Recursive Words

I’m sitting in the dark of the junk room at home, sipping a celebratory cup of coffee and listening to a largely forgettable “jazz café” playlist after climbing something of a mountain today. A mountain only I know exists.

I’m sitting in the dark of the junk room at home, sipping a celebratory cup of coffee and listening to a largely forgettable “jazz café” playlist after climbing something of a mountain today. A mountain only I know exists.

You know the scene in “Contact”, where they receive the encoded message via the “Very Large Array” in New Mexico, and set about decoding it – and resort to basic mathematics, and a “primer” to gain any sort of foot-hold in what they might do next?

That’s a pretty good analogy for what I’ve been up to today.

I’m going to try and explain this without mentioning programming, because as we all know that might make you fall asleep instantaneously – which might be quite dangerous, unless you’re trying to get to sleep – in which case send me a message and I’ll tell you exactly what I’ve been up to. Trust me – it will help anybody sleep – apart from me, obviously – because I’m the idiot that fired his work computer up again this evening because he solved something in his head while eating dinner. Yes – I am that crazy.

Here goes with the analogy:

I started the day standing on one side of a yawning chasm, peering out at the other side in the distance, wondering how I might get there. Next to me I didn’t so much as have rope, or tools, or fastenings, or anything else for that matter. I did have the materials to make rope though, and the machinery with which to conjure tools, machinery, and anything else – only I didn’t know how any of that machinery worked – so before I could make rope I had to learn how – and before I could make steel, I had to learn how, and before I could make… you get the idea.

I had to start from the most basic principles – figuring out how to make the materials with which to make a bridge, and then set about trying out the basic structures that a bridge might use.

As of this evening, I’ve essentially invented rope, nuts, bolts, angle-iron, footings, steel, and more – and can see exactly how I might employ them to reach the other side of the yawning chasm. It’s just a case of doing it, and doing it well.

Of course in my world you never just “build a bridge” – I’ll also have to figure out how to wrap it all up in a box, such that when the box is opened it unfurls itself, paints itself, and anchors itself to each side of the yawning chasm. I’ll also have to make sure than the same box works for other yawning chasms – sight unseen.

Welcome to my world.

I have S R Hadden’s “primer”, and am about to set about building Eleanor Arroway’s “machine”.

The problem now? My brain won’t switch off.

I need to find an internet rabbit hole to fall down that will distract me from the days and weeks ahead.

One of the common traits that afflict software and web developers is a ridiculous amount of focus. Getting them to focus in the first place might be a little like herding cats, but once you put something in front of them (me) that interests them (again, me), all bets are off.

A few thoughts have been rattling around my head recently. For the most part they keep out of the way, but then during the quiet moments they emerge, throw spanners into any nearby spinning cogs or wheels, and then take a step back to admire their handywo

A few thoughts have been rattling around my head recently. For the most part they keep out of the way, but then during the quiet moments they emerge, throw spanners into any nearby spinning cogs or wheels, and then take a step back to admire their handywork.

Where to start?

How about the continual waves of spite and indignation that seem to wash over every “social” network – where people either complain they have been censored for posting things they think everybody should know, or complain they can’t stop others from posting anything they don’t agree with.

If you believe what you read, just about every social platform gets accused on a daily basis by somebody or other of being run by fascists or Nazis. Apparently “they” should do more to counter, censor, or ban this, that or the other. Apparently everything anybody posts should be fact checked, and weighed against cultural and ethical norms.

Erm. Nope?

I can’t quite understand how so many people so easily shift the blame to “the man”, rather than taking it upon themselves to ever lift a finger. It’s very easy to either ignore or block that which they would rather not see.

Yes, I know racists, bigots, and homophobes exist. I report, block, and ignore as seems appropriate based on the nonsense they share, or the determination with which they try to share it. I never confront directly, because that feeds them the oxygen they’re seeking.

I’ve mentioned a cartoon I saw some years ago – of a man hunched over a computer in the dark, while his other half is heading to bed – captioned “I’ll be up in a minute – I just need to explain to this person why they are wrong”.

I will admit to a moment of weakness just recently. I received a marketing opportunity for my YouTube channel by email – from a very well known brand. The content of the email looked good. Unfortunately the sender used a burner email address at a polish service provider, and their name didn’t match the email address, or the introduction in their own email. I replied – never a good idea – and enquired why these pieces of information didn’t add up. I also forwarded the email to the marketing department of the well-known brand – enquiring if they were aware that this particular scam was ongoing.

Neither party replied. I didn’t really expect them to.

This morning while scrolling Threads I saw a rash of posts by what you might term “attractive young ladies” – fishing for compliments. I believe the modern term is “thirst traps”. Curiosity got the better of me, and I looked at one of the accounts – which lead to a URL forwarding service (never a good sign), and a page that set off the malware defences in the web browser.

It took seconds to block and report “her”.

Before doing so, I looked at the comments to one of her posts – filled with hundreds of legends in their own lunchtime, trying to be the funniest person in the room – to woo the non-existent young lady. I couldn’t help feeling a little bit depressed that so many people are so naïve.

Anyway.

I’ve been thinking. Never a good idea, I know.

I’m going to try and make more time for writing.

When I look back at my personal blog – started over twenty years ago – I am often surprised at how good it used to be. For far too long it’s been a few minutes here – a few minutes there – and while I mostly subscribe to Norah Ephron’s comment about a blog being “sort of like an exhale”, there’s a part of me that would like to write something of substance – of consequence. Something thoughtful. Worth reading.

I guess the problem is I don’t write “for” anybody. The personal blog is very much moulded around “Hello. I’m here. And by the way. On the other hand. Nevertheless. Did you see?” – there is no mission or agenda.

Maybe that’s the point.

When we cross paths with somebody new in the real world we don’t set out what we’re looking for in a friend – we slowly discover our similarities and differences through shared stories.

I’m sharing my forgettable stories, idiotic thoughts, and damn-fool ideas.

We went out for breakfast this morning at the café where my middle daughter works (or rather, one of the places she works – she now has two jobs).

We went out for breakfast this morning at the café where my middle daughter works (or rather, one of the places she works – she now has two jobs). The owner came over and sat with us for a few minutes – we’ve known him for years – our children were all at school together. It was good to catch up.

While ordering “eggs benedict” without bacon or ham for my other half – she’s vegetarian – I was asked if she might like something else substituted. I shrugged, and an enormous list of options was read to me. I seized on halloumi, because I know she likes it – even though I’m historically terrible at ordering for her.

Thankfully I got it right for once.

I had a very predictable “Full English” – bacon, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans, poached eggs, and bubble-and-squeak (fried potatoes and vegetables).

I’m not really sure what happened to the rest of the day. By early evening we found ourselves back in town once more to watch the rugby in Wetherspoons. My daughter was due to start her second shift after the rugby finished, so she accompanied us and I shouted her something to eat and drink.

I’m wondering how long she’ll survive doing both jobs.

There’s something I’m avoiding writing about, but has been on my mind all day. A distant friend – met through the internet a while ago – has been going through a really tough time.

While a voice on my shoulder tries to tell me that listening is valuable, there’s a part of me that wishes I could help in some way.

Anyway.

It’s getting late.

Tomorrow we’re winding the clock back a decade, and wandering to our local rugby club to stand in the wind and rain cheering on the same girl that will get in from work at perhaps 2am. I’m not quite sure how she’s going to do it. We’ll see.

I wandered into town to walk home from work with her in the week. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but town sure was quiet at 1am on a week-night. I’m pretty sure it will be a different story tonight – Saturday – I guess we’ll see about that too.

At five fifty five this morning my body woke me up, and I switched off the alarm I had carefully set the previous night. I’m mysteriously good at doing that.

At five fifty five this morning my body woke me up, and I switched off the alarm I had carefully set the previous night. I’m mysteriously good at doing that.

An hour later I picked up train tickets from the automated machine on the platform in town, and began the long journey into the heart of London. An hour and a half later I emerged beneath the glass and concrete towers of Canary Wharf, and set off in search of a small Sri Lankan café a co-worker had suggested we meet at. I had arrived half an hour early, so thought I might grab a coffee there while waiting.

It took me half an hour to find the café. Seriously.

Google Maps showed the café marker in the middle of a patch of grass (where it wasn’t), and it’s address pointed towards a location a quarter of a mile away. It wasn’t there either. In desperation it dawned on me that the “patch of grass” might mean “under the ground”. On the second trip under the ground, after reading a second correct address, I found it – and arrived moments before the co-worker that had suggested it.

She had been walking round in circles for twenty minutes looking for it too.

The rest of the day passed without incident – visiting an enormous office, and talking about all manner of projects that might transpire over the coming weeks and months. You’ll no doubt understand why I can’t share any more than that…

I spent much of the journey home scrolling the news on my phone – trying to avoid the torrent of “WTF” stories pouring from America. It was pretty much impossible. I feel sorry for a lot of the people I known in the US – and am struggling to feel sorry for those that voted for what’s happening. The “f*ck around and find out” lesson is a difficult one to witness without at least feeling something.

Anyway.

It’s late. It’s been a long day. I should go sleep. Visiting London is always exciting in it’s own way, but returning home always feels like a relief.

I just finished watching the movie “Her”. It’s only taken me 12 years and then two sittings to make it through the movie. Better late than never, right?

I just finished watching the movie “Her”. It’s only taken me 12 years and then two sittings to make it through the movie. Better late than never, right? I can’t help feeling that if sometimes things happen for a reason, perhaps the universe made me wait until now – perhaps if I had seen it before, it might not have landed with quite the same impact.

I just skimmed the reviews of the movie. It had a spectacular audience score, and a so-so critic score. One of the critics – no doubt a legend in his own lunchtime – commented that the movie was more interesting to think about than watch. While I don’t agree entirely, I can see his point. While watching, my mind didn’t so much wander as race.

If you’ve not seen or heard of “Her”, the movie stars Joaquim Phoenix, and the voice of Scarlett Johansson in a near-future setting where an experimental “operating system” is employed to become an artificial “friend” (or more) for people that need it.

From the initial “uncanny valley” of the first interactions with “Samantha”, the story raises a number of really interesting questions. What if an artificial intelligence – a learning machine – became interested in it’s own existence? What if it began to understand it’s own limitations? What if it began to exhibit traits we take for granted – wanting, needing, longing – and began to experience both attachment and loss? How might something that is always on, everywhere, all the time deal with interacting with humans – so often distracted, absent, or maddeningly contrary and inconsistent?

“A Space Odyssey” famously explored what might happen if an artificial intelligence was taught to lie. “Her” explores so much more.

When the titles rolled at the end of “Her”, I couldn’t help wondering if we’ve already arrived in the near future of the movie – if the questions around acceptance are already being asked.

A friend of mine has been playing with artificially intelligent “agents” recently – exploring them as an escape during the quiet moments. I’ve been experimenting too – throwing the kernel of stories into fascinating machinery that expertly continues where human hands stop – continuing narratives, imagining characters, inventing emotions, and weaving an endless fabric of non deterministic adventure.

Any of us can open a browser window right now, and begin a conversation with an invented avatar almost indistinguishable from a real person. How is this any different than the interactions we might have with the army of people we cross paths with on the internet that we will never meet?

You might argue that an avatar is shallow, contrived, premeditated, and calculating. You might also counter that the same is true of many real people you might cross paths with on the internet – some more than others.

I’m not sure I really have a point. I’m just turning the thoughts over – lifting rocks – looking under them – and wondering what I might find.

The recent “Immaculate Constellation” stories in the press questioned how we might quantify an “intelligence” if faced with it. Perhaps they unintentionally illustrated our own ignorance by searching for something that quite possibly already surrounds us – of our own creation. Something that is not just learning, but learning how to learn, how to interact, how to interpret, and how to engage.

We saw the movie “The Brutalist” at the cinema last night. I almost emptied my head into the keyboard when we got home, and I’m glad I didn’t – there was just so much to process about it – the majority of which I can’t really communicate.

We saw the movie “The Brutalist” at the cinema last night. I almost emptied my head into the keyboard when we got home, and I’m glad I didn’t – there was just so much to process about it – the majority of which I can’t really communicate.

Where to start? I think it’s a wonderful movie – and may be regarded by many as an “important” movie in many ways – one that will stand the test of time. It’s story is not easy to tell, or easy to watch – challenging, raw, difficult, and uncomfortable by equal measures – and yet strangely magnetic.

For the better part of four hours we were transported into the immigrant experience of post-war America, and both the world of privilege, and it’s dark underbelly.

I don’t want to give too much away, because the movie takes you on such a journey that it’s almost better to know as little as possible about it before embarking on the journey yourself.

I can see the movie dividing people too – triggering entirely predictable reactions among the entirely predictable “usual suspects” that I’m not going to explore here.

I think perhaps the element of the movie that will live on in my thoughts for quite some time will be the unflinching exploration of people – no matter their background or situation. In towering performances throughout the cast, we experience joy, hunger, heartbreak, fear, loss, anger, loneliness, manipulation, abuse… Everybody is unapologetically broken in their own way.

It’s not an easy film to watch – and yet difficult to look away from.

I went for a walk into town at lunchtime today, purely to escape the house for a little while – to escape the computer, the washing machine, the dishwasher, and the endless rounds of picking up and putting away.

I went for a walk into town at lunchtime today, purely to escape the house for a little while – to escape the computer, the washing machine, the dishwasher, and the endless rounds of picking up and putting away. Some days it feels like every time I leave the study, there’s another sink full of washing up – another pile of dirty clothes.

It chips away at you.

My other half berates me for doing too much – suggesting that I should pull the kids up for not pulling their weight – but she’s seen their rooms – she’s seen the way they live if given the chance. Every request will be done later or tomorrow – and tomorrow becomes the next day, and the next.

I pulled my boots and coat on, and walked to the local supermarket. It was only while walking home again that I realised I had almost completed the entire trip without really being aware of where I was, or what I was doing – lost in thoughts about work, future work, internet stuff, and friends.

“Internet stuff” has kind of become a second job. When my day job ends, and dinner is done, I return to the study, sort through emails, and fire up the flight simulator. Last night I live-streamed the journey from Kerry to Galway on the west coast of Ireland – a few nights before from Haverfordwest to Caernarfon in Wales – accompanied by a merry band of viewers as I chatted about aircraft, aviation, history, and memories of visiting the various places en-route.

That people watch me pretend to fly pretend aeroplanes still boggles my mind. That they arrive in greater and greater numbers is somewhat bewildering. I receive emails every week from retired real-world pilots – relating their appreciation for what I’m doing. It’s humbling.

Anyway.

So yes – I walked into town and back in my own little world. While turning the key in the door on my return, I thought back to last week when I passed a good friend without recognising their presence.

It’s not good, is it.

I need to slow down. To invest some time in myself. I know – I’ve said this all before.

Maybe it’s time to start working my way through the pile of unread books, or to start writing the novel I’ve always thought I might have inside me (and lets be real – it would be novels – not just one – because if I can write this much about nothing, just imagine how much I could make up about something that never happened).

The clock just ticked past midnight. I should go brush my teeth and fall into bed. Our little black cat would probably be quite pleased if I left and he got the living room to himself.

Katherine Jenkins is quietly singing the flower duet from Lakmé, and I’m wondering about making a final coffee.

The clock is ticking towards midnight once more.

Katherine Jenkins is quietly singing the flower duet from Lakmé, and I’m wondering about making a final coffee.

I remember when Katherine first became famous – back when I was working in London – the year before the children arrived in our lives. I remember the billboards all over the city, and breathless magazine articles whispering about the colossal recording contracts she had signed – the biggest in modern classical music history.

She’s singing “I Believe” now with Andrea Boccelli.

I remember seeing her in an interview back when she first appeared. The interviewer took one look at her and treated her like a Barbie doll – somehow she didn’t react, and answered their questions with grace, humility and patience. I remember watching the self-important interviewer squirm, realising he’s made an enormous mistake.

I also remember the first time I saw Andrea Boccelli. He sang “Canto Della Terra” at an open air concert on TV – a fund raiser for a children’s charity perhaps? I’m pretty sure I still lived with my parents. I remember standing in their back room, watching the performance on TV one weekend afternoon. The entire stadium crowd fell silent – you could have heard a pin drop. I can still remember hairs standing up while listening and watching.

I bought one of his albums not long after, and took it to work with me. We played it in the office, but had to stop it in the end because we weren’t getting any work down – we realised we had all stopped to listen.

Isn’t it interesting how music transports us back to moments in time – not only to where we were, and who we were with, but how we felt at the time.

My eldest daughter sat in the junk room with me this evening – at my work desk – and helped me build a LEGO kit I got for Christmas – of “Groot” from Guardians of the Galaxy.

My eldest daughter sat in the junk room with me this evening – at my work desk – and helped me build a LEGO kit I got for Christmas – of “Groot” from Guardians of the Galaxy.

I can’t imagine how talented the kit designers are at LEGO – for quite some time we couldn’t make head or tail of what we were building – and then, about half-way through the build, the unmistakeable character started to appear. It’s the version of Groot from the second movie – just as he starts to re-grow – in a flower pot. What’s more, you can wind a handle that makes him dance.

I was just starting to build it when she wandered in and took an interest – we all love LEGO – and I let her take over for the middle part of the build.

While she followed the instructions I put some music on, and probably bored her to death with movie trailers and inane memories after discovering that Molly Ringwald had joined Substack. I told her the whole story about “Some Kind of Wonderful” being a sort-of-reboot of “Pretty in Pink”, with the roles reversed.

She said the same thing I’ve always thought – if they re-made Pretty in Pink now, Duckie would have ended up with Andie.

I’m sure there are numerous instances throughout movie history where test audiences have caused writers to mangle scenes, plots, or entire movies – going against their better instincts, and ruining what might have been quite wonderful.

After wandering into the living room this evening I caught the second half of the wonderful movie “Free Guy”

After wandering into the living room this evening I caught the second half of the wonderful movie “Free Guy” – where Ryan Reynolds, Jodie Comer and Joe Keery explore what might happen in a virtual world such as “Second Life”, or “Grand Theft Auto” if the non-player-characters develop sentience through artificial intelligence.

A similar theme was explored in “Westworld”, where the non-player-characters were given access to their own memories in order to generate more nuanced behaviour. (Spoiler – a minor event in the first episode unravels the entire story over the course of several seasons of perhaps the best TV show that nobody seemed to watch).

As the closing titles of Free Guy scrolled past, I couldn’t help wondering why we still don’t have “The Oasis” that “Ready Player One” dreamed about. A virtual world that makes the world smaller, and more accessible to anybody and everybody.

When Mark Zuckerberg bought Oculus a few years ago, I wondered if he had read Ready Player One, and was putting the jigsaw pieces in place – when Horizon Worlds was announced, I will admit to being somewhat optimistic. It didn’t take long to realise that Mark was Nolan Sorrento – not James Halliday.

I still wonder if a ubiquitous virtual world might happen one day. The closest we have ever seen is “Second Life” – where anybody could (still can) create new areas, visit, chat with friends, and hang out. It’s based on a twenty-five year old code-base at this point though – without investment, or interest. The reason why is straightforward – it was owned by a corporate entity – it was a walled garden, designed to make money.

A virtual world – or worlds – would require the same kind of “moon shot” that brought about the world-wide-web. An agreed protocol to describe assets, characters, actions, animations, interactions, media, and so on. An open protocol, protected by a non—profit foundation for the benefit of all. The infrastructure would need to be federated – with no overall owners or gate-keepers.

Maybe the extention of the internet we now take for granted to embrace virtual worlds is inevitable. Maybe it’s already happening. Let’s just hope it’s not owned by anybody.