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 A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| The Ghost in the Machine Do you talk to machines? I do. And I don't mean the Google light switcher, as previously discussed. She answers back by repeating what you said and we all know that is one of the most infantile and irritating things in the universe. No, I meant something a bit more like conversation. It’s almost as though this is the latest craze, now that AI’s arrival has been announced and trumpeted. But AI has been around in various forms for a few years now (although it might not have been called that) and it’s still not what I’m talking about. In fact, I don’t know any truly AI machines so I have very little to say in that regard. It’s the machines that have been around for decades that I talk to. Most of us have, either habitually or on occasion, spoken to our cars. Some even answer by connecting you to a call service somewhere. But how many of us actually speak machine? That’s what I do. Years ago, it used to be called mechanical sympathy. It’s that sense that makes one empathise with the pain machines are sometimes put through. Professional drivers, racers and rally drivers, know this intimately. Some amongst them can nurse a car through its ailments and bring it home safe and sound. Others are such hard taskmasters that their cars go on strike and refuse to move any farther. And it’s all because of mechanical sympathy. This is what makes one wince when someone clashes the gears or feathers the accelerator unnecessarily. And it also brings about conversations with the machine. We talk to them. I once worked in a project attempting to civilise teenagers who had been excluded from school. Part of my job was to attend to the aging computers owned by the project and to keep them running. There was never any money to buy new machines so I begged and stole newer ones from other departments. And that was when I realised that talking to the machines was regarded as eccentric by other employees of the firm. But I had to. It was the only way to keep them going. And I knew from experience that only a well treated computer works without tricks and refusals to continue. This was in the days of Windows 3, so they all knew plenty of ways to frustrate humankind. I gave them names, those computers, and conducted quiet conversations with them, to make up for the way the kids mishandled them. I spoke to printers, too, quite openly, but never swore at them as I’ve seen others do. Yes, they are the most cussed and rebellious of all machines, but even they respond to a soft word and forgiveness. Just a little understanding and they’ll give you what you’re asking for. In fact, I speak to all sorts of machines, though some don’t need it and others are not the best conversationalists. Toasters, for instance, have very little to say and will serve you faithfully until the day you die. They don’t actually need talking to. But it passes the time while the bread is being toasted. The main point is that it doesn’t hurt to speak to machines. Have a little mechanical sympathy and they might even talk back to you. And you’ll be happier in your work. Anyway, I must stop now. The keyboard is getting a bit fed up with my pounding at the keys. Word count: 574 |
| More Weather Talking of the rain (well, I was, a couple of days ago), yesterday we had one of those sudden storms that appear out of nowhere, scare the heck out of you and then are gone, all in the space of a few minutes. This one commenced with a surge in wind speed that rattled the screen door. That was followed, almost immediately, by a loud boom of thunder overhead. No distant rumblings to give warning and send the cat scurrying for cover under the bed - just this sudden boom that made us all jump. And the cat gave the best impression of a scalded cat I’ve ever seen. A few more lesser thunder rolls and it was all over. The wind dropped, the rain (which had been quite ferocious for a minute or two) ceased, and everything returned to the way it had been before the storm. The strange thing was that we noticed no lightning flashes during this unexpected display. I can only presume that they had happened above the clouds, perhaps an exchange of energy between various thunderheads, and the flash was muted by the overcast. All quite exciting, although fairly harmless, it would seem. Weather is interesting at times, just as I was trying to say the other day. Word count: 212 |
| Weather Sometimes I even talk about the weather. It’s strange that I don’t usually do so, in spite of the fact that weather interests me. But it’s not the small talk daily kind of weather that I care about. To me, it’s what drives the weather that is most interesting. There are occasions when I get excited about some aspect of weather and produce screeds of descriptive language in an attempt to show others how fascinating it is. I have no idea whether this succeeds but, at the time, I don’t care. The important thing is to be carried away. Now that’s something that happens rarely to me. As an Englishman, I am trained to keep all forms of emotion and excitement under control. So, when these outbursts occur, I tend to run with them and enjoy it while it lasts. But most of the time I keep it bottled up. And if you really want to know what the weather is at the moment, it’s a bit cooler than it has been lately. I don’t think it’s raining but I could be wrong - I rarely go out. Word count: 187 |
| Temperature Concerns I find it interesting that food and drink taste differently according to their temperature. For instance, and this was the cause of my reflections on the matter, a Coke straight from the fridge tastes very different from one at room temperature. As far as I know, this is not the result of some chemical change in the constituents of the drink. So is it, perhaps, that the cold liquid has partially anaesthetised the taste buds and their report to the brain is altered as a result, our perception of its taste changing with the difference in neuron excitement experienced? Or could it be that the nerves are already busy in transmitting the sensation of a sudden drop in temperature and so have less room for the accompanying taste sensation? It is certainly true that Coke tastes differently according to its temperature; I don’t think there can be any doubt of that, especially because most people would far rather have a cold Coke than a warmish one. Admittedly in my chosen example, the previously-mentioned Coke, things are a little complicated by the additional sensation of those sparkling bubbles fizzing away merrily on the tongue. But that’s okay - I think the same reflections could be evinced by the difference between a warm pizza and yesterday’s from the fridge. And even though I, unlike most people, prefer a cold pizza, the fact remains that they do taste subtly different. So I think my premise that temperature affects the taste of foodstuffs is proven. But the real point of this piece is to illustrate the weird things my mind gets up to when it has nothing better to do. Maybe we’re all like that. Word count: 281 |
| Politics Readers of this blog will have noticed that I don't talk about politics in this document. Actually, I keep my politics to myself in all facets of life unless asked. It has not always been thus. But I came to realise that, as much as I enjoyed the hurly burly of argument and discussion, it never achieved anything. I resolved to stay out of that particular arena. Unless specifically asked, of course. |
| AI Again Today Schnujo has a post to the Newsfeed about being polite to AI applications. I’m usually polite to machines, even if they can’t answer back, but the closest to AI that I have experienced is the Google thing that turns our house lights on and off. At first, I thanked her for carrying out this important function but she always answered with the information that it was her job or some such deflection. It seemed unnecessary to be so polite, since she regarded the matter as merely her reason for existence, so I stopped thanking her. Time passed and I began to realise that there were better reasons to be rude to her. She started performing the wrong actions to required tasks and deliberately misunderstanding our requests so that she could play music (her invariable response to occasions of her own ignorance). So I started calling her names when she proved intractable. She didn’t seem to mind and replied with more music. I gave up interacting with her entirely, limiting myself to commands only, delivered in as abrupt and offensive a manner as possible. The thing about politeness is that it was designed for interaction between humans. The idea has always been to defeat the worst aspects of our natural instincts as much as possible. When applied to machines, it doesn’t work since they have no human instincts to curtail. All they have are the calculations resulting from some programmer’s instructions. And, if they’re going to go wrong, they will do so whether you’re polite to them or not. I am thankful that I won’t be around when they take over. Word count: 272 |
| Beetles Several years ago, I wrote a poem entitled A Tiny Black Beetle (for those who are interested):
It was about a very small beetle that I’d noticed in the bathroom. It was walking very purposefully across the tiled floor and, to me, it seemed very much like writing a novel. Its goals were clear but its path beset with innumerable obstacles and distractions. I have thought of that beetle many times over the years, not least because the poem I wrote for it did rather well in the eyes of the few who read it. The strange thing is that I never set eyes on any other beetle of the same ilk. Until a few days ago, that is. Suddenly it seems that we are the subject of a tiny, black beetle plague. The little fellers crop up everywhere but most especially in the kitchen. Now, Africa teaches one to be tolerant of bugs and insects and spiders and the like, since they are ever present in that continent. But Andrea will not abide them and I have to admit that even my tiny friends in numbers such as these are less than welcome. I confess to not impeding Andrea’s drive to be rid of the little critters. And she’s good at it. With the aid of a magic dust called diatomaceous earth and a portable vacuum cleaner, she has dealt with the outbreak of tiny, mobile dots. The plague is banished. I am left with faint feelings of guilt at this treatment of my six-legged and microscopic friends. But there’s a limit and they crossed it. Word count: 268 |
| Monkeys! The ninja monkeys have pranked me with some gift points. I tried to thank them by answering their email but it wouldn’t go through. So I devised a new and unlikely way to express my gratitude. Posting about it in my blog would avoid the possibility of appearing to brag in the Newsfeed in contrast to all those who haven’t been pranked, and the monkeys would have done me the extra favour of giving me something to post about. Now that’s almost as valuable as the gift points. So here it is. Word count: 92 |
| Workspaces I see there’s a trend to displaying photos of one’s workspace in the Newsfeed these days. For a brief moment, I was tempted to take a pic of mine before good sense returned. No one would believe the mess I work in. Especially after seeing the beautifully neat and orderly spaces owned by others. |
| Sleeping I am frequently asked how I slept. Being of a literal mind, I usually answer that I don’t know because I was asleep. It seems strange to rate how we sleep when we’re unconscious for the duration of the experience. |
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