Category: Thinking, thinking

My New Toilet Bowl Cleaner

Well, I did it. After vowing I wouldn’t, I bought a robot toilet bowl cleaner. It was several hundred dollars, but I don’t like cleaning the toilets. Neither does my wife, so we shrugged, and slapped down the plastic.

It kind of looks like a gray plastic daddy long-legs, with less legs. Called Rotoboc – Robot Toilet Bowl Cleaner – it weighs just five pounds, and it isn’t large. That didn’t alleviate my doubts about its skills, plus the cleaner bulbs cost fifty-five dollars for a package of twenty-five, shipping included. You can only buy them from the website at this point. Naturally, they come in scents. In a way, the bulbs remind me of modern home office printers; the printers are inexpensive, but those ink cartridges are expensive. It’s one of my pet peeves, so I felt it necessary to mention.

Using the Rotoboc – I call my Rooty — is easy.

  1. Lift the lid and seat. The Rotoboc sits right on the rim.
  2. Extend its five little legs to cover the bowl and set the Rotoboc on the rim. Don’t worry about centering it.
  3. Insert the cleaning/disinfectent bulb into the receptor.
  4. Fill the water tank with a pint of fresh water and insert into position.
  5. Select the mode. There are two: cleaning, and disinfecting. Disinfecting takes longer.
  6. Press On.

After Rooty comes to life with a few beeps and lights, it says, “Good morning,” in a female voice that reminds me of Glenn Close. Then it centers itself with a few hums.

So, from what the website tells me, the fresh water is used to inject the bulb and mix with the cleaner/disinfectant. First, it puts down a little spray head into the bowl, and sprays, while rotating, like a lawn sprinkler head. The sprinkler head withdraws.

Then it sits there counting for a while, five minutes, if it’s only cleaning, twenty, if it’s disinfecting. Next, brushes are extended down into the water like landing gear coming down on an aircraft. They go into the water, and then around the bowl and under the rim. While that’s happening, another small arm comes out and grabs the rim. Giving squirts as it goes, it begins rotating the Rotoboc along the rim, cleaning it while the brushes are at work below.

The whole device is quiet, emitting a gentle swishing sound when its working, with a white noise background hum. Green lights on top tell you its progress. Basically, there are five green lights. As a stage is completed, that light goes green. When all five lights are green, it’s finished. The Glenn Close like voice announces, “Done,” with a flourish of tinny trumpets.

If something goes wrong, a red light on top illuminates, three dongs are issued, and it says with a calm voice, “Error.” Then it gives its error number for your convenience. Nothing has gone wrong in the month we’ve been using it.

Afterward, you pick it up, fold Rooty’s little legs back in, and put it into its white case for the next time. The case has a recharger for the batteries, and is plugged into the wall. We store the case under the sink. Whoever built our house decided to put an outlet there, so we were good to go. I’d say that would be a problem for many people, though.

As I say, so far, its’ been a good investment. I can’t see hotels buying them, but they’re great for a household like ours. I predict a lot more will have them by the year’s end.

Hopefully, the bulb prices will start coming down, then.

I hear they’re coming out with one to clean the bathtub, too. I’m dubious, but I am thinking about it.

3

The Nano Age

Has the Nano Age arrived?

Nanotechnology is a large part of my future scenarios, critically so in the area of human health. My future settings frequently include nanomeds residing in the body. Replenishing themselves, their tasks are to monitor people’s health and condition, and then address fixes. As part of their on-site services, they make continual adjustments to keep their human hosts comfortable and healthy. They address your heart rate, your nutrient, mineral and hormone levels, etc. Think of them in the same vein as modern cars’ electronic brains work to adjust spark and timing, air/fuel mixtures, and even acceleration and cruising levels to provide the optimum blends of power, responsiveness, and fuel economy, while minimizing air pollution.

I read today that Ohio State University researchers claim they’ve developed a device that utilizes Tissue Nanotransfection (TNT). They claim their device can heal organs with just a single touch in a procedure that takes less than a second.  This could be a big step toward my future settings. In the short term, I still think we’re due for a break through in using nanotechnology in clothing.

My future clothing incorporate nanotechnology. Since it’s in the future, it’s pretty impressive stuff. Self-cleaning, it adjusts to keep you comfortable, becoming hotter and cooler as necessary by changing its weave and density, or adding and removing layers. Of course, it can add a water proof layers, if needed. They’re not often needed, as people don’t go into precipitation. When they do encounter it, their personal energy cloaks keep the moisture off them. The personal energy cloaks also work with the nanotechnology — and both communicate and co-ordinate with your body’s nanomeds — to address your needs.

Styling can also be changed. You can switch from pants to shorts, but shorts are rarely worn, as pants can keep you cooler and more comfortable.

This doesn’t happen in a vacuum. An electronic personal assistant is embedded in you during your youth. This device coordinates activities, and keeps you wirelessly connected on multiple nets. You communicate on some of them, via nanoimplants in your brain as a sort of nano-empowered virtual telepathy.

Changing clothing styles and adding layers requires material, as do drugs, splints and sutures for your body. My future settings often include nano-compilers built into your body, which work with nano-transporters to bring almost instantaneously deliver whatever your body desires. Your clothing can look invisible while projecting a perfect body shape, according to your tastes for that day.

I like to think that we’ve moved past our fixation on body size and shapes by then. I also like to believe we’ve gone past concerns about the color of your skin, religion (which is waning by then), and your gender and sexual orientation. In fact, gender swapping negate many of the gender binary structure, and nanotechnology allows us to play with skin color.

As for religion, well that continues to rise as some people seek reassurances about their lives and direction. Unfortunately, discrimination, hatred, and prejudice sometimes still arise.

That’s the fun of playing with future settings. You can attempt to extrapolate current trends to protect future directions. It’s a hugely flawed process, of course, but fun. For example, even when developing nano-applications such as nanomeds and clothing nanotechnology, political, cultural, and economic issues arise as to why some people will not employ such things. Best of all is having my peoples dependent on such technologies and then having them fail. That’s why I’m at today, in one of my settings.

Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.

0

The Breasts

She has decided she will have her breasts removed.

Not easily decided, she’d been moving along this river since she first discovered that she and the gender binary structure of the modern western world didn’t match up well. She didn’t feel female, and when she acted upon her urges, she was a lesbian. But she had no desire to be a man, with a penis hanging between her legs. That didn’t appeal to her at all. Just because she wasn’t a woman, it didn’t mean she wanted to be man.

It’s a shocking decision to most, to cut off her breasts, because it’s outside of their realm of normal expectations to cut off healthy tissue. She accepts it as healthy tissue, but not as a part of her. She’s never liked them, perhaps, he speculates, because others tried to define her by this outward trait. Breasts, after all, seem to be the defining trait for American women. Heterosexual males in America love to see breasts displayed, as long as they’re refined into shapes thrust upon Victoria’s Secret models, and aren’t being used to breastfeed a child in public. Egads, has she no shame?

That’s unfair, he cries, for he is a man, and he doesn’t think like that, except he secretly does, due to the vein of social sexual commercialization in which he was raised. He recognizes the absurdity and hypocrisy, and fights it as he can.

He thinks about the thirty-year-old woman having her breasts removed. He was fortunate to be born a sex and sexual preference with which his society is comfortable. He fits neatly into the gender binary slots. He’s never had to think through having his penis removed, for example, for any reason. He thought, what if I was her? What if I was a female, and hated my breasts, and wanted them removed? He thought about the strength and clarity such a decision needed. He thought about the woman and her intelligence, creativity, and personality. None of that would change.

Strong people come in all shapes and genders, even if it defies our categorization. But Jesus, why do we need these categories, anyway?

Who do they serve?

2

April Into August

April trickles into May.

May flows into June.

June bursts into July.

July explodes into August.

Time accelerates throughout the year, racing past itself in a star-spangled red-blue shift, catching itself to devour its tail, squeezing the breath out of those of us trapped in the middle.

0

Errant Priorities

I caught myself in a neat trap. I set it, and walked myself into it. I’d been trapped in it for a few weeks before I realized what had happened.

To step back, I bought a Fitbit last January. I like it. I enjoy walking. Walking, like writing, helps me think. The Fitbit tracked my walking and gave me quantified results. That was beautiful. I had goals, and could stretch myself against those goals. Great.

Similar to playing video games, walking and measuring my progress and activities sucked me in. I play video games every day. They’re small, online games; I don’t let myself buy or enroll in more, because I know I’ll get sucked into them. It happened a long time ago with a computer game called “Empire.” The game with its attendant strategies and tactics sucked me in. Huge swaths of time and energy were lost to playing that game. It was an ugly lesson learned.

It was also an insight into myself. Like many people, I hunt validation about who I am, and my relative merits. They’re hard to come by in the modern world, especially when you’re in the military or working for a corporation. They like to give you “Atta-boys.” That’s a reward where they beam at you, and say, “Thanks. Well done!” Yes, it worked for a while, but as I realized the emptiness of those rewards, and the challenges became easier and easier, the rewards became meaningless for me. Winning video games became more rewarding in my schema, thus validating me.

Coping with myself and my tendencies, I began seeking things that can be tangibly measured to reward me. In turning to writing, I discovered, hey, I can achieve the same sort of satisfaction by writing one to two thousand words a day. That made me feel good about myself. Finishing a story made me feel better. Selling one made me feel great.

In the cascading process, I then went after another prize: writing a novel. Each step in the process was again a tangible reward, an objective achieved. From finishing a chapter to finishing a novel was a wonderful experience.

Selling it, however, was not easy. Dejected with the publishing process, I went the Amazon publishing route. The rewards fall miles short of my hopes and dreams. So….

Writing became less rewarding. Well, writing remains rewarding. I find writing novels to be akin to solving logic problems. They hold an inherent challenge and reward. But writing doesn’t provide me the validation from outside myself that I know I need. Being thin-skinned and insecure, I need huge quantities of validation.

Enter the Fitbit.

Just like that, I started increasing my goals and exceeding them. I stretched goals from ten thousand steps to fourteen thousand steps, from five miles to six, to seven, to eight.

Naturally, these goals absorbed time and energy, especially in these summer months when it’s ninety degrees or more. Reluctantly, I realized, I needed to draw back from the Fitbit and the walking goals, because they were distracting me from my writing goals and activities. Why, of course, was obvious: the Fitbit goals were tangible and reachable. Writing goals of writing novels, publishing them, and selling novels were tangible, but not easy reached. Not reaching them despite the efforts made became a depressing effort. Mad sequences of Peggy Lee singing, “Is that all there is, my friends, then let’s keep dancing,” kept streaming into my head. “Let’s break out the booze, and have a ball. If that’s all. There is.”

So, seizing myself by my metaphysical scruff, I drag myself away from Fitbit goals and re-prioritized. Whereas I had been targeting six to ten thousand steps before writing, I now write first, and then hunt the steps and miles.

Someday, I believe, or hope, that I’ll find something more, something that will finally quiet the desperation and disillusionment in me. Meanwhile, I’m going to avoid boozing, except for a few beers and wine, reduce my Fitbit goals, and keep on writing.

1

The Logic

There was a ladder ahead. Seated on the sidewalk, it was leaned up against a big oak branch.

He considered going under the ladder. That’s bad luck. There was reasons why going under a ladder could be considered bad luck. People could be up on the ladder, working with tools, or carrying items. They might drop something. That would be bad luck. But he could see that no one was on the ladder. Still, he went around it.

Sometimes, logic is defied.

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Odd and Intense

Differences struck me as I finished editing sequences. Diverting my thinking, I considered the differences.

The difference was external to me. I puzzled over that. The world surrounding me seemed calmer, quieter, and more relaxed than it had a short time before.

I thought about it more, trying to understand if it was quieter, or a false impression. I thought, instead, it’s spillover. The first chapter that I’d finished editing had been intense and chaotic. Reading through it and staying focused challenged me. It seemed like the surrounding coffee shop echoed with noise and activity while I worked on it, and I restlessly, almost anxiously, fidgeted while working on it.

The next chapter being edited began with a calmer scene, and stayed calm and thoughtful. The coffee shop around me seemed more relaxed, and quieter. I, too, became stiller.

Disbelieving, I considered these differences for a while, and then walked myself back through memories. Yes, writing battle, fight, disaster, and emotional scenes consumed greater energy, demanding deeper concentration and tighter focus. I often felt more physically, mentally, and emotionally spent when writing them.

Editing them affected me in the same way. Writing and editing more reflective scenes push me to become more reflective. What I wrote and edited seemed to impact my impression of the surrounding environment. It leaves me feeling disconnected with the world. My thinking feels disjointed, like I don’t belong where I’m at.

It’s probably something all writers experience. I don’t know why it surprises me; I know I experience it when I’m reading books and stories. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I experience while editing my own. Perhaps, it’s because my experiences seem more intense, because it is personal, and comes from within me, thereby amplifying the impact.

Does this post makes sense? What of you, writers? Do you, too, experience this?

1

Today’s Theme Music

This song hit the scene in nineteen eighty-four.

Remember that year, with portends of George Orwell’s prescient novel hanging over us, fueling worries about privacy and government spying? “There are laws against that,” people say, smirking. “It could never happen to us. We’re America. We’re a democracy. It’s the Soviet Union and those totalitarian states like it that should worry.” The U.S.S.R.’s collapse a few years later seemed to vindicate our innate American superiority. We’d won; the communists had lost. Yes, we were so silly to be worried.

Into this era came a German group with a hard-rocking message: “Here I am, rock you like a hurricane.” I didn’t know much about the Scorpions before “Rock You Like A Hurricane.” I knew of them, but little more.

I thought of them today because of my stormy dream. The dream rocked me like a hurricane with its unceasing gloominess and desperation until its climax. I didn’t awaken afraid, but thoughtful. Thinking of the dream, I remembered this song, and its use in Dave Eggers’ novel. Odd, how the mind works, with everything connected and nothing terminated, but spreading and sprawling into new connections.

But with that, I think about the weather again. One difficulty in modeling weather is the planet’s complexity and dynamics. Everything is connected, but tracing the source back to the wings that began the storm can be tricky.

So it is with thinking.

5

Case A and B

A few friends have passed away. I’ve been thinking about two of them.

Cancer killed each, but they took different routes before dying. Both were married men, but lived in different states. One was five years older than me, and the other was almost thirty years older, when they died.

In Case A, the man was given the diagnosis and his chances. Living in Oregon, he took advantage of our right-to-death laws and protocols. He talked it over with friends and family, explaining why he was killing himself. Most were understanding. A few wanted him to hang on and fight it. They were learning more every day, and miracles happen.

With Case B, he was fighting against his chances of dying. He talked it over with friends and family, and refused to accept his imminent destiny. As his wife downsized to save money, he spent money on the latest medical technology, procedures and medicines. He refused to rid himself of anything, from his obscure sports and gun collection, to his motorcycle and cars. He was no longer allowed to drive or ride, and was too weak to stand on his own, requiring assistance for everything, but he was not giving up, and surrendering anything would be tantamount to waving a white flag.

I admired Case A’s approach. After talking it over, he made arrangements, confirmed his will and estate were up to date, and downsized to make it easier on his wife and family after he was gone. After choosing his date, he gathered his friends to himself, and administered the morphine that would kill him.

Case B went down without doing anything. He finally suddenly died, after trying everything possible. By then, his wife had sold their home, and moved them into a smaller place that she was renting. There wasn’t space for all of his goods, so she rented two storage units, for four hundred dollars a month. She was emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted by the time of his death.

I don’t know which I would be, Case A, or B. I don’t know how hard I would want to live, and what measures I’d invoke to stay alive.

I know many people whose lives are endured in rooms. They watch television, unable to do much else, while people attend them. They pay thousands of dollars per month to stay alive, pouring their life savings into the effort. I don’t envy them.

I don’t think I will be like them. I don’t understand the need to hang onto life, and I’m not afraid of dying. I don’t know if they’re afraid of dying, but they’re certainly hanging on. But I ask myself, is something missing from me that I am willing to let myself die, quote, so easily?

In case you’re interested, and if it makes a difference, Case A was the older one. Maybe that’s the answer; Case A had lived into his mid-eighties before cancer struck him. Perhaps he was willing to accept that his time had come because he’d lived a long and fruitful life, while Case B, in his mid-sixties, felt it unfair. Perhaps, it’s deeper in their nature, down in the same veins of love and hate, beyond logic’s reach. Perhaps, it’s deeper in our genes, and we will not know until the moment arrives. For all I know, Case A was always ready to fight to stay alive, while Case B was always ready to die. Maybe it’s all buried in their education and their life experiences and the brew that we become.

 

4

Not A Bumper Sticker

“One of the important things with Russell and the elite athletes is that none of the foods he consumes are inflammatory foods, which means no yeast, no mold, no dairy, no gluten,” Goglia said. “Dairy’s like eating moderately hard phlegm. It adversely affects oxygen. No dairy, no breads — muffins, bagels — nothing that is yeast, mold and gluten-bound. So starches are always one-ingredient guys like potatoes or rice or yams or oatmeal. If it’s got more than one ingredient in it, he couldn’t eat it.”

Paragraph from an ESPN article about Russell Wilson’s nine meal, forty-eight hundred calories a day diet to lose weight.  Russell Wilson, a professional athlete, is the Seattle Seahawks’ quarterback. He’s trying to get down to two hundred fifteen pounds. This diet has helped him. He’s gone from two hundred twenty-five pounds and sixteen percent body fat in March, to two hundred fourteen pounds and ten percent body fat now. Of course, he exercises and conditions hours each day.

Overall, there’s a lot to think about here. No dairy, no gluten, no yeast; is it a diet you could endure?

Is it a healthy diet?

4

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