the heretic genetic algorithm

In fresher days, I often hoped to build something great. Whether it was a path in the woods, an underground covered foxhole or even a collection of sticks that felt marginally like a clubhouse. But I now realize, in a deeper way, that it was never the place or even the end result, but more the act of dreaming to make it so.

Sometimes, with an increased sense of mortality, I think about not having the opportunity to finish a particular project -- but then it really doesn’t matter so much. On any new project, I always hope to finish it, but even if I never do, it is the numerous nights before sleep of dreaming about the design approaches that has given me everything I could ever want in regard to its purpose – for this and many other dreams I’ve had.

During a few summers in my early twenties, I spent much of my time turning an abandoned farmhouse (that once belonged to a family by the name of Speers) into a place we all could go. It was a ramshackle two-storey place next to an old strip mine. There was a large sturdy barn and a small pond on the property.

After a few hundred hours of re-construction work, we found a pot-bellied stove, some old furniture and a few other household items. I had planned to use a rainwater recovery system so that it would have a bathroom facility and had even placed a toilet but the house became too big of a party place and that ultimately led to several police interventions. Eventually the barn and house were burned to the ground and the land reclaimed. I drove by this place a few years ago, and because of the re-contouring of the land, it was really difficult to remember where everything once was.

* * *
"We ran into the barn at Speers and I placed my hands around your hips just so I could feel them move. Your unwashed jeans were smooth, your thick hair was dark and I remember how you smelled. Everyone was partying in the house but I wanted you with me. This never really happened, but I've often thought it should have."

* * *

And when in Rome:

There have been differences in each winter -- just as many variations for every summer I've ever experienced. Such irregularity steals my recognition of how time moves by and through us.

But...

There has always been a never-changing constant of how the sun passes at a lower and lower angle every year heading into winter. For me, there is no more complete marker of time, as it inexorably unwinds.



I was waiting for my dad in that old Plymouth, marveling at the scent of the jute and rubber floor mats as the low winter sun poured warmth through the glass. I worried about how I would survive someday losing him and mom. They were older than most kid's parents so, in a twisted way. I felt cheated. Now, years later, I know I wasn't...it was simply the path the sun must rightfully take.

In Plutarch's dilemma of Infinite Regression:



The need to be wanted is often way more powerful and essential in regard to well-being than any imaginable personal sentiment, expression, or manifestation of outward desire for another.

More simply put: to believe someone wants us is often the key to our desire for them.

Surely, anyone can love another without a physical component, but without it, there isn't always an equitable foundation.

I certainly am aware that I'm not nearly as physically strong as i was decades ago, but these newish pull-off tops are sometimes anything but easy to remove. Occasionally, they come off without too much trouble but mostly I have to resort to yanking them off with pliers hoping the tab doesn't separate from the top or even just stabbing them with a knife in order to pry them off.

Progress doesn't always feel that way.