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The thing of it is about learning this AppleScripting language, as I'm fairly sure it would be for any computer language, por mio, es that I don't speak Spanish, and yet I sometimes use Latin terms as if I do. Which of my non-existent readers will tell me "No!" in the non-existent Commentary section of what passes for a personal blog/journal.
"... I pretend to be what I'm not, you see, I'm wearing my heart like a crown, pretending that you're still around." ~ The Platters
My apologies to the Platters for murdering their lyrics. This was one of my favorite songs when I was a teenager. Particularly when I came home to my parent's house from cruising the streets and hangouts in my parent's car, and then sat rhapsodically listening to the late night (10 p.m.) deejay Charlie Gaddy's rap on WRAL radio about the angst of careless love. I wanted careless love or any other kind of love or lust I might stumble across.
What I thought love was as a pubescent teen had eluded me from the ti-me I beca-me a "real teenager" at the tender age of thirteen years. Five lonesome years later, I knew for sure (at eighteen) that I'd never earn the love of a respectable woman, much less ever see one nakid, so instead of going on to college like I was expected to, I joined the Navy to rectify this intolerable situation.
I became obsessed with educating myself about the female gender. What male ever accomplishes that? Granted, I was wrong when I was eighteen about never getting to experience what I called love, and most certainly about getting the opportunity to loll around exotic places with naked, sometime less-than-respectable women. I've seen lots of naked women. Nearly all of whom pretended they mutually respected me the next morning, that is, until they talked to their girl friends.
Confused yet? I'm not. The point I'm trying to make, is that with this scripting language, I can't fool the compiler into getting the computer to do what I want without wooing it with the exact words and symbols it expects to be there. In other words, it doesn't shuck it's clothes when we both know I just made up what appears to be legitimate 'sweet nothings' in the heat of the moment. It matters what I write down and send to the compiler to see if it will give me the green light. I might even get by the compiler occasionally, but not past the machine code it conjures. I've coddled a secret yearning for something absolute in my life. Love and money don't cut it.
If I can manage even infrequently to write the script correctly, there is a distinct reward. Even the easiest efforts to do something like getting a dialog box up on the monitor with the words "Hello world!" is a big thrill when and if it occurs. Whereas, with homo sapiens' computers (and possibly the ones who call themselves civilized humans too) can tamper with and temper their responses to seem negative or decidedly positive even if everything I do and say is absolutely according to Hoyle.
It seems silly to say I don't know enough about AppleScript to get creative with the scripts I copy methodically into the Script Editor. Creating my own original scripts would depend on my having a specific experiential database to reach for when I get stuck trying to write a simple script. I don't have much experience at this point, much less success enow to encourage me to fly once more back into the breach of digital symbology. I crawl, but I don't mind, what else I got to do?
So much of my life I've spent alone with nobody to turn to and share a special sunset or to brag to and show off my simple accomplishments. It's one of the most shocking experiences I have to know that I have lived as a sort of recluse or hermit. I've never thought I did until I got online and thus into writing about being with people... once upon a time. Now I go to the grocery store more to assure myself I'm not dead than to buy food to keep my body alive.
I stopped going to the greasy spoon to eat because it's become so obvious that the old people show up for breakfast just to show the others they're not dead yet. The very idea of not showing up for breakfast or the blue-plate special to prove they're not dead only proves to me, sadly, that they can't entertain themselves, and they're afraid to die, allone or no.
Writing this silly blog is a way of entertaining myself. I don't know it that's all there is to it or not. I've just been corresponding with this guy I've been writing with occasionally for a good long ti-me now. He's a very accomplished person musically. He performed classical music on the piano all the way through his college years, then began creating rock and roll bands as a portal into the nightclub life in the big cities he was born into and still habituates.
We haven't posted in the small discussion group I created just to keep up with interesting people. Months can pass before anybody posts, but nobody much unsubscribes. Two people did. Both Gemini males. I'm too big a rock to be thrown like a stone at enemies I didn't create. Not this guy though, he's a Capricorn through and through. He knows it's not good business to appear partisan.
He writes that since we last communicated regularly he has let the rock and roll bands slide, and he's practicing playing classical on the piano again. He has a steady job, a steady girl friend who also has a steady job now, and they got a nice apartment further away from the crackheads in downtown San Francisco too. One can never be sure about Capricorns, but to me this all adds up. Procreative sex is much more fulfilling than recreational sex.
My oldest daughter from my second marriage finally had a baby boy. She wrote me a brief note to say she was soon gonna sit down and write me a long account of it all. Foolish woman. It'll be a miracle if she has time to wipe her own ass. Newborns got no respect for social convention. I'm curious as to how she'll accomodate that?
I'm ever so pleased for her. She waited until she was in her early thirties to have a child, but now, if she plays her cards wright, she'll have somebody who will probably act like they really love her for the rest of her life. I shoulda done that, but I didn't play my cards right. I don't know when to fold 'em, but I do know when to walk away, and run.
My ex-wife, the once again Grandma, who actually writes me brief, highly stylized e-mail posts recently, in what might pass for messaging lingo, stated that her other grandchild, the daughter of her own second girl child, had decided the new boy child (her only first cousin on her mother's side, to date), should be called "LaLa".
This is what happens in a family unit where the males are systematically emasculated like on the Isle of Lesbos. They emasculate the males born to them in rituals similar to circumcision. I wrote back and stated that they might as well have nay-me-d the boy Sue like in that Johnny Cash song, and it will create the same results as the lyrics suggest. Imagine that, a pedantic Virgo boy child getting stuck with a nickname that suggests he's drifty and unfocused.
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I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
