Time to Recalibrate Your Detectors…

When people change it can be difficult for others to a) note the change b) accept the change and c) assimilate that change in to new ways of perception, assimilation and interaction. People often interpret others though a largely historical lens and previous shared social context. They struggle to see the changed spots on a leopard, even if that leopard is now a zebra. Dogma suggests that it is impossible. It cannot be so.

A while back I ran into someone whom I knew from one context. I had the feeling that she had not yet noticed I was different. I knew that she was a highly intelligent nuclear physicist who had worked at the nuclear physics facility in Dubna. I suggested that she recalibrate her detectors in respect of how she was perceiving and hence interacting with me. She listened and got the notion. I too started from a more flexible view of her. As a consequence we managed to communicate fairly well with each other. It took a little while to “find” each other.

People can have very fixated views of others, fixated opinions and hard wired biases. The better we think we know someone the more rigid are our views of how they are and might still be.

For a long time I was an evangelical vegan. This lasted for not far off a decade. Eating a beef steak in front of someone you have lectured, evangelised to and otherwise bored shitless is a true game changer and a re-arranger of perception. Often some radical enactments of drama are impossible. I have joked that were I to tip up wearing Buddhist monastic robes unexpected and visit an erstwhile acquaintance it could be a bit of a mind fuck for them. Although I could perhaps buy some garb on line I would not wear them as I have not been ordained in this life.

There are some things that are very hard for people to accept. This is because to do so would require and perhaps initiate a radical change in the narrative which they have held. It could re-arrange the sense they make of the world and the story or legend they have told themselves.

How might a science professor interact with a high lama tulku incarnation? What is the correct protocol? What is the correct ordering of cheese?

Between ~12 and 12:35 this afternoon, French time, I experienced a phenomenon of visual disturbance in which the perceptual field, mostly left eye, started to warp and acquire an unusual brightness. I usually associate changes like this with something big and impactful happening in the web of life. Something of import, somewhere, was going on. I was standing on our small indoors scaffold painting the ceiling. It is best to take great care whilst these phenomena occur, especially if one is up high. I was near my limit of standing, getting close to two hours painting. Tiredness leads to accident and with osteoporosis a fall is unwise. I am not as steady as I once was. I can only stand for around two hours at a time now before the fatigue and pain overwhelm. It saves us money if I paint and we want the room finished before I have my total hip replacement fitted. For me there are maybe one or two more sessions of painting before I stop. The nurse was adamant that I should do no DIY in the week leading up to the operation. A scratch or cut could increase the infection risk on my right leg.

My mobility is not good. People might remember me differently and to see me hobble could change perception a little. How and in what other ways they might recalibrate their detectors might be moot. If you only knew me in one context it might be difficult to accept me as a pikey retired person.

I’ll speculate that very many people are in no way as open minded as they imagine themselves to be. They can be very set in their ways, their perceptions and try to shoe-horn observables to fit prior narratives.  

In general people do not believe that their detectors need recalibration even when experimental evidence suggests that they might. Only something major might prompt the start of the recalibration. Some will need a huge discrepancy to even accept as a hypothesis that their detectors need a tweak, a recalibration. Even though said detectors might be out of warranty.

Fake or True – Our Times

As  a creature of the past I find a number of modern things uncomfortable. These include near endless email requests to give a one out of five rating for some thing or other. If you want my feedback it is simple, please stop sending me fucking endless requests for star ratings. Also interminable prompts for updates. Why don’t you get it right the first time?

Of late I have seen, primarily on UK based tv, women with slug like lips caused perhaps by injection and with obviously fake plastic eyelashes glued on. It is so sad, so unnecessary and so fake. I am in many ways glad that I am not in the business of “courting” as a twenty year old. Were I back in the university business I might find it hard to restrain my opinions. I would get cancelled, sharpish.

The world is beset with drones, both battlefield and the voices of politicians. I really do not like the tone of Trump’s voice. It drones on and on. Everything is prone to cloning and it is difficult to discern reality or novelty. I’ll speculate that genuine novelty is unacceptable because it is not fake enough.

People stalk each other in social media, on-line and may conclude on the basis of what they read. There is no reliable way of knowing {for example} if this blog is a piece of creative writing, a dream project I once thought of during a mushroom trip.  How many creative dreams can I knock up?  I could be talking out of my arse. I could be having a laugh. I have a good imagination, so I am told.

Short of in real life interaction an element of doubt might exist. People like to be sure, definitive. But these days reliable truths may be scarce on the ground. According to my understanding of internet dating people have quasi-fictional profiles. And so it is with so many things, they have to be spun, dressed up and public relations ready. Something simple and real might lack the gloss and therefore become incredible, difficult to believe because it differs from the AI inspired clone-think. One must have a glossy blurb, a profile, a BS paragraph or two. One must be all bigged-up and shiny like iron pyrites. 

Our times might fail to recognise truth or reality even if it smacked us around the face with a large wet pollack. If it does not look enough like the tosh which pervades, it is therefore unacceptable.

The fakeness of our time has opened up an entire new stream of karma. If you are stupid enough to indulge in unnecessary plastic surgery you are starting a long, multi-lifetime, karmic problem for yourself. Such an opinion would not be widely accepted nor popular. This does not however prevent it from being accurate.

This fake show-and-tell way of being is very detrimental to the pursuit of liberation and perhaps more generally to mental health and state of mind. There is a tale about lemmings following each other over the edge of a cliff.

“I do not want to miss out on being a self-harming plastic lunatic, I must get some plastic tits, a Prince Albert and a full tattoo sleeve. I will self-identify as an androgenous elven-dwarf half breed hermaphrodite from Andromeda. ”

“This will solve all my problems you can call me Jemimah-Geronimo-4XQ!!”

As I mentioned I consider myself a creature of the past…18 million years ago I came here from the planetary system around Sirius.

People can make all sorts of claims; they can make shit up about others. It is very difficult to know what is fake and what might have a residual grain of truth…

Today the UK newspapers are full about a very first world problem. Some geezer on a train started stabbing. What about the 60,000 plus deaths in Gaza? What about the starvation in Darfur?

Surely it is not too hard to disarm a single assailant with a knife in a confined space? I would fancy my chances even crippled as I am.

See I have just maid a claim that may never be tested in real life. People do that all the time…it is a good job that Trump is taking in the vast tracts of white South African post-apartheid refugees…thank God for that…..

Our times are beset with a whole new set of problems and difficulties which humanity may struggle to traverse and survive…

Pyjamas and Preparation

The places where one is most likely to bang into someone by accident are nodal points, points with high average footfall. These include hospitals, airports, train stations and supermarkets inter alia. I have in the past met people “by accident” at such places. When we went back to the UK recently I knew that there was an increased chance of bumping into to someone I once was acquainted with at Gatwick airport. To meet them in rural Britanny is unlikely. My “circle” extended briefly into the “circle” of others. No such meeting occurred. Fate did not see fit to organise an encounter. Of course in spy novels and films “chance” meetings can be engineered. Were I to bump into someone from my past locally, I would err on the idea of engineered rather than chance. The only people we meet in the local supermarket are the wife’s hairdresser and the geezer we bought the house off. These are spatially likely given our normal trajectories.

Living like we do our normal circle extends 20 km in radius with extensions to 50km for occasional hospital and coastal visits. The chances of me crossing circles is zero outside these ranges.

At the last hospital visit the nurse said that I am not allowed to be “balls out” and must therefore buy some pyjama bottoms at least. I bought some at the M&S outlet in Gloucester Quays. I have some stumpy short fat bloke track suit bottoms on order and a new pair of Crocs in the post. They were not doing a pre-diabetic special offer on the joggers. My hospital wardrobe is taken care of. I can wear my “Trust me I am a Doctor” T-shirt, my psilocybin zwitterion and “breaking bad” ones too. As a rule of thumb hospital temperatures are adjusted to encourage the growth and spread of penicillin resistant bacteria and  upper respiratory tract viruses. I need to get my flu and covid vaccinations done next week. Hospitals are always too hot.

Will they shave my chest again to put cardiac monitors on during the operation? Yeah probably… more itching.

We need to look at placing the second mattress on our bed. To get a loo seat raising contraption and perhaps a litter picker for dropped things. We have a prescription for a hospital bed which will sit here downstairs in the office. We will have the local nurses visit; they are already practically a part of the family. I’ll get a yellow sharps box for my pre-filled heparin syringes post hoc. I was OK injecting myself last time. We have got laxatives to counter the morphine induced arse-corks. I need to check the plumbing to the cess pit. I have 15m of plumber’s rods. This may be done next week.

The initial guess from the nurse is that I will go in on a Friday for the slice dice and drill. Assuming I can stand day one, I will probably be sent home Sunday. The physio thinks I will be housebound for two weeks. After that I may be able to get into a car. In France the pharmacies are shut Sundays so we need to make sure that I have a good opiate stash.

I am due a coronary CT-angiogram next week. Because of the holy Trinity of fat, fags and booze there is a mild concern. This may or may not turn up something, it could be that last obvious showstopper.

This morning I was pleased to wake up without some weird London based stress bunny dream. It seems so far away, another world. I am 95% sure now that I won’t go ahead with the idea of trying to apply for a quantum telepathy patent whilst I am incapacitated. It would only make the dramatics worse.

I don’t know why I keep getting these dreams. I personally think I am at peace with all that palaver and have been for years. Maybe I am kidding myself. Maybe the dreaming is just showing the unresolved issues of others.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

If I had a pretty head I would try not to worry it.

Only a few weeks to go and the pepper mill in my right hip might be replaced with something less frictional and painful. I may even be able to put my own socks on…

It is probably best to have no expectations. The only thing for sure is that it will in some way be different and I will have wound closures and bruising. A physio is due to visit soon after the butchery.

Three weeks from today…I could be on my way to the block…

How We View Things – Jeans or Robes?

Although there is advice to never judge a book by its cover that is exactly what most people do. They place stock in appearance. They also pay a lot of attention to the ubiquitous omniscience of “they”. After all “they” are the font of all wisdom.

I know that it is the simplest thing for me to don my £1000 leather jacket, put on a freshly ironed grandad shirt, my black leather shoes and put my Ray Ban “Matrix” sunglasses on top of my head. I can walk into a store or building around here and will be treated differently. Instantly they will imagine I am not “from around here”. I know that I can walk with confidence up to reception at a posh hotel and be treated well. My mother used to joke that I was “to the manor born” in the sense that I was not in awe of posh settings. I have confidence. We could suggest that comes courtesy of Nchanga Consolidated Copper Mines paying my school fees at a mid-range English preparatory school in Gloucestershire.

How we treat others depends on many things. If we have a sense of entitlement and imagine ourselves grand we might treat others like plebs. From our Olympian view others are beneath us. We may disrespect others and treat them poorly feeling justified in doing so. We may deign to offer an audience to the serf or underling. We may imagine ourselves the purveyor of knowledge to the ignorant or superstitious.

There is a joke here in that I was aiming to incarnate in Bhutan, I saw the dragon of Cardiff and found my mother’s womb there. Hence I wear jeans and not monk’s robes. I know beyond any doubt that if I met people with whom I have had a passing acquaintance whilst dressed in robes, without warning, it would be for them a non sequitur, and perhaps a complete mind fuck. They would not be sure as how to react or behave. They certainly would not offer me a scarf for me to offer them in turn, blessings therewith.

If I wore robes people would instinctively behave differently towards me. A book covered in Levis’ 501s reads differently.

I’ll wager that people may struggle to understand how I view things. In the previous post I mentioned that gossiping about someone is a form of bullying. If we gossip among ourselves we do not imagine it bullying. If we see it in a soap opera on TV we clearly see bullying. Why is East Enders different from our “normal” reality?

Although some may guess that they understand how I think and where I am coming from, I’ll postulate they are mistaken. Unless they have done two decades of meditation, read and understood a thousand science journal articles, read hundreds of patents and extensively researched the occult and Buddhist literature they are unlikely to have a similar intellectual background or mind.

But people can judge me and “understand” me from what I choose to put up in a hobby-blog. You might judge this book from the internet cover you are currently perusing. You may imagine that I am something like I was a couple of decades ago. The sense of humour might be similar but that is about it.

To reiterate.

I have never appointed a spokesperson or port-parole. Anyone claiming to speak on my behalf, know my mind or what I want; is a liar and a charlatan. Such a person is also a bull shit artist and very untrustworthy. If they are claiming any form of current acquaintance that is extremely unlikely given that I live a hermit-like life.

If we make shit up about people that is evil and a form of bullying. It can be slanderous and libellous. If my reputation is damaged by made up shit it prevents me earning a living or helping sentient beings.

Boring – Not Again…

As we were driving up to the supermarket I remarked to the wife that it is boring getting the same type of dream over and over. The themes of being gossiped about, checked up on, snooped upon and the jungle drums banging out long into the jungle night, recur.

The theme of people trying to be clever and cunning seems never to stop. Baldrick is perennially reaching for his famed planning turnip. The endless secret squirrel speculation and so-called “information gathering” keeps cropping up.

Inspector Clouseau has a new case to work on at the Louvre so why are they still interested in me?

It is pretty simple.

“If you want to know, ask me!”

Asking the monkeys will not help. Try using a Clouseau voice…

I know that there is a theory that if you put enough monkeys together with typewriters you will eventually get the works of Shakespeare. But that seems a rather indirect route.

I am not in any way flattered by the notion of people gossiping about me. I consider that to be bullying and very rude. I am not interested in political machinations. If a whole bunch of people are collectively doing things behind my back I am not only crippled but outnumbered. That is bullying nasty behaviour. It has an unpleasant stench and is pretty much evil. It is a bit sad and un-impeccable.

Same shit different day…

The Lotus Eaters and a Logical If

As the nights draw in and the temperature drops the occurrence of wildlife in the garden goes up, becomes more frequent. Already the badger is looking for roots, soon we may get deer grazing. For sure the “lotus eaters” aka Coypu or Nutria will return. There was evidence of an attempted perimeter breach overnight. The charge on the battery driving the electric fence has dropped. I had a shock off it yesterday, a tickle. Today I have replaced the battery. This means if any of the Coypu family come to snack on our tasty lotuses Thor may release a lightning bolt to discourage. Since we have installed the electric fence by the river our display of lotuses has flourished. This year was magnificent.

Om mane padme hum

If we take dream content as evidence and consider visions as non hallucinatory then we might conclude that I have had at least four and probably five lives in a priestly or monk like Buddhist incarnation. It is therefore not too much of a stretch to suggest that the term bodhisattva might apply to me, I can be considered as someone seeking liberation. In one of these “visions” I was told that this is my very last incarnation, a suggestion which is internally consistent with the aforementioned logical if.  

This may not sit entirely easily in juxtaposition with a brief career as a pukka scientist. It might seem odd to the class professorial. To me there is no jarring.

We then come upon the Garry Glitter question, “to whose gang do I belong?”

Am I Toltec?

Am I Buddhist?

Am I boffinacious?

One could perhaps draw a Venn diagram, if one could be arsed.

I am unlikely to fall into worship of anti-scientific superstitious conspiracy theories. I am not science-phobic. Nor do I believe in the whole saviour fallacy. Nobody died to save you; it is up to you. Confessing your sins will not remove karmic debt even if you pay the pope a cool million quid. You cannot bribe karma.

To follow on from the logical if. There is an addendum.

If you have treated a bodhisattva badly then that is karmically “bad” for you.

We then get quickly into splitting karmic hairs about degree of bodhisattva and extent of transgression.

The basic rule of thumb is try not to be an arrogant bell end to anyone. It does not need to be any more complicated than this. It is not a bad mantram.

“Remember to try not to be an arrogant bell end…”

Name Dropping – Power by Association

The two cormorants and one heron are, as is usual these days, stood around the pond. Mr & Mrs cormorant seem now settled and it is Heron the larger today. I can get within 10 metres of  the male cormorant before he can be arsed to take any evasive action. We might say that we have integrated with the French wildlife. We could put our feathered friends down on our citizenship application. There cannot be many fish left in the pond!! These are wild birds.

The prefecture has opened up the process of renewal of right to stay for those admitted under the Brexit fiasco / deal / bullet in the foot. The chances are we are OK. But there is a small significant risk that we will be refused and booted out. I have no names to drop, am not affiliated with any society or institution. I have nobody to vouch for me or act a guarantor. I am in no way special and thereby subject to the normal rules for normal people. Our fate lies securely in the hands of the French administrative system. We will provide them the kilograms of paper work they seek. Mild OCD can sometimes be helpful.

A few years back ~ 2017 I was attending an Institute of Physics { IoP } Entrepreneurship event. A geezer from a Southampton uni. fibre optic laser spin out was there talking, as were other tech transfer people from uni. and institute. They were talking about the start-up funding valley of death. My affiliation was down as “freelance”, the usual euphemism for unemployed. I did mention in passing the ancient history of the laser spin-out I was involved in in order to secure an invitation.

{Strangely the event in no way made use of me.}

It was one of those prolonged slow death by finger buffet events. As is my custom my event name tag was pretty much in my trouser pocket. I mentioned to a bloke that I had been at Imperial and he then proceeded to name drop my name, to me. He claimed to have met me and implied that I was even some kind of loose pal or associate. I had no recollection. I encouraged him to provide more information and was told that I was something of a controversial figure with the CEO and investors. I was not gifted the subtle aroma of roses. It became apparent that the CEO had claimed that he had done and invented many of the things which he had not. This geezer was claiming some kind of power by association with me, to me, without knowing who I was. I resisted the temptation to really drop him in the shit and made my excuses for another irresistible prawn in crispy breadcrumbs. I had always thought that the CEO was a bell end and this was more anecdotal proof.

There is a certain type of person who cannot resist the temptation to name drop and claim power by association. In martial arts circles it is to some master or great thousand year old lineage. The association is almost invariably exaggerated. Some of these are impossible given the unidirectional flow of time and age at death. But hey, what is a mere detail? Why let it get in the way of a good story or narrative?

People once used to drop the name Epstein to claim power by association, Prince Andrew is now out of favour and the pile on ramps up. People who claimed power by association to him now drop him like a lead balloon. People can’t wait to pile on like a bunch of piranhas. Those that fed on his name now feed on his disgrace. Human beings are great, are they not?

With the reliability of a politician’s promise I could name drop whoever I want. Probably the most famous person I ever met was George Best. I once pissed next to him at a urinal in the Dover Street Wine Bar when we were both under the influence. I saw him several times there in the wee small hours after pub closing time.

If I listen to what one of the voices in my head told me then I was a very close disciple of Siddhartha Gautama. Which means that I can claim to have met him and maybe hung out. I doubt that such a thing merits either kudos or power by association. There is no way of checking with a dead and cremated person from 2500 years ago. The vast majority of people would not believe me. Therefore there is no power associated with such a thing.

More people may have believed the geezer who claimed that he knew me. My stock now is low. So it would be a bit of a waste of breath to make such a claim of association.

People pay a lot of attention to names and reputations. A referee from a top Johnny university is deemed good. People rarely check if things are made up. They believe reputation until such time as the tarnish arrives and the pile on starts. Previous association then becomes a big negative. Plague sets in and any association even by extended barge pole denied.

People are fickle and the herd-made reputation is both time varying and impermanent.

The great Gods of “they” are punitive and vengeful. They also lack self-awareness and honesty.

It is all a bit shabby really…

Today’s Best Guess

Our trip to the UK did not give a definite binary answer. We have the notion that a return to the UK is not a definite no, nor was it a resounding yes. It was a damp squib. We do need to downsize to a smaller house and garden. This is possible in France assuming we don’t get kicked out. It is less financially possible in the UK, though I might earn some pin money doing “A” level science tutoring there. We are probably not welcome elsewhere in the world given that we may struggle with meeting immigration criteria because we are not loaded and will be a burden to the health system. Our use as post-mortem fertilizer is limited.

On the cards is one and probably two hip replacement operations which takes us through to mid 2026. We do not know how well I will respond and the Damocles sword of the wife’s myeloma remains pendant. We are vey unlikely to leave the department before next summer. Which times the house move for autumn ’26.

Irrespective of what happens in the alternate reality of dreams and the machinations of Rubio and Hegseth et al., life here is unlikely to alter much. There does not seem much for me to do and my residual fate looks very minimal. I foresee paint brush and secateur. That is about the scope. We live adjacent to the world and our interaction with it is small and without infliction.

People can struggle with the difference between is and should. They can have idealised ideas about how things are supposed to be. It can be a bit of a mind fuck for them when reality differs.

My days of reaching out and inflicting myself of the world are largely past. I do not see the world as something I have to solve. People will do whatever it is they do. There are lots of important people doing things they deem important. Watching “University Challenge” with men dressed as women makes me glad that I do not have to tread in that minefield. I am in more ways than one of a different age. A visit to the Orange telecoms shop reminds me that I am a fossilised alien living among lunatics.

Of course there could always be a curve ball or a googly. The best guess is a fizzle out relatively free of drama…

That is how things look today…

Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy…

Upcoming I have a choice which is not really a choice. It pertains to sahasrāra, “thousand-petalled” chakra.

I am due some surgery which might be as long as two hours. During which time I will have {hopefully} substantial anaesthesia and probably some induced paralysis. I may be intubated. The last time I had titanium put into my hip to repair my broken femoral neck I was sedated but largely conscious. I had fentanyl direct into my spine. I asked to watch but they refused. Someone had to hold up a “curtain” whilst they drilled away so I could not watch. I can remember the whole-skeleton vibrations. This is not a Beach Boys song.

“Drill music, also known as drill rap or simply drill, is a subgenre of hip-hop music that originated in Chicago in the early 2010s. It is sonically similar to the rap subgenre and lyrically similar to the gangsta rap subgenre.”

I have had previous shorter less profound anaesthesia. The last time when I was deeply “under” for six hours I subsequently had recollection of looking down at the operating theatre from above watching them doing a/my laparoscopic colectomy. There was weirdness after the operation and I reckon something untoward happened. This was either a dream or an out of body experience.

I have already met the triage consultant anaesthetist. She seemed OK with me going ahead in principle. This conversation was in French. I did not broach the subject.

I have done extensive Tibetan death practice which prepares the withdrawal of consciousness, the Antahkarana and Sutratma are loosened and stretched prior to removal of anchorage at death. The crown chakra is opened so as to facilitate a quick and seamless exit.

Whenever I have tried to broach the subject of meditation with anaesthetists before it has largely been ignored and the subject changed. They may have perhaps been imagining this reassuring. It was not. I am not going into this kind of thing afraid. I was not shitting my pants and anxiously blathering.

I was aware of the risks during profound and prolonged anaesthesia last time. But the person responsible was unwilling to engage. I will again be in a situation where the medical professional who may know plenty knows nothing about Tibetan death practice. During unconsciousness the “personality” part of my make-up will not have any control. That awareness will sleep. The risks of physical plane death are enhanced over the normal bio-mechanical, at least to my mind.

Even should I try to explain this in either French of English, I suspect that I will not be taken seriously.

So, do I refresh the practice in case I need to go?

Or will refresher practice facilitate and even encourage withdrawal?

Do I try to broach the subject?

I have no control of this situation if I want to be operated on. I am not in charge.

I guess I will just have to take the risk…

Hmnn…