A reflection

Since a monitor is composed of pixels, and each pixel can produce a fixed amount of colours, we could simply instruct the computer to produce all possible combinations of these. It would be a “movie” that would have everything it could display! Almost anything would be in there… Let’s get down to the math.

According to my “research” a 1280 x 1024 monitor has 1,310,720 pixels. It also produces approximately 32 million colours. Therefore the amount of combinations we have is equal to (32 * 10^6)^1310720. We can estimate 32^1310720 by taking the logarithm in base 10 of 32, which is approximately 1.5. This means 32 ~ 10^(1.5) where ~ stands for “is approximately equal to”. Therefore we have 10^(1.5)^(1310720) = 10^(1966080). Now we multiply by the remaining 10^(7864320) to obtain 10^(9830400) combinations. Whew!

Now a difficult part is settling about how many frames per second would this program display. Let us assume it is reasonable to give 0.001 seconds for an iteration of the rightmost pixel (the one constantly changing). That gives 32 * 10^6 frames in 10^(-3) seconds, which is 32 * 10^9 frames per second. Let’s again estimate this number as 10^(10.5) fps.

Therefore to display our movie the computer will take 10^(9830389.5) seconds! One year has 31,556,926 seconds which we estimate to 10^(7.5). Therefore it will take 10^(9830382) years to display all combinations. That’s 1 followed by 9830382 zeros. If we estimate the age of the universe to 10^(10.15) years (using 14 billion years and rounding log 14), it’s 9830371.85 times the age of the universe! That’s almost 10 million times older than the universe. I think we’re gonna have to wait for a while to see anything meaningful.

Disclaimer: not completely sure about the math, you better check that up.

And now for something completely ridiculous…

Oh God, not again

Newsflash, I haven’t updated this in ages. You’re probably not even reading this. Not even you, lone soul, who wanders aimlessly through the sickened word. Not even my pompous adjectives can retain your interest. We’re busy, we’re always busy. Libraries are exploding. I stand before a shelf and feel like a midget, or a dwarf, or however I should refer to feeling tiny.

The problem with writing is that the reader expects a full novel and not just an idea. All the work is left to the author. Maybe it is up to the lazy author to inaugurate some new form of interactive novel, where the addition of some characters and scenes are “left as exercise to the reader”. That probably wouldn’t go very far though. Can’t blame ‘em.

This glowing rectangle has kept me up at night, again. Did I mention I considerably reduced my usage of it for about two months? Yes, I did. Why am I not sleeping? It’s only 10 PM, I tell myself. What’s so attractive about this thing? It doesn’t even contain the truths of the universe.

Atypical eye colours are viewed as blessings, but atypical skin colours don’t grant you many benefits in society. I’m not here to make a commentary on our prejudices though. Not today.

About paragraphs that drop from heaven, I encountered one of them today. Which made me think of how a student should have the capability of grading a teacher. We should have citizen grades. “You are a B- citizen”. That’s not so good. You didn’t put your trash in the right recycling can.

We would form a grade-based meritocracy. Which wouldn’t work because of the constant observation. What would you do if you were invisible? I, for one, would go mad.

I wonder if God hears my monologues, usually made at 3 AM lying awake trying desperately to sleep. When will technology bring a “press here to sleep” button? It’s already possible, we just have to make it happen.

Oh yes, I am God, but I don’t think I am. I mean, if I were, I wouldn’t have forgotten about it. People like laughing. Maybe my voice is funny. I don’t think God’s voice is funny. That would be laughable. Life is just one big joke, God’s voice is funny. Finish your meal before you run out of time.

The problem with jokes is that I forget them. I’m not sure why. I can remember songs but not jokes. Maybe if we had albums of jokes, it would be easier. We should have a council for useless problems. We would meet weekly to decide what to do about jokes and how they’re easy to forget, among other problems of daily life. Like how to squeeze that last inch of tooth paste because you’re too lazy to get some new one.

The problem with life is that we’re the problem. Why can’t life be wrong for a change?

Self-portrait in verses

The problem of writing
has been described
by several writers.

What does then an ignoble
a puerile amateur
By walking in such vile edges?

A being that didn’t love
that didn’t feel
that didn’t even see!

A being guided by vanity,
as all others, he comforts,
but he doesn’t care!

A bi-cerebral being:
one that reads
one that writes.

A being that cries
all those pains
he hears on television.

But all I want is to be praised

Fernando Sabino is definitely my favorite writer. I will not prolong this entry by discoursing over his prose or memorable humour; fear not, there is a reason for me to mention this. In the need to kill some time, I entered a local bookstore to browse a Sabino book I’ve been interested in (which I won’t buy until I manage to reduce my to-read pile).

After making my way to the national literature shelves (considerably smaller than the international literature shelves, fact which would account for an entire post), I remove precisely the book I craved from a modest collection of his other works: there were two, three, maybe four. Lucky to find an empty seat (having to read standing up is an atrocity nobody should be punished with), I opened the book and prepared my mind to be blown over his constant genius.

After a while, sat before me a woman, her male company soon following. She had two books in her hands, trying to decide which one to take.

“This one obviously goes over more things, obviously” – she says, pointing to the larger book – “but this one may explain things more clearly.”

“Then take this one” – the man picked up the smaller book and headed for cashier.

“But then I won’t have the additional things this one mentions.”

The man swapped books: “Then take this one”.

“Wait.”

While the women browsed the index, I kept my attention divided: half to Sabino, half to the couple. Sabino was delving into an occasion related to him by fellow writer Rubem Braga (whose work I’m ashamed to be unfamiliar with), but the man was impatient:

“I’ll give you 15 seconds and then leave.”

The woman insisted. Handing over the larger book, she inquires:

“Read this passage and see if you understand exactly how it must be done.”

As she passes the book, I get a chance to examine the cover and notice the drawing of a dog. The man, to my surprise, takes his time to read it carefully. After what seemed like a minute or two, he returns it:

“Uh huh. I loved the idea. Come on, let’s go.”

Unshaken, the woman takes it back and continues her careful inspection. By now, Sabino addressed air conditioners through the eyes of a fictional husband and wife. My attention is divided in three: the couple, Sabino, and the thought of writing this exact piece.

The reader will excuse me, but the specific outcome of this event escapes me. Eventually the woman decided for one of the books, which I conjecture was the bigger (she was leaning towards it). The man finally parted the prison that held him. As for Sabino’s blablabla, it went right back to the shelf.

“Whoever drinks must remember to always keep a coconut at home”, Rubem Braga concluded.

New branch

I live in dusty contrasts…
Isolating myself more and more
in a grey afternoon.

—

And let the dead principle
be of non-contradiction.
But the living
is so contradictory
that you lose count
and win, too.

—

I fill pages and pages
with my regurgitant lamentations.
The end, remote,
is a constant.

—

I am always in search of this fine line
between desert and sea.
Extending lines,
shortening,
erasing…

Unlivable

The best words
don’t exist.

They await in uncertain sea
a possible use.

Unexpressed, they express
the so far inexpressible.

Their usage causes surprise
thought
acknowledgement
admiration.

Oh, I wish I could
find a new word
in every corner.

But only in a world
with no dictionaries
Where each word
is new.

Untitled

It’s said that one person, after dying and going to heaven, asked, as he observed God creating new men:
- What’s the hardest part?
God touched the body suspending in the air a few meters away from him, giving it life. The newly created being flapped like a fish and fell through the clouds. God, without turning over his head, answered:
- The spine. All the rest are just implications.

Reduction

It takes a living being to tell another.

The properties of things

What makes a chair a chair? If we take a strictly utilitarian route, a chair is a chair because you can use it as a chair. But we could definitely sit on a stone, that is, use it as though it were a chair, and that doesn’t make it a chair; it is a stone, even though it can be used as a chair. The object is not defined simply by its utility or use, but neither is it defined in itself. Ultimately, a chair is a conglomerate of atoms interacting. As a chair is different from a stone, the atoms of a wooden chair will differ from the atoms of a plastic chair. Nevertheless, these two are grouped as ‘chairs’, and a stone is separate from them. This distinction is done solely by the self, by our analysis of reality. In its turn, the self analyses characteristics of the object such as appearance, utility, position, or whatever it can get from the senses to ultimately determine what the object is, by a method of comparison. We need to learn what a chair is because a chair is not a chair in itself.

At first, this view pushes even further a dualism between the intelligible and the sensible world. The spirit is left condoned to itself, knowing that all its assertions are axiomatic, and do not reflect any truthful value. Our definitions then lose determination, as they are merely random, and not based on something greater than ourselves; instead, they are made by the very self. But could we, starting from a basic realist approach, deduce the intelligible world? Surely this must mean that the spirit is no different from the rock or the chair.

Being consciousness an illusion, we may ask: what is the value of life? This phrase is seemingly meaningful, as it is present in our daily usage. What is the value of a tree? Analyzing by the system the tree is present in, we find a tree, amongst other things, produces oxygen and enables life that depends upon it; that is its value. The value of an engine is found by analyzing the automobile system it is present in. Thus, the value of any object will escape the very object, and will instead recede, to be found in the system containing it.

We show then that even the very notion of value derives from a human analysis of objects, and is not contained within the object itself. It is only meaningful to speak of value when the system is contained within human analysis. But since the value of an object or property always recedes, to be found in the system containing it, the value of life escapes life itself, and thus becomes meaningless and empty. We are applying a concept common to our senses and analysis without realizing that it cannot be applied in this sense, because it transcends our analytical system. We cannot ask what is the value of life, because that would imply a value greater than life, and such cannot be.