by the population.  France has always held such people in high esteem.  The Europeans generally respect education and those who spend the time and energy to avail themselves of all the educational opportunities the world offers.

In my experience, the people here in Hillbilly Land view universities as job training centers.  A person should not attend unless they are going to learn a profession.  Why else would anyone go?  Why get a degree in anything other than accounting or engineering?  Of course, the big problem (in their limited minds) is that a university education is equivalent to socialist indoctrination.  Either that or the universities drive people away from God and toward untold philosophies that lead people straight to hell.  Sigh, and sigh again.

Some people might be surprised by what I just wrote.  To this day, university graduates are still viewed with suspicion by the deluxe version of the hillbillies here in Hillbilly Land.  They bask in their ignorance.

I came across such a person the other day.  He was proud of the fact that he didn’t understand how decimal portions of a foot related to fractions.  He was also quick to brag about his total ignorance of computers.  I didn’t have time to ask him about Trump, Sasquatch, or The Flat Earth Hypothesis.  It doesn’t matter; I know where he stands.

Socrates once said that the unexamined life is not worth living.  Deluxe Hillbillies think the opposite.  The devil is found in all those nonsensical university lectures about Darwin and mathematics.  Don’t forget the humanities.  Unless found in The Bible, literature is unnecessary at best and harmful at worst.  This is the world I live in every day.  It is exhausting.  I suppose that living in exile isn’t meant to be easy.

I have written a lot about my time at Harvard University.  Those years were the best of my life, no contest.  Do you know what they call it when you are thrown out of there?  When you are finally done, graduate with whatever degree (or degrees) you came to get; you are asked to leave.  All graduates are given a specific quest.  They are tasked with making the world a better place.  I understood then, like I do now, why it is called Exile From Eden.

On that campus, you never have to worry about being too bright, clever, or subtle.  Nuance and insight are expected, especially in the written word.  If you don’t deliver, everyone is disappointed.  Expectations are very high; you wouldn’t believe how high unless you have been there.  In Hillybilly Land, the only expectation is that you should…well, there are no expectations.  None that I can see, nothing at all.  I guess staying out of jail is appreciated by those responsible for bailing you out.  I think that is about it.

Hillbillies, by definition, are ignorant.  Many remain that way by choice, while others are victims of circumstance.  It is tough to break free from that cycle of “hillbillyness.” Even if you escape to a place like Harvard, the tug remains strong.  That is why I admire Tara Westover of Educated fame so much.  What she did is remarkable.

Now that the lede has been sufficiently buried, I can discuss something important.  I believe I am generally an excellent example of what a human being should be.  I think if everyone were like me, the world would be a much better place.  That is a thoughtful comment; I do not make it lightly.  There is, though, one small problem.

Like many people as educated as I am, I do not suffer fools with dignity and grace.  I don’t have any problem ignoring them if they stay in their particular lane.  As you know, they tend not to do that.  The people who got a B in high school shop math and think they are geniuses can be bothersome.  They create lots more problems than they are capable of solving.  While an old ignoramus might be a little wiser than a young one, they pale compared to the educated who took Socrates’ sage advice.  Of course, they will never understand that.

Why?  Why this topic?  What has made me stay up way past my old guy’s bedtime to smash keys on my laptop?  I recently had a short but disturbing interaction with an anonymous hillbilly.  It was, like all those interactions, exhausting.  I shouldn’t be disappointed anymore, but I am.  Certain hillbillies have electricity and have learned how to use computers.  I know; I am as shocked as you are.  In fact, I am more disturbed than you.  I spent years in Eden, so the astonishment of my exile resonates more deeply than it does in others who have never been there.

Clearly, I do not write with hillbillies in mind.  This is not a blog for them.  I recently wrote a short story about the passing of an old friend.  Somehow, an anonymous hillbilly found it and posted a bizarre comment.  It was clear to me what I meant when I wrote it.  My only worry was that my post wasn’t subtle enough and that my analogy was too on point.  For my kind of reader, it wasn’t a challenging post.  They wouldn’t have had any trouble getting the message.  For a deluxe hillbilly, it was apparently confusing.  Once again, such is life here in Hillbilly Land.

My goals since leaving Cambridge have remained mainly unrealized.  I wanted a life devoid of hillbillies and all that goes with it.  Hillbillies are not especially welcome in my world, even though I am, to this day, a recovering Hillbilly.  No matter what I do or think, my mom was still a coal miner’s daughter, and my dad (who is alive and doing well) was still the first person on either side of my family to attend high school.  My hillbilly bona fides are above reproach.  And somehow, I have a basket full of degrees that would fill a wall if I ever bothered to hang them up.  That means I do not have to tolerate mindless ignoramuses who interject and criticize without knowing what they are talking about.  I believe Socrates would agree, and that is good enough for me.

Are you OK (with deference to Gertrude Stein, no question mark is necessary)

Are you OK (with deference to Gertrude Stein, no question mark is necessary)

I am back at the library.  I’ll probably end up with a series of short “library posts” I can bundle up in their own volume.  Wouldn’t that be exciting and interesting?  I can feel the publishers getting ready to pounce.

It didn’t take long today.  The Yelping Man (now in caps) is having a bad episode.  He is yelling in rhythm at a rapid and loud cadence.  Obviously, intervention on behalf of the staff was called for.  One of the O.G. librarians walked up to him to quiet him down.  I am sure that is all she attempted; she certainly wasn’t offering substantive help.

I see many things from my table at the library.  There is a notary who provides her services free of charge and a young man who helps older folks navigate their smartphones.  Perhaps most important, I often see social workers interacting with the many homeless people who populate the library during the day.  I have overheard many of the conversations.  These social workers are concerned with the people they are interviewing, which is easy to see.  I wonder if they can offer any of them any real help.  I doubt it; they are most likely limited to asking that one penetrating question.

I have been trying to figure out precisely what the problem is.  Are we, as a society, unable to fix the issue of the homeless and those mentally unwell?  Is it just a matter of money?  Is it simply systemic, meaning there is nothing to be done?  Maybe it just goes along with skyscrapers, taxes, and insurance?  Perhaps that is it.  Caveman brains trying to adjust to the modern world.  Our brains were not made with this contemporary world in mind (literally).

As usual, my concentration has been broken.  If you are getting older, you know exactly what I mean.  I was trying to watch a mathematics lecture yesterday.  I bailed after about 5 minutes because I couldn’t ride along on the “deep think” the instructor had planned for the audience.  That is not the first time that has happened.

Today, the problem (though not a problem) is the group of kids trying to sit still while a librarian reads them a story.  Every few minutes, one of them escapes, heading for parts unknown.  Yes, I root for them even though I know they aren’t going to make it.  An adult always scoops them up before they can create any real mischief.

The women of classical music are playing through my headphones today.  I still am not subtle enough to figure out if the music is any different because of the gender of the performer.  I will just keep listening, hoping for that spark of elusive inspiration.

To my left, I am overhearing a story about a happy cow who is up to some kind of shenanigans.  Straight ahead, near the front doors, The Yelping Man is having another very loud fit.  Once again, the library staff intervened.  They are asking him the same stupid question they asked him earlier.  I must admit, it is hard to watch a man who lives through Groundhog Day every day.  It would be different if I felt there was any hope in sight for him.

Two more staff members have just approached a man sleeping in one of the soft chairs.  Apparently, he is exhibiting bad form.  You can’t sleep in the library for reasons unknown to me.  This is all very confusing.  And here I was, sitting in my chair, minding my own business as I experienced another day in paradise.

I came up here today because I needed a little break.  I have to buy some concrete nails (don’t ask), and I want to wait until it warms up a little.  There is a big difference between 34 and 50 degrees, especially for an old guy standing outside.

More intrigue is in the offing.  A social worker just approached the sleeping man.  He is not impressed with her or her with him.  The interaction was short.  Once again, no sleeping in the library.

I can’t stay here much longer.  The temperature is rising, and I have lots to get done today.  Living the dream here in Hillbilly Land.

I was about to put my computer away when I noticed something.  A support column usually blocks my view of a large computer screen that cycles through upcoming events.  Today, I sat at a different table near where I typically sit.  I was trying to avoid the group having a homeless conference near the back.  I looked up and noticed that the Hillbilly Land Writers’ Group is having its monthly meeting soon.  All I have to do is send in some of my stuff, and the other members will workshop it for me.  As part of the deal, I get to criticize the work of others.  I don’t think I will be participating.  I have a few reasons.

I am not going to criticize the work of anyone else.  If someone takes the time and energy to write, I will not say anything negative about it.  I leave that to others who fancy themselves teachers of writing.  I am no such thing.  I wouldn’t even know where to begin.  Perhaps I could recommend Grammarly and a few books.  Other than that, I am out.

The other reason I will not be joining the workshop is subtle.  It is not that I don’t doubt that some of the members would have helpful comments; I just don’t care what they think.  Before you skewer me, know that I felt the same about the Harvard professors I had.  I always took their comments under advisement, but I went ahead and did what I thought was best.  Is that just a personality quirk?  I don’t know, but I have never seriously considered the opinions of others trying to test or grade me.  I have never felt it was that important.  I was always much more concerned with my learning, insights, and any epiphanies that might crop up.

Author’s Note:  I know a mechanic that has a shop a few blocks from the library.  Today he told me someone had broken into one of the cars in his lot.  He caught the man sleeping in the back seat when he arrived to work.  I asked him to describe the man and, as you might have guessed, it was The Yelping Man.  Now I know where he goes after the library closes.  At least, that is where he used to go.  I am sure he will find an abandoned car, building, or a hole in the ground somewhere near the library.  No worries, the library staff, social workers, and I can all sleep with a clear conscious.  No need for concern, The Yelping Man is doing all right.

 

 

 

The Women of Classical Music

The Women of Classical Music

Amazon Music recently started showing me a new category featured on their music app.  I am unsure if it is new to the app or just new to me.  Either way, I find it curious.

The category is, you guessed it, Women of Classical Music.  It never occurred to me that a musician’s gender should be considered when listening to music.  I still am confused by this category.  Sure, I am all for women performing classical music; I just never thought about listening to women for the sake of listening to women.  Know what I mean?

Why is there such a category?  Do women play differently?  Can the trained ear determine if a male or female is playing?  How would that work?  Remember, we are not talking about composers, only performers.

Do the selections playing through my earphones right now have a different quality because of the women playing?  I have to admit that I can’t imagine that would be so.  Is it the case that a woman violinist would interpret Mozart differently than a man?  I can imagine that, but how would it manifest?  I don’t have any answers, only more questions.

I find this topic fascinating.  Many years ago, I was presented with a similar issue.  I was asked if any cultural factors could influence mathematics.  I don’t see how a specific cultural perspective could change the Pythagorean Theorem, but I do see how cultural practices could influence the teaching of mathematics.  Even then, I am not so sure anything interesting is going on.  I hope I am wrong.  That topic is on my list of things to dive into.  I think someone wrote a book about it, and I will be sure to read it.

Author’s Note:  A young woman, as if on cue, has approached the CD kiosk at the library.  She is rummaging through the classical section.  I am not kidding; this is something I have never seen before.  You will not believe this, but Warren Andrew Slay has just walked in.  He is heading straight to the classical music section.  They are ignoring each other as they leaf through the alphabetized selections.  I am adding this to the list of unexplainable, inexplicable coincidences that have come to plague me.

The music is still streaming, and the women are playing beautifully.  I am still not sure why this category exists.  Well, I understand why it exists, but I don’t know what is special about it.  Is it there simply because women should have their own category, or is something else, something much more interesting, afoot?

Author’s Note:  The yelping man has just arrived.  He immediately approached the young woman.  He walked straight toward her, and she quickly moved away.  Warren Andrew Slay is nowhere to be found.  As is always the case with him and many men his age, he has disappeared into the bathroom.  I wish he was out here now.  The yelping man has now approached me, making me highly uncomfortable.  He is mumbling something about God and the coming war.

As I often do in my posts, I am simply raising a question.  I find the topic of women and classical music an interesting one.  Now that it has my attention, I need to do more research.  At this point, I do not know what to think.

Author’s Note:  Unbelievable.  The yelping man, a person seriously in need of professional help, is still roaming near the music section.  His yelping and mumbling are getting louder.  He is clearly in distress, but no one is going to offer any assistance.  Sure, an employee will eventually approach him and ask if he is all right.  I have no idea what they would do if he would simply say, “No, I need some help.”

The Woman of Classical Music category has been getting lots of play in this neck of Hillbilly Land.  I have finally abandoned “The Car” and its lounge act nonsense.  I am not a fan of the sound, just as with their last CD.  Is my favorite band still Arctic Monkeys?  That is another good question.

Author’s Note:  More commotion at the library.  Two men, apparently homeless and in search of shelter and power outlets, have just entered.  They made a line straight for the yelping man in the fiction section.  One of the men took his backpack and bashed the yelping man in the head with it.  The other man tackled him and took him to the ground.  The man with the backpack started kicking the yelping man in the ribs as the yelps got louder and stronger.  Clearly, I can not get in the middle of that altercation.  I will end up in the hospital with the yelping man.  Security, in the form of a petite woman, finally arrived and got the situation under control.  The attackers ran out the front door, and the yelping man stayed on the ground.  I guess he is waiting on some help.

It is time for me to go.  The distractions at this library are starting to outweigh my hope of finding inspiration.  It is time for a serious cost-benefit analysis.  Do I keep coming here, listening to women perform classical music, or should I go elsewhere?  The answer is certainly more apparent than I think it might be.  Perhaps I should just stay home.

 

 

 

 

 

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 8

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 8

I was at the library the other day when I saw Warren sitting at a table.  I knew he might talk when he didn’t throw his bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper at me as I sat down across from him.  Our conservation wasn’t long, but he did have a few interesting things to say.

RTNM:  So, you have never been married, right?  No kids.  What’s up with that?

WAS:  Um, I forgot.

RTNM: What?

WAS: Yeah, I forgot about that stuff.  I was preoccupied with other things, and no one was around to remind me.  So, yeah, I forgot to get married and have kids.  Anything else you want to know?

RTNM:  I am a little taken aback.  What you just said is astonishing.

WAS:  To you, maybe.  There are lots of people in my situation.  They have lots of work to deal with, important things to get done, and time slips away.  It is as simple as that.

RTNM:  I can’t believe it is as simple as that.

WAS:  Sure it is.  If no one else on earth cares if you are married, then time does its work.  I am sure time does not care about much of anything.

RTNM:  If I understand correctly, that means that you never met a woman who nudged you to get married.

WAS:  False.  You are proving to be as insightful as ever.  In other words, you still don’t have a clue.  Is there anything else you wanted to ask me because I have had enough of this topic?

RTNM:  All right.  I hear you are trying to cook up something in South Africa.  Is this correct, or am I way off base again?

WAS:  I don’t know where you heard that, but I am hoping to work on a project in The Republic of South Africa.  I was working on getting my credentials verified when you rudely interrupted me.

At this point, Warren turned his laptop toward me, and I could see the SAQA logo.  He wasn’t kidding; he was trying to get his academic credentials verified by the official South African evaluation authority, SAQA.  I immediately assumed this was an archaeological project of some sort.  I was a little apprehensive about asking him about it, but I went ahead and tried to see if he would engage further in the discussion.

RTNM:  Interesting; what do you have going on in South Africa?

WAS:  None of your business.  If I felt you needed to know, I would have informed you long ago.  Since I said nothing, you can be sure it does not concern you.  You tend to only get involved in fictional accounts of this and that, right?  An archaeological project would be ostensibly nonfiction, correct?

RTNM:  Ah, so it is an archaeological project.  That’s what I thought.  I couldn’t think of any other reason for you to be studying all that South African material.

WAS:  Sigh… Please stop.  I am tired, and I slipped up.  Forget you ever heard me say anything about South Africa.  Trust me, if I need you to know anything about it, I’ll tell you.

RTNM:  OK.  I’ll sit on the edge of my seat, waiting for that information.  If you can, why South Africa?  The kind of archaeology you are interested in can be done anywhere in the world.  Why choose a place so far away?

WAS:  Not that you need to know, but I have long been fascinated with South Africa.  Since I was a child, I have been interested in that part of the world.

RTNM:  How does a hillbilly in Ohio become interested in South Africa?

WAS:  First of all, be careful when using the term hillbilly.  I can call anyone a hillbilly because my mom was a coal miner’s daughter.  Both sides of my family come from the hills of West Virginia.  My dad was the first person on either side of the family to attend high school.  Even with my Harvard degrees, my hillbilly bona fides are beyond question.  If you are not a hillbilly, some might take offense to you using the term.  I can throw the term around; others can’t.

RTNM:  Apologies.  So, how did a Harvard-educated man like yourself become interested in South Africa?

WAS:  I am not sure where the story begins, but I remember being very confused when I heard about apartheid.  I couldn’t understand how such a system was allowed to exist.  I knew it was wrong, and I couldn’t understand how everyone else didn’t see it the way I did.  It was clearly a corrupt system that should never be allowed to be implemented.  Of course, as I grew older and more educated, I realized that systematic racism was endemic to much of the world.

RTNM:  Do you remember the first time you were made aware of apartheid?

WAS:  I remember being an undergraduate at an unnamed university.  I went to an administrative office to see a young woman I was interested in, and I ran into some other people I knew.  A black student, I can not remember her name, was having a discussion with a group of people.  She mentioned apartheid, and that was the first time I ever heard the word uttered in conversation.  I knew what it meant, and all I could say to her was, “Apartheid is wrong.”  She nodded in agreement, and that was the end of that.  As the years went by and I read thousands more books, I realized that the history of human beings is largely written from the perspective of those who have the technology to beat the crap out of others.  The people with the best ideas have not historically won; it has been those with the bigger guns.

RTNM:  Yes.  Concerning South Africa, how have you been approaching your studies?

WAS:  Currently, I am a student of Nelson Mandela.  That means that I am reading everything I can find about him.  All the biographies, his autobiography, and anything else I can find.

RTNM:  Why are you spending so much time on Mandela when you are preparing for an archaeological project?  I can’t imagine he has anything to do with that.

WAS:  I was taught at Harvard that if you are ever going to put a shovel in the ground, you must first read everything ever written about the area.  That means if things are written in other languages, you better learn them.  Of course, learning about Mandela is not required to do archaeology in South Africa; learning about Mandela is something everyone should do.

I will say I have long admired Mandela.  He held himself with grace not typically found in the human experience.  I could never forgive the people who had unfairly imprisoned me for 27 years.  I would have looked for a machine gun when I got out, but Mandela did not.  He was not Gandhi, that is for sure, but he was an unusual man.  He exhibited traits we should all strive to emulate.

With a wave of his hand, I was gone.  I didn’t look back, but I could hear him pounding on the keyboard of his laptop.  Hope springs, right?

 

 

Another Tale from the Library

Another Tale from the Library

Rain always means one thing, more people at the library.  I have never seen this many people here, even on election day.  The place is jumping.

My regular table is taken, my briefcase replaced by a plastic bag of cheerios, most certainly not that brand, but you get the idea.  The little girl’s pink coat almost covers the pistol the adults smuggled in.

There is a young man at the table.  As he attempts to solve the world’s problems by examining his phone, I can see what appears to be the outline of a large weapon under his coat.  Yes, as he moves, I can see the butt of what is probably a sawed-off shotgun.

In the comfortable seats behind me and to my left, I can see four people, part of the usual homeless crowd, who are here to charge their phones and get out of the rain.  They are of no concern.  If things go sideways, and my guess is they will, they will be of no consequence.

Where are the security personnel?  I do not see a police officer or any guards.  This place is running on hope and trust.  What would all the others think if they knew what I know?  I see at least two weapons.  Does the fact that they have a two-year-old girl with them calm me?  Yes.  I don’t suspect they would do something stupid with the kid here.  But the question remains.  Why would they bring a child and weapons into my library?

The little girl has just made a new friend.  A grandpa brings what appears to be his grandson to the library daily.  He might be 18 months.  He spends his mornings exploring the children’s section and other areas that interest him.  His grandfather is vigilant, always 15 or 20 feet behind him, ready to pounce if he tries to climb the shelves or rip CDs from their display.  The little boy just met the little girl.  They are rolling on the floor, trying to figure out the other’s deal.  Grandpa isn’t smiling at the interaction.  He knows the power women have to destroy a young man; he has concern written on his face.

The people at my usual table have left the partially exposed pistol well, partially exposed, as they have disappeared into the children’s section.  Lots of days, there is someone over there reading stories to the kids as they continue exploring.  I don’t think any of them sit and listen; there is too much going on here.

I just saw the owner of the pistol grab her daughter and carry her off.  She was following the boy throughout the library.  They seemed to be getting along just fine.  I’m sure that worried the mother; she knows the power a young man has to destroy the well-planned-out future of a young woman.

It is still raining hard out there.  I can see it from my seat.  Just as I was taking in the weather, getting ready for a profound proclamation of one sort or another, another usual customer walked in.  He is the guy with the walking boot.  Weathered and wet, he made a line directly to his crew in the cushy seats.  I would tell you the topic of the day, but I am still listening to The Car.  I guess I have heard the entire thing 400 times by now.  I still don’t like it.

If I weren’t a responsible reporter of life in Hillbilly Land, I would have the little boy grab the pistol from the table and run off with it.  His grandpa would trip and sustain a severe injury while in pursuit.  Unfortunately, nothing of the sort is going to happen.  I just saw grandpa walk out the front door, his charge in tow.  They have places to go and things to do.  Who can blame them?

The poor woman who keeps loudly complaining about “Arthur” has just walked in.  She is struggling extra hard today.  People riddled with “Arthur” do that in cold rainy weather.  Regardless of what you may have heard, cold, wet weather does exacerbate the symptoms of arthritis.  I have first-hand information.

Chekov said that if you write about a loaded gun, it eventually has to go off.  Fortunately, I am simply chronicling my day at the library.  I don’t anticipate that the weapon will be fired.  I am having difficulty figuring out why they bothered to bring it.  Was it a mistake?  If so, why is it out of the backpack, partially exposed on the table?  Are they trying to get caught?  A jail cell should be warm and dry, and at least they would get fed.  It is all very curious.

Two elderly women just walked in.  Are they part of the danger posed by the gun toating hillbillies?  I can’t imagine so, but then again, if we are dealing with master criminals, I will not discount their presence.

I am not concerned about the weapons parked 10 or 15 feet from me.  I am worried about the little girl.  What chance does she have if the people responsible for her upbringing are bringing weapons into a library?  That kid has very little chance of living a substantial, productive life.  Is she more likely to be a supreme court justice or a welfare recipient?  We all know the answer to that.

Is there anything I can do?  Can I intervene and somehow change the course of that little girl’s life?  Should I walk to the front desk and tell them I see a pistol and that I suspect a sawn-off shotgun?  Should I just call the police?  Would that only make matters worse?  I am not sure of anything.  I just want it to stop raining so I can get out of here.

The rain is not letting up.  I just checked the weather on my computer, and the prediction is that it will rain all day.  There are still people trickling in, and they are drenched, the water running off of them as they walk back to their comfortable seats.  I am going to be here for a bit.  It is not that I am scared of rain; I just don’t like being cold and wet.  I would rather sit here and type than walk in that mess I see outside.

The people with the pistol and apparent shotgun just returned to their table.  It looks like they are collecting their things so they can leave.  Sigh.  I can now confirm that what I thought was a pistol is nothing more than the end of a pencil box.  From my angle, it liked just like a pistol.  Also, the guy with the shotgun under his coat didn’t have any such weapon.  He is wearing one of those puffy winter coats, and the outline of a weapon seems to be an artifact of the garment’s construction.  I stand corrected and relieved.

I usually come to the library and write for a bit.  I don’t have to go here; I am just looking for a bit of inspiration.  Have you ever tried to fake inspiration?  Have you ever tried to convince yourself that you are inspired when you are not?  It doesn’t work; it can’t be faked.  It is sort of like a blood pressure reading; the output doesn’t lie and doesn’t depend even a little on how you feel.

I have written over 1,300 words this morning while watching the unfortunate and even less fortunate navigate this section of Hillbilly Land.  It is now time to start editing and polishing the best I can.  There is a significant milestone coming up concerning this blog.  I am rapidly approaching 250,000 posted words.  That is a substantial number, even though I suspect I will blow through it quickly.  Between us, I have a couple million more taking up cloud and external hard drive space.  I hope I can get to all of them.  Believe it or not, they require a bit of editing.