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\begin_layout Title
Diary - Part Ten-C
\end_layout
\begin_layout Date
January 2025 – present
\end_layout
\begin_layout Author
Linas Vepštas
\end_layout
\begin_layout Abstract
Unlike parts one through nine in this series, this one is not really about
the language-learning effort.
It is instead a private diary; a continuation of Part Ten-B, which got
over-long.
It is not curated for human consumption; I am making the assumption that
no human being will ever actually read this.
Thus, its filled with random stuff I feel like writing.
Some of it is very personal, some of it is nonsense.
Mostly, I am finding that the act of writing helps otherwise vague and
scattered thoughts quantum-collapse into a more coherent form, where I
can examine them, like a dead butterfly pinned down in a display case.
Dead words.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Abstract
Human readers are discouraged from reading this, on the grounds that there
are probably better uses of your time, than to sync your thought-patterns
onto mine own.
Live your life.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Section*
Introduction
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Part Ten already got an introduction.
How many more do you want?
\end_layout
\begin_layout Subsection*
29 December 2024
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
It's a good time to start afresh.
In short – dafuq am I doing? I seem to be going at max RPM in first gear.
Is this supposed to be fun? I'm burning out writing the Atomese sensori-motor
code.
In the previous diary entry, I convinced myself that this was not a totally
stupid idea.
Now, I am not so sure.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
One of the early visions for Atomese was to create affordances suitable
for algorithmic boostrapping.
This is a nice vision, but perhaps a mistake – and on multiple levels,
a mistake.
Perhaps I got lost in the details.
The details are a vision of computing from 100 years ago: that lambda calculus
can say anything sayable.
Updated to more modern time, we find that lambda calculs is the internal
language of Cartesian Closed Categories.
These are big words, and the bigness of them is beguiling, and I think
lie at the heart of the mistake.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Thanks to my physics/math background, it was very natural for me to dive
deeply into the microscopic details of structural atoms.
Perhaps one of my finest acheivements is coming to an understanding that
jigsaw pieces are perhaps an ideal structural element.
Jigsaw can be used to build anything.
They are more naturally expressive than lambdas, and have natural identificatio
n with tensors (and the many-world parallelisms of tensors).
Making them ideal for Bayesian priors, and other many-choice settings.
They have natural interpretation as graphs.
But they're typed, and so carry significant information (having significant
information content.) And I didn't invent them.
Many other have invented and reinvented them, over the decades.
So, all around goodness.
So why am I crying?
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Well, if the goal is to build AGI ...
well, if jigsaws are like atoms (like literally, cehmical atoms) I'm daydreamin
g of creating biology from them.
Well, that's nuts: biomolecules have millios of atoms (daltons, or whatever).
I'm not gonna get there.
I might discover some cute low-level assemblies.
But that's it.
Not scalable.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
OK, second example.
It's like day-dreaming of building a computer from individual transistors.
Of course, this has been done, but it took decades and tens of thousands
of engineers.
There's pretty much exactly zero infrastructure for working with jigsaws.
Like just about none at all.
So I'm at square one.
No one is interested, no one is helping.
Basically, it won't happen.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
OK, third example.
It's like day-dreaming of building a neural net out of individual neurons.
Oh wait ...
well, again, this has happened.
Again, this took decades and tens of thousands of academics, grad students,
engineers, tinkerers of all kinds.
So, yes, neural nets all start with a single sum and a single sigmoid,
but the scaling is the result of a massive engineering effort.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
I think jigsaws are as promising as any of these things, as a basic, basal,
low-level self-assembling structural component.
Its just that ...
I'm at square one, and no one shares my vision.
So its not going anywhere.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
What to do? Well, the lesson to be taken from LLM's or, perhaps, Microsoft
Copilot, is that the world is filled with human affordances.
At this stage, in the early 21st century, it is easier to build neural
nets that can work with the available human affordances, such as coding
in java or python or whatever, than it is to create this assembly-like
intermediate language I call
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
Atomese
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
.
Atomese was meant to make it esy for machines.
But it starts at such a low level, that leveraging up seems single-handedly
impossible.
Just teach the computer to code in python, and be done with it.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Hah.
And there's the rub.
Current state of the art in neural nets suggests that they'll never be
able to arrive at the abstractions needed for doing the kind of reification
that humans natrually do.
So licking back and waiting for AI to magically learn how to program seems
...
well, it renders me into an observer, rather than participant.
I'd rather participate, for now.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
So what can I grasp at, what can I do, to be effective? Well, I've got several
more visions.
I articulated them on the opencog wiki in the last few days, and also in
a readme file somewhere.
But again – they're visions, and from what I can tell, visions shared by
no one, so I'm like – roll up your sleeves, and get to work, you dog.
This leads to a feeling of hopelessness.
I burn out from going max RPM in first gear.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
What should I do instead? When I ask this question explicitly, I rapidly
get to the general perception of well, I can rattle off all the social,
psychological, cultural, political, economic activities that humans engage
in, and they are so varied.
Somehow, being a medical doctor is worthier than sitting around doing cross-wor
ds all day.
or being a junkie.
Western culture got that part right.
But perhaps medical doctors burn out: there's always one more patient to
treat.
So, me here: there's always one more technical paper to read, one more
line of code to write.
Max RPM in first gear.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
The current Western-civ definition of shifting into higher gear is to garner
money, power, fame, influence.
Gaining any of those takes effort and talent, and like any human activities,
take decades to hone one's skills.
And as that is done, I read less papers.
Perhaps this should be like atheltics: don't overtrain one muscle group,
while leaving others atrophied? I've let my power, fame, money and influence
atrophy.
And now here I am, wimpering like the old man that I am, that my ethereal
being hurts.
The physical therapist suggests some simple exercises for the weak and
dibilitated: pay the bills, read the email.
Like any ordinary person recuperating frome an injury, taking the doctors
advice is hard.
I don't want to go out and exercise, to go out and exercise and gain the
strength so I can go to the olympics of wealth, fame and power.
Unh, unh.
Cause people do what they want to do, and I am a person.
Perhaps whats-hisname from Star Wars could say
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
force yourself
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
, but well, dafuq.
I can force myself to ride a bike up that hill in Southern Walnut Creek
bike trail.
I can force myself to do what it takes to win gold medals at the US masters
nationals.
I do NOT have to force myself to read textbooks on general relativity or
string theory, because I find that actuall fun.
I do have to force myself to pay the blls and read the emails, cause that's
not fun.
Or something.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
I feel like I am procrastinating.
And, well, I am.
Because the duties that I shirk do not provide the dopamine reward that
I've grown accustomed to.
I'm a goddamn dope addict, addicted to reading math textbooks, instead
of doing whatever the fuck I should be doing.
Crap.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Worse: I engage in activities without asessing the worthiness of those activites.
Like I spent a month hacking on the 25th anniversary edition of Bigfoot.
(the i370 code base.) Its useless, cause no one but no one except maybe
Paul Edwards, and even then that;s a maybe ...
no one will ever use it and no one will ever care.
I might as well have spent the month doing crossword puzzles, or mainlining
heroin, or something.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
There was one minor utility: in the back of my mind, I got to review the
landscape of operating system technology, from assemblers and compilers
to kernels, and file systems and containers.
It lead to my playing with Ceph, so now I've got my home cloud.
And its interesting to see how Ceph is multi-machine autonomous in a way
that single-machine OS'es are not.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Which brings me back to where I started: my current path of tinkering with
Atomese is not going to recreate Ceph in my lifetime.
So I'm torn.
One part of me rests completely assured that million-dimensional vectors
of jigsaws are absolutely the correct approach.
Another part of me is repelled by the daunting task of taking the next
steps.
Or mis-steps, as they may be.
A third part of me laments my wasted youth.
A fourth part of me is more than happy to also waste my waning years.
A fifth part of me is deluded into thinking that perhaps by verbalizing
into this diary, something will happen.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
But is 10PM Sunday night, and I'm tired.
I think I will go do something relaxing.
I think I will got read more of David Tong's Cosmology.
It's a nice treatment.
I'd never really seen a decent treatment of FLRW before.
It's not super-complex; the lectures are aimed at undergrads.
But they're focused, concise, clear, well-written.
Unlike a lot of crap I read.
Why can't people write? I wonder if I can write.
I think I can, but no one reads what i write, so maybe my topics, my style,
the things I have to say just aren't, well, they're just not Kardashian
enough.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
With that, good night, adieu.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Subsection*
30 Dec 2024
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
The Big Think.
Somehow, for decades, longer, since college, before, I've avoided actually
thinking about the
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
big question
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
: what is AGI, really? I'm going to avoid it a bit more, with a few paragraphs
of autobiography.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
I remember the first time I built something.
I stacked two blocks, one on top of another, and they didn't fall down.
I got to three even, but could not move past that.
Mother had gone shopping, I guess, and left my sister and I in the basement.
The basement was kind of a safe space: nothing there, no way to escape,
nothing to break, no way to get hurt, warm.
I must have been four.
My sister is a year and a half younger, I think she was sitting, crawling.
I tried to show her how amazing it is to stack blocks, but she seemed disintere
sted.
I think I even got her to stack two.
No more.
Actually, I think I got maybe five high.
There were arch components, and a big trangular block, for a Roman forum
look.
I might have stacked two columns, and put that on top.
See, I don't clearly remember that any more, I remember the thrill of getting
to three, and once that was mastered, the rest was down-hill.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
I remember what the basement looked like.
Grey enamel floor.
Stairs in the center, no railings.
Work-bench to one side, open space to the other, and then the furnace room.
I could draw a plan, right now; I remember it photographically.
Well, I did spend a lot of time down there.
79th and Justine, Chicago, Illinois.
I remember a lot of that interior.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
I remember the day I learned to read.
Fox in Sox.
Doctor Suess.
Mom had a record of that, vinyl LP.
She put it on.
Somewhere in the middle, I realized that the words I was hearing correlated
with the symbols aka words on the page.
Put it on again, from the beginning.
Sure enough! The first 3,6,9,12 words correlate perfectly! The first two
or three pages are similar, having similar arrangements of words, but subtly
different, and from those subtle differences, I could tell that the spoken
words started on page one, and not on page two or three.
That they were in order, and not backwards order, or jumbled.
The were perfectly synced, and started at the begining.
I got so busy verifying the correlations on the first three pages, that
I lost track on page four.
No matter.
Start it again.
Yes, they correlation between sound and words persists through page five.
I form a hypothesis: I bet it works that way, to the end of the book (which
seems impossibly long, but there we go...)
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
I remember explicitly formulating this hypothesis.
Of making this prediction.
Prediction is the wrong word.
Nor was it an
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
a ha
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
moment.
I mean it was, but more like,
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
gee, I bet this goes on to the end
\begin_inset Quotes erd
\end_inset
.
Not betting with money, but more concretely: if I were to listen to the
sounds again, they would match the words.
The ability to listen to sounds again was unquestionable, a subconscious
given, not available for analysis.
Ditto the looking at the pages of the book.
These were not topics of awareness.
What was in the awareness was that if the actions were repeated, the correlatio
ns would persist.
Perhaps inference is the right word.
Prediction is the act of seeing something (visually) and knowing what will
happen next (in time).
But this correlation was not in time or space, it was abstract.
Thus, I was not predicting anything.
Rather, I made the inference that the sounds and the words are corellated.
On the third or fourth listen I got maybe ten pages in, to the part
\begin_inset Quotes eld
\end_inset
Knox in sox on fox in box.
With a paddle.
On a noodle eating poodle.
...
a poodle battle paddle noodle eating poodle..
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I got tangled up in there.
I think my Mom didn't want to listen to it one more time, so that was it
for the day.
I got to finish the book, and eventually memorize it, over the next week.
But that was it, that is how I learned to read.
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A very conscious process, with explicit conscious formulation of hypothesis.
Starting with a dawning awareness of correlations, the game was on: a sleuthing
, a analyszing a detective mystery: if we go back, and play the record again,
then the words wer correlate, and they will do so exactly, and not just
in some impressionistic form, but precisely.
All this was in my conscious awareness: that it could have been merely
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close and suggestive
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\end_inset
, and my hypothesis was that, no, it would not be just
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\end_inset
suggestive of
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\end_inset
but that it would be exact.
I was very concerned with lacunae.
What if the spoken word skipped over pages? I paid attention to flipping
the age: that the sounds, the spoken words, would correlate with what was
non the next page, not skipping a word or two, not sliding in some syllables
that preserved the beat and rhyme, but failed to actually correlate with
what was printed on the page.
All this was in my explicit conscious awareness.
You, dear reader, might think I am confabulating, but I am not.
This is what my memory functions recorded of the incident.
They recorded the process of awning awareness, the inference, the hypothesis
formulation, the explicit formulation of multiple competing hypothesis
(that the correlation was poor, inexact, skipped over words...) the surmise,
surmission, that the correlation would be exact.
The hope that it would be exact.
Lurking in the back was even a sense of disappointment: if the spoken words
failed to correlate with the text, I would be disappointed.
A grand insight would be dashed.
Reality would be random and vague and blurry.
I wanted it to be sharp.
I hoped it would be sharp.
This is the emotional side.
My memories do a poor job of recording emotions, but in this case, I know
for sure that it would have been a disappointment, if the words didn't
correlate, and that this sleuthing adventure would be quickly abandoned,
and forgotten, if this was not the case.
I had better things to do with my time, than to listen to some artistic
impressionistic verbal recital that vaguely dealt with the same topics
as the written book.
I mean, that was fun and OK-ish, but definitely weak sauce.
I could do something else.
Like maybe wander into the living room, or something.
There were lots of other interesting things to do.
Crawl under the table, or something.
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\begin_layout Standard
Of course, I remember the floor plan.
Visually.
The radio, Blaupunkt.
The record-player, in a cabinet above, a cabinet my father had made as
a college design project.
We still have it.
It's up in the attic now.
The aluminum legs are not quite strong enough to bear the weight.
Its modern.
It looks like a Mondrian painting, but furniture.
Three open bays, a fourth bay with a black formica door.
But I wander off-topic.
Of course, everyone remembers many things, for may different reasons, in
many different ways, in all sorts of different abstraction settings, with
different kinds of focus on what was important, and what wasn't.
Some people are ruled emotionally much more; others are analytic.
I suppose I have to class myself on the analytic side.
But I'm also normal.
I'm good with the visual arts.
I like music, I could play guitar.
I like sports.
Socializing with other people is my weak spot; I don't do much of this.
i think my parents are partly responsible.
They knew I was smart, and they very much did not want me to hang out with
other kids, or, at least, other kids who were not Lithuanian.
SO I got Audrius as a good friend.
Audrius was not a genius.
But I digress; this is not meant to be about my childhood, but about AGI.
So, lets get back on track.
and that means more autobiography, before I tackle AGI head-on.
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My aunt taught me how to read.
Aunt Irena.
When my parents visited, she gave me and my sister some Donald Duck comic
books to look over.
She had quite the collection.
(She also had first editions of Ancient Greek poetry, Sophocles, or something
like that.
She loved to read.
I have a photo of here, knee-deep in Lake Michigan, with two other friends,
holding a book up.
In water, With friends.
Books don't go into lakes, with water and friends.
But this is my Aunt Irena.
So...) Anyway, so my uncle walks in, and catches us red-handed: we are merely
looking at the pictures, and not actually reading the text.
And it is clarified that at least I know how to read.
My sister, maybe not quite yet.
Unclear.
But me, I can read, and my uncle is demanding in that way: you will submit
a book report.
You will read this, and next time I see you, you will submit a book report.
This is the kind of threatening demands he would make.
Take fun things and turn them into not-fun.
My aunt intervenes, I think.
She's much more gentle.
She says, don't grill them.
Never mind him.
It's OK.
But you really should read the words.
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And they're right.
When you read the words to a Donald Duck comic book, the story really has
nothing at all to do with what you imagined it was about.
It's completely and totally different.
The words and the pictures kind of fail to correlate entirely.
The pictures tell one story, but the words tell a quite different one.
The pictures are only there for illustration, decoration.
They loosely, impressionistically illustrate important events in the written
text, but only loosely.
This comes as a mixture of disappointment and surprise, and an acknowledgment
of defeat.
My defense to my uncle was that I already knew what the story was, because
I could tell, by looking at the pictures.
I didn't have to read no god-damned words.
I didn't swear, of course, I didn't know any swear words.
But emotionally, it was like that.
Fuck the words, I don't need no stinkin words.
I can tell what's happening from the pictures, and goddamned pedants like
you want me to fucking suffer and read fucking words for something that's
already obvious from the pictures.
This is what went through my mind.
Fuck this shit.
Words.
Screw that.
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And yet, I sort of had to acknowledge that the story plot, as told by the
pictures, was pretty friggin blurry and vague.
I spent a *lot* of time decoding those pictures, trying to figure out what
the story was, and failing.
The panels in a Donald Duck comic book DO NOT TELL A STORY.
Disney sucked, in that way.
He could illustrate, but he could not make his illustrations talk.
They were mute snapshots.
He had to fucking fall back onto words to get the point across, and those
words really for the most part had almost nothing at all to do with any
implied plot-line you could extract from the pictures.
This is what I was thinking.
This is how I thought.
Well, I wasn't directly critical of Disney, not yet, because I hadn't yet
discovered this non-correlation.
But I did read one or two or maybe three comic books that day, and I do
have to say that Disney wrecked the magic.
There was magic in the pictures, and the words fucking wrecked it.
I mean, the words were fun, and I do have to say that the plot lines were
far, far more complex and sophisticated than what the pictures told.
So, if you could gain satisfaction from reading words, then I guess that's
an OK thing, but it came at the cost of ruining the pleasure and enjoyment
of looking at the pictures.
So, yeah, Disney sucked.
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I mean, I read a few more comic books in the years to come, but it was never
actually fun.
It was a pass-time.
It was an OK way to spend some time, but it was not something I looked
forward to, not something were I'd think, wow, now I get to do this, can't
wait! Disney ruined comics.
I wonder if this is an issue with Disney, and other artists don't have
this problem, or what.
But I think this stuff is invisible to adults.
Some adult somewhere would have to take active, conscious effort to do
better.
Well, look, maybe its like one of those New Yorker
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write a caption for this drawing
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contests.
See, what Disney should have done was to draw the pictures first, and then
given them to someone else, to come up with a story and plot.
But I think he was an illustrator.
He wrote the words, first, and then just illustrated.
I have no clue if he was conscious of this.
If he was aware of this, and did this intentionally.
I'm thinking he didn't.
He thought he was creating something fun, imagined that he was creating
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magic kingdoms
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\end_inset
but I can personally attest that it was the opposite.
He destroyed magic.
There was magic in the pictures, and the text fucking destroyed the magic.
And the swear word
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fucking destroyed
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is really what it felt like, when I was 5 or 6 years old, at my uncles
house (apartment, actually.
58th and Dorchester, Hyde Park).
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If you don't believe me, just go to the Magic Kingdoms in Florida or California.
There's damned little, no magic in them.
They're mostly flat, boring, stupid and meaningless.
I don't understand what the fuck people see in those places.
They're just dumb.
Fuck that.
No adventure.
Want to have adventure? Go to fucking Paris.
Don't go to the fake-Paris cafe in Disneyland.
But I digress.
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Oh, one digression that might be worthwhile, because it explores the world
of somatic feelings.
So, as an adult, working for IBM, I'm sent to SIGGRAPH in Florida.
I book a hotel in Disneyland.
The Woodlands lodge, when it was brand new.
Construction completed just weeks earlier.
I have a late flight in, evening.
Flying sucks.
I actually planned to come a day early, to poke around, so took an evening
flight so that I would not miss too much work.
And its a long drive from the airport to Disney.
Stand in a rental car line, all that hassle.
And its hot, and its muggy, its Florida in the summertime.
And I refuse to run the A/C in the car, on the grounds of some kind of
principle, or something.
So, I'm overdressed, hot muggy, wind-blown from driving wth the windows
rolled down.
Tried, vague headache.
Lugging a heavy suitcase that hurts my hands and arms and back to lift,
hurts my legs to walk and stand straight after sitting in a car for hours.
Exhaustion.
And I walk into the lobby of the Woodlands Hotel.
And its cold.
Checkin counter.
I mean, cold.
But refreshingly cold.
And there's a scent of burning pine.
And as I'm at the counter, waiting for my room key, I'm already being transport
ed to Northern Wisconsin.
A chill in the air, a mild aroma of pine wafting through the air.
And its very relaxing.
After that drive in the Florida humidity, its the perfect antidote.
And its subtle and its gentle and its refreshing, and it feels good.
It hits the spot.
Now this, this is Disney magic.
This really worked.
This is what it took, what it feels like.
Ah.
Soothing, great, wonderful.
Relaxing, refreshing.
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\begin_layout Standard
Well, the wonderful doesn't come until I start looking around the lobby.
OMG.
Its a cavernous Canadian, Seattle woodlands lodge.
There is a two story-tall fireplace in the corner, with a roaring fire.
To heat the place, because its frankly a bit chilly.
And it is obviously the source of that burning pine smell.
And the absurdity of it all is not lost on me: I know, I am aware that
it is like 95 and humid outside, and its like 65 and dry and piney inside,
so they've got the A/C cranked, and they are using an open fireplace to
heat the place.
Which is how it's done when you're in the Canadian woods on a cool evening,
and in Canada (or Northern Wisconsin), *all* evenings are cool.
And I'm looking around, and the whole place is decorated in Cowboys and
Indians shibboleth.
Boy-scout knives and axes.
Drawings of teepees.
And its luxury.
So one thing that catches my eye is the floor is half marble, and half
carpet, and these intermingle along curvy lines, streams.
Not straight, but meandering.
And I'm think
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that's pretty classy, right there That.
This is luxury
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I mean, the two-story fireplace in the corner, OK.
But the attention to details, the floor of marble and carpet, that was
something.
And you know what? Those curvy lines lead to somewhere.
There is a small stream in the floor.
There is a small river-stream in the floor.
It starts at the end of the lobby.
You won't find it if you don't explore.
It's not there to hit you over the head, its subtle and off to one side.
But it is definitely water, and it definitely is flowing, and its a stream,
a woodlands stream.
Like in Wisconsin.
But its late and its time to go to my room, and I've got these boyscout
themes percolating all through, coloring my emotions and perceptions and
visually smack in your face, because like someone took my Boy Scouts of
America Handbook, and literally copied pictures from it onto the walls
of this hotel.
And that is how I go to bed, go to sleep.
Transported to a wonderland.
So, yes, Disney is magic.
Done right, its magic.
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I did go there, maybe a decade later.
It was run down.
Too many grimy kids scratching the paint off the walls, and puking onto
the carpet and sticking their grubby little hands into the woodlands stream.
And I think the fireplace was turned off.
But that was daytime, maybe they run the fireplace only at night.
I dunno.
Magic spells work only once.
You can't go back there again.
This is the tragedy of being caught here and now, with your memories.
There is no time-travel.
There is no rewind button.
Careful, Linas, lest your memories turn back to physics.
I finished Tong's Lecture 2 on Cosmology: Hot Universe, last night.
I like it.
Pleasant reading.
So here I am, typing these words, entering them into the future light-cone
of my personal sphere of influence in a de Sitter universe.
I digress.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
Back on track: so my Aunt feeds me sci-fi.
I remember the first short story I ever read.
I don't remember what it was about, but I do remember reading it.
Wisconsin.
Northern Woodlands.
Nothing to fucking do there.
Boring, gotta do something.
The Donald Duck comic books suck (there's piles of them, up there) and
so I pick up an issue of Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine.
And I pick the absolute shortest thing that I can find that isn't letters
to the editor.
And its kind of disappointing, because its long.
Like, over twenty pages.
Oi vey.
Long slog ahead.
But whatever.
I'm not gonna read another comic book, so dammit, if this is it, this is
it.
Its still early in the day, and its not like I have something better to
do.
So I read the short story.
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And its not bad.
And, you know, I could read more.
(I think this is the next day.) and I think there is one more short story.
But then there is this
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novella
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\end_inset
.
And it is fucking seventy pages long.
And I'm not going to read that, because it is just wayyyy too fucking long.
And that sucks, and surely they could have put some short stories in there
instead, instead of this fucking long novella.
But, you know, out of desperation, I read it.
It was not even science fiction, adding insult to injury.
Thinking back, I think it was Stephen King.
Something about a man and a high tower and a dusty bottle of whiskey.
Stephen King has something with those elements.
I even think they made it into a TV novella or something.
\end_layout
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Anyway, I'm raised on sci-fi.
Of course, the Asimov robot stories.
And not just some of them, but I think all of them.
\end_layout
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But I also spend a large chunk of my childhood reading electronics manuals.
Why? I don't know.
There were some at the library, and it's what I picked, and I could not
tell you why I picked those instead of something else.
So that's curious: I can tell you minute details about learning to read,
but nothing at all about why I chose electronics later in life.
So I get to the school career counseling session, and you are supposed
to pick out three different career tracks: these are printed 8.5x11 cards,
and they each describe a possible career, and you are supposed to pick
out three of them, something you might want to do with your life, and discuss
them with the career counselor at the front of the room.
So I pick three: electronics design, and radio repair, and some distant
third, like maybe running a TV station, something I did not want to do,
but you have to pick three, so whatever.
And the counselor gets mad: you were supposed to pick three *different*
things, you moron, and you picked all three the same.
So it is a very very short counseling session.
He says
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you know, like sports, or movie acting, or something
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, but I knew how utterly stupid that was.
Linas, the football star? Really? I don't think so.
\end_layout
\begin_layout Standard
So I get to college, and it is time to pick a major, and I pick physics.
Why? I can tell you exactly why.
A total and complete lack of imagination.
Sure, history and art are options.
I liked Lithuanian history, especially the knights: Karalius Mindaugas.
And Algirdas and Kestutis.
The union with the Poles, Liublino Unija, Jadwiga and all that, that kind
of sucked.
And I liked Art with a capital A.
My uncle was a world-class fine artist, painting brilliant paintings.
And its all lost.
Well, not lost: those paintings are in my mom's house, and some are now
in Kaunas, Ciurlionoio museum donation.
And some canvases in Chicago, the watch-a-ma-call-it Lithuanian museum
in, wherever that is.
I don't have much dealings there.
His paintings sit, forgotten, in a dark basement.
It sucks.
And I don't know how to fix that.
My uncle deserves wayyyyy more recognition than he's gotten.
Alas.
Someday, I'll get around to this.
But I digress.
Back to college.
I mean, I'm like really good at art, and I took four fucking years of Art
History in high school.
I know this shit.
But the college major is physics, because, well, because.
I don't think I even consider anything else, outside of these three.
All other academic fields of study are on the other side of my personal
cosmological event horizon.
Mathematics would have been a distant fourth place.
Later on I learn how to make mean, snide remarks about PoliSci, but I never
get a chance to actually say them out loud.