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I am headed to the Summer Palace again. I know it’s winter, but I’ve got things to work on.

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I didn’t keep this blog up last time, so no promises, but I’ll try.

I do not know whether god exists. I have never known (or even thought I knew) and I don’t care about the answer. The matter is completely irrelevant to me. What would I change if tomorrow’s paper announced incontrovertible evidence of God? Nothing. Nor would I regret actions already taken. I have few regrets, and and none of those have spiritual underpinnings. A sentient God will either forgive or not and I do not dictate God’s decisions, whether real or imaginary.

Many, many of the world’s human occupants believe in God. There are philosophical arguments that this, in and of itself, constitutes proof of the existence of a deity. Namely, God absolutely exists in the minds of billions of humans, therefore God exists. Even hallucinations are real. God is no exception.

However, this philosophic argument is problematic. If God exists as a result of the human mind, then each human worships a subtly different God. Even strongly dogmatic humans, in rigid societies, practicing strongly dogmatic religions, all come from different backgrounds and experiences. For example, a husband and wife of the same religion likely see reality differently enough that the god of one’s imagination may not the God of the other’s imagination. Can both be right? Yes, probably. The old chestnut about the blind men describing an elephant comes to mind. (Please see https://www.bedtimeshortstories.com/six-blind-men if you do not know the story.)

A better question is this: can they all be wrong? Yes, of course. Is an elephant “like a wall?” “Like a snake?” “Like a pillar?” Yes, to some extent, but not entirely. I argue the blind men in this story are in fact wrong. Elephants are most like elephants. Therefore, if that elephant is replaced with God, do Hindus, Jews, and Presbyterians see it the same way? If not, which is correct? Perhaps none are right. We need faith because we are all blind. We need faith because we are all fundamentally wrong.

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On the other hand, does worship of a false God hurt you in any way? A hallucinatory God may well cast you into the fiery pits of imaginary hell. I tell you, I expect hell as a hallucination is even more horrible than the real hell, if one exists. Since I fully expect that hell and the devil are constructed as an homage to mankind’s worst instincts, I look forward to avoiding all contact with my invented hell and its inhabitants.

Worship of a false God only becomes dicey when discussing your atypical views with you fellow humans. And this is the rub today’s three posts revolve around: Is any good achieved by alerting people their relationship with their creator is based on lies? Probably no good will come of it. Is it dangerous? Damn straight. If you have any doubts about human reactions to those foolish enough to speak out against prevailing dogmas, ask the staff of the French weekly “Charlie Hebdo.” I think they might agree that this form of art carries risk.

I wonder too how they view their own motivations in retrospect. Did they believe a cartoon would make the world better? Was it vanity? Was it fear? Was it greed?

Over a lifetime, I have become adept at looking at decisions from a risk-reward optic. Nothing is free. I would dearly love a short pour of Angel’s Envy rye whiskey with a couple pieces of ice. The reward would be “feels good” and “do a little dance” and “man, the dogs think I’m pretty” and all the other stuff for which alcohol is popular. The risk is weight gain, addiction, elevated blood pressure, more work for internal organs, and (statistically speaking) premature death. At 10:00 am, I think the risk is too high. Out with friends at a bar the same evening, the reward sometimes is more attractive than the risk is scary.

I mentioned cost is the title, but will only touch on it briefly. Cost and risk are related. That bottle of rye has gotten expensive over the past few years, but I view cost as risk – the risk of not having that money to purchase another item. The time spent drinking cannot be reclaimed later. All actions require resources – time, money, air, water, et cetera. For the sake of simplicity, let’s focus on risk-benefit.

Let’s look at the risks of writing first. I am in the enviable position of being able to say just about anything and not lose my livelihood. I am not worried that corporate will lay me off for spouting nihilist blather, since I no longer have any HR-wielding overlords. I’m not worried about losing friends over it – I barely speak to you fuckers anyway and I probably have a few to spare (you know I love you though). In any case, I make friends with fairly tolerant folks – you are the least of my worries and I thank you profusely for that.

I do fear for family and friends, however, since I recognize that society often practices collective punishment. If you fail to pay rent, your children get evicted too, right? When the pitchforks and torches appear out front, will my child stay safe? Keep her job? Retain his friends? History suggests I may have valid cause for concern.

I could attempt to write anonymously, but anonymity is fleeting in the modern world, and the layers of obfuscation fall away quickly when expertise and data come together for the purpose of unmasking those critics of dearly held assumptions and beliefs. Anonymity cannot be relied upon alone to mitigate these risks. I’ll spare you the recipe I’d use to unmask me – that’s a genie best left in the its bottle – but I see the fear as valid.

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I could veil those truly skeptical thoughts in metaphor and fictional excess, but the more veiled the concepts become, the less useful they seem. As already noted, I see my own motivations as fairly weak. Let’s look more closely at these motivations as we segue into the potential benefits or rewards of my plan to write.

Even an act that carries minuscule risk is ill advised if no benefit exists. So what’s the reward? As noted, I want the world to be less horrible. I want my child to grow up in a reality no more horrible than my own. I am willing to take on some risk to achieve this, but what chance do I have to make the world better through storytelling? That’s the question, right? Certain works have had decidedly the opposite effect, so why would I believe I’m right? Is the world a better place as a result of the likes of Voltaire, Twain, or Orwell? Damned if I know, but probably. Is my mojo going to be at that level? Damned if I know, but I see this as statistically unlikely, regardless of my brilliance or noble intent. Is the world better for the presence of the written works of Adolf Hitler? Maybe not so much. Is my mojo going to be at the fuhrer’s level? God, I hope not.

If I see my chances of improving the world through fiction as slim, perhaps there is some other motivation driving me. Vanity? While I am not charmed by fame or fortune, I am nonetheless a competitive person. Is it egotistical for me to think I am even capable of influencing these outcomes? Perhaps, but another example of damned if I know.

So, with my obvious doubts about the best case impact of my future works, why write? I know, but I am looking at the question.

At some point in the past several years I concluded that most human action was motivated by either fear or greed. This is really a refinement of Thucydides’ supposition that wars happen as a result of fear, honor, and self interest. I have merely distilled honor and self interest into the two emotional bins I’ve already mentioned and extended the model into all facets of human activity.

Self interest, my logic goes, can be framed as either greed or fear. Fear that one’s interests will suffer, or greed for more in order to satisfy that self interest. Likewise, I would argue that the concept of honor is less about a burning desire to be seen as honorable than it is about fear of losing honor. Greed takes many forms and the greed for power and standing within one’s society could be described in terms of “honor” as well. Those seen as honorable are respected. Those seen as dishonorable are reviled. I can see why fear might disguise itself as honor on occasion.

Thus, my conclusion does not contradict the great author of the history of the Peloponneseian War, but merely tries to further reduce human action and motivation to more basic terms. In fact, my brilliant young companion, Ms. JB, argues convincingly that even greed may be framed in terms of fear.

For example, the target of my own avarice is time. I cherish my time, and am “greedy” for more. Is this true greed, or simply a restatement of my fear of running out of time? Are those lustful souls that are greedy for carnal contact truly “greedy?” Or rather, might they fear loneliness? Might they too fear the gradual loss of their lust-making powers? Damned if I know, but it’s a good thought experiment.

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So, why is this exercise taking place on my writing blog? Well… The short answer is I have been thinking and researching, but at some point those inspections necessarily must point inward. What motivates me? “Why” write is a far more important question than “what” to write.

I don’t see a greed angle here. I do not crave fame or notoriety. Writing won’t make me rich, get me laid, or allow me to eat my weight in caviar. So why do it? Fear? If so, what am I afraid of?

When I unpack this question, I find the theme of fear in balance – both a fear of action and a fear of inaction. I fear society. I know what happens when humans congregate together. We are capable of some pretty unspeakable horrors. As such, I fear that the insight I have gained over time – hard won insight, the product of countless traumas and tragedies observed and endured – is wasted if not memorialized. If my pontification through yarns and allegories are sufficiently compelling and refined, perhaps I can contribute to better outcomes. Perhaps, the dystopian truths about mankind I so desperately want to share will help others find better, less dangerous path.

On the other hand, the same fear of society impels caution. Society is not tolerant of dissent and has always viewed ideas, even couched as fiction, as dangerous. Where, you may wonder, does my world view fall into the category of “dissent?” Pretty much everywhere, I think This blog post is part of a three part series examining my my own motivations, and an example of writing that should get me in trouble. I hope you are not unduly offended. Feel free to vent in the comments – even death threats would be better than the current trickle of Viagra scammers and get-rich-quick crap the robots seem to think are appropriate comments.

Spring found me traveling. Perhaps not the travel I had expected at the end of my career — the travel that would have carried me over the distant horizon to the places I dream most about — but travel nonetheless to places with strange folk with decidedly different customs, diets, and dispositions.

I have been a wanderer forever, but America is strange to me. I was born here (sort of — NYC is nominally an American city), but much of my historic wandering was abroad. My wandering this year was exclusively domestic. As a traveling companion, only a young hen of about 7 years (green thing pictured above).

If you’ve ever considered shacking up with a parrot, I would suggest careful thought. If you’ve ever considered driving cross-country with one, I advise medication. She was not a calming influence.

I am fond of her in the way a man might love a nutty mistress with whom he has a long association. As mistresses go, a parrot is a terrible choice. They can be very domineering, yet the physical intimacy isn’t really what you might be into — unless you’ve got some hook-bill bite-til-you-bleed kink. Or a screaming fetish. Or really like bird feces. I do not. It was a long drive.

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As I wander, I grow lonely. I miss those with whom I used to wander. I was lucky to have had some great visits throughout the trip. I made a few stops headed west, and several good friends stopped by to visit the “Summer Palace.” I appreciate having seen all, but the time was too short. I appreciate the green thing’s patience, though I wish she were gentler with her biting.

The exercise begs the question: how do true nomads… you know, not a tribe of nomads that all have one another, but a single nomad… how does she maintain those long-term connections? Who remembers her as a child? With whom does he seek solace when his dog runs away or his wife leaves him?

I don’t have an answer, only a question for now.

Cheers. Sweet dreams.

Here we sit, a mere four days before the dawn of a new fiscal year. The plague rages. The winners of society’s great popularity contests sit and fuss over our beloved nation’s credit cards. Wars wane. New strife appears upon the horizon – like storms churning upon a troubled sea.

I’m sorry I haven’t written anything in the past half year. I appear to have effectively been on strike since the very beginning of my writing project. It’s not so, but I understand how that appearance might be an easy mistake to make. I have written very little. I deem none appropriate for public consumption.

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I have thought extensively about writing. I have also conducted research. Both are part of the process, yet without a work to show for that thinking effort, it’s just a masturbatory fantasy. I understand that and still plan to move forward someday.

Thank you to Mr. MK for harrumphing me (i.e., noting the absence of updates to these pages). This post is for you.

It’s the end of the second week. I feel like I’ve made some progress. Not a huge amount of progress, but some.

1. I am working to upgrade my computer. I was forced last month to buy a new motherboard — either the board or the memory was bad. I replaced both and added a new AMD CPU. Computers have gotten better since I bought this one in 2013. It has been a pleasure to play with. One feature of the new motherboard is support for M.2 SSDs. I got greedy and installed one — I wanted to clone my current OS drive to the new, faster hardware. {sigh} I’m flailing. At least I’ve fought my way back to the status quo. The drive works as a storage volume, so not a complete loss, but my cloning mojo was not on.
2. I outlined a novel I would like to write. It’s a great concept. A little science fiction-ish, but also seems to transcend the normal stuff I see in this genre.
3. I wrote a short story I had been meaning to get on paper. I’ve got a good solid draft and have shared with a select few readers. I am not sure what to do with it now. It needs a little more polish, and a platform to gain readership. I need to think through the admin questions.
4. I am not sure how many hours I actually devoted to the craft — probably more on the administrative overhead than on actually writing. Routines must be practiced in order to become habitual. Practicing.

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Cheers. Have a good weekend.