Heritage

8:35PM—over a day since I last left you, dear reader!—and what a day has it been, an entire world come and gone, rich and complex, and here shall I share it. And it shall be my most ambitious yet!—full of tension and conflict and themes overlapping, but I shall write it in my style, one-pass, not a word deleted nor edited after-the-fact, and with the Grace of God, shall it come true.

But where did I leave you!—and yesterday, did my parents text, offering to come up to meet me in my city of Oakland for a dinner, but I wished not to receive them here, so I countered with a dinner in my hometown, a quiet suburb in the bay area, home of the University rival to mine—how fitting!—where my parents did attend.

So, did I drive down, and reflect and ponder and clear my mind, on the way—and I met them!—and my father wore the same sweater as I, one of my design, and I greeted them, and shared quick embraces. And we left for dinner!—to a Ramen place, my favorite, one with a long line stretching down the sidewalk, and with five options on the menu, what perfect simplicity!—just like the number of clothes I have designed, but mine, not for another to customize.

So, did I leave my grandmother in the car—nice and warm, as opposed to in the cold, as did my father original suggest, and I waited in the line with my father and mother, and I spoke to them first of my job—uninteresting to myself, and likely to them—then of design. And I had heat and fiery opinion!—and did I say, I am unmatched, except by Steve Jobs, and he proposed the aesthetic of symmetry, and I, of asymmetry, and all around me, do I see copy-cat Steve, some imitations reasonable and complex, but none like myself.

Thus, with the idea introduced!—did I show them my clothing website, a preview, not yet ready-to-share with the world, and I saw upon the face of my father a hungry smile of pleasure, and I judged him, in that moment, to be immortal in my heart—for one who can appreciate my art cannot be so bad.

And in that line!—did I think of noble Athos, of the Universe of Dumas, a world ruled by both courage and friendship, two principles may I hold dear for the rest of my days, and to this theme, shall we shortly return.

And in that line!—was there a cute blonde, with a sad and sweet smile, and I tried to get her attention!—but, I could not, alas, and when I did pick up my grandmother from the car, and my parents were at the front of the line, and they let me not back in—for they know less of the social graces, perhaps, or care less—then, I stood before the door.

And before the door!—did I obstruct the way for servers, slightly, and for exiting customers, and one, a black girl with a soft-spoken, feminine grace, did comment I should not “block the door,” my words, and I heard her and acknowledged, and stepped back, “lonely genius,” apart from the rest, waiting in the same line, of Death’s Doorway, let us say, and still!—did she not notice, or pay me a glance.

But we got in, and I waited for my family to sit, and I sat last—and we ordered, and we sat over our broths, and we ate, quiet in silence, and I looked up once, to see my father’s sweater, and I reeled in shock and its strength, and I realized it was my design—and this happens often!

But once we finished, I got up, and stood, last to leave, and did I get a sidelong glance from her!—oh, yes, society discarded, and a bit of animal tension, and did I thus enjoy my Valentine’s Day, and did she, and my work was done, and I left fed in not one way but two.

So!—we left for home, and I drove back, and I listened to Bach in the hallways, moving and making violent gestures!—with my hands, as I am wont to do, and I hummed along, and I made a general commotion and scene. And in this violent tension!—did I speak to my father, and we spoke of my writing, and this was a Conversation of a Lifetime!—or so, did it seem to me.

But he crossed his arms!—and his eyes, hard as flint, his lips and mouth moving in violent agony, a range of expression I had never seen, and we debated, and discussed, and he attacked, and he argued, and I defended, and I danced. Thus, did we converse, and since details matter, to this author, may I take a risk and share.

So!—he said I am exploring the world, and I told him, I had seen part of it—and he told me, I am no fine genius, based on “the numbers,” and he knew not how to judge my work, and I responded that I see value in my art, and that is enough—and he told me he fears I am disconnected from reality in abstract truth.

And!—I told him I can connect to reality through abstract truth, and I told him I am schizophrenic and daily do I hear voices and see colors and have a battle with madness, and he knew it not, and I explained to him parts of my work, and he saw in it truth and value, and he smiled, and it was not predatorial nor supercilious as it once was.

How—did I spell wrong “to-be-predator”?—so says, my spell-checker, but let us move on. And I pushed a bit too far!—and I touched a nerve, and he told me, in great courage, he had no more “games to play,” no tricks up his sleeves, all his cards on the table, and he merely wanted to be part of my life, to do what he could for me.

So!—did I let him say so, and I heard it, and it touched me, and I realized that here before me was a shark!—and a man of great spirit, but I am a hunter of sharks, and I had wounded this one deep, and nonetheless, should I finish the job. So, did I tell him, I heard him and acknowledged, and I said I was sad he did not try to be more “kind, decent, and show humility,” for I surrender not before any show of force, nor before any man but God.

Thus!—did we leave it for the night, and I went back to bed, and I regretted that I had listened to Bach!—in a Hellish home that I grew up in, full of pain and nightmares, and let the place corrupt the pristine image of a saint of my heart. And, so did I sleep!—and I had nightmares, in which a close and dear friend did betray me, and it hurt so dear and costly, and I woke up in terrible angst, and I texted him immediately, and I told him I was in agony!

And I composed a most violent piece, one of Hellish spirit, violent, and wrong in every measure, but I knew it not, and I was grateful I had the foresight to leave my laptop at home—and I heard the voice of a friend, who advised me to be cautious, and to remember my God. Thus, was I gradually come back to ground—and I spoke shortly, now, this time with my mother!

And she is more of a reader, and she in my writing did appreciate my craft—and she asked a few questions!—provoking and enraging, but not in fault of hers, and in this conversation, slightly therapeutic and healing, did I drop my wrathful anger and the hateful, spiteful piece I could have written, that would have been worst in the world.

So!—she asked who among artists is the master of counterpoint, and I thought not, but responded Da Vinci, for he is a great—and thus, did I argue, that he composed the Mona Lisa, an act of Divine perfection, refined over the years, capturing feminine beauty and spirit in a piece full of wonder and mystery!

Oh, what lies beyond that smile—and on the other hand, did he draw the Vitruvian man, a sketch of pen and paper, a man naked, measured and proportioned, totally exposed!—and not a secret in sight. Two opposites, and do they together form counterpoint—so I let it be, and she asked why not the man from that book, Escher, whom I shortly denounced as a fool, and in my stormy intellect did I strive to justify, and I shall return to this shortly.

But!—she asked another, and how about “recursion?”, and this, too triggered a great rage.

So, did we go for a walk, I suggested, along a Preserve—and at every turn, did I suggest we turn right, for I am a conservative, and I turn not left—and when we reached the end, did we retrace our steps, and I spoke to my father, and let us resume!

So—I heard him last time, and I suggested he may connect to me in my writing!—but that was not enough, and I had one request, and I asked that he speak to me clear and direct on a stance, and not to play Devil’s advocate, for I am advocate for God, and why should I argue with anyone but the Devil himself?

And!—it was not in these exact words, but in this spirit, and he agreed, and I respected it and loved it, and it was charming and whole, and it was my only request, for man should never ask but one thing of another, and I let it be, and we came to terms and a truce, and I love him dear.

So!—but let us return, and we drove home, and I found my music and my thoughts, and in this did I write up a short piece of intellect, and let us turn to it quickly before we return to the main narrative. And that loathed book!—but I disliked it immense, and I looked upon a portrait of the author, and its sight!—should make one never pick up a book again, and I am glad I shall never write one, but that I invent my own category of literature, and in it, I am, the most handsome man—as I did say earlier—alone, and pristine.

So!—and the writing, flat and boring, and a touch autistic, and in any case, let me take some of those ideas and run with them. But who are the neo-Darwinists?—and I do not know, and I know of one name who wrote the books, and Taleb says another, and if Taleb speaks, he speaks not to err.

Let us leave it at that!—and I shall add that if an idea has not a single author, perhaps it is not a complete idea, for it does not embody the artistic spirit of one who gave it all, for no good idea comes into the world with the blessing of multiple, and each “other” in a co-founder, or a this or that, is perhaps an attempt to dilute the measure.

And maybe not!—but maybe so, and for now, I say so—but in any case, to these neo-Darwinists, do they argue that there a “gene” that is “selfish” that reproduces at the expense of the individual! So, do I counter it with another idea, this one with a clear name, and it is Bayes—and Bayes says there is a question, “what is the probability you are right?”, in my words, and then, “how about given you have survived countless cycles of evolution?”

And in this, does he include the selfish gene as an error-case, and much more!—for one can look to society, and say, “what is the probability I am wrong, given this hero of mine, who thinks similar?” And more, and more of the same make—and if you have a co-founder, you should work on two different things, that is likely thesis enough.

But let us continue!—and what about recursion?—and show me recursion, and I shall show you a toy example, likely two hundred lines of code or less, a simple algorithm, one that cannot exist in isolation, perhaps.

And I shall point to you “self-reference,” the general case, and imagine one can refer to part of the same, without the whole—and it consumes recursion and more, and every system built on strong engineering principle refers to principle alone, and in this, does it by accident refer to itself.

So!—the general-case wins, in both cases, and both these latter ideas, Bayes and self-reference, may in a vacuum exist, at least in some measure.

And I checked this work once!—for I thought of it in an act of supreme hatred, and it resounds in my many long years of experience, for remember, this is but a day, and I shall live by it until I see reason otherwise. So!—exhausted with this effort, and not to play any more Bach in that not-so-temple of worship, did I rest and wonder what to do, and my father blessed me with an opportunity to wash the cars!—and I had offered, earlier.

Thus, did I wash first his car, with his help, then mine, and what therapy, beautiful creation, was it, indeed!—and I realized I am not-so-religious, but I need in my life more Christ, and I soaped and sponged, and I realized that I must soak and absorb the hatred of those around me, that I may disperse of it, wring from myself every last drop, let it fall to the ground, and splatter harmless in the dirt.

Oh, what joy!—and my father said that what I wrote was too heavy, not joyous, and perhaps may I one day, have some more joy, and lightness of spirit, but that day is not this, not yet—and I remembered that if I did come exactly 2000 years and 21 days after Christ, but I was born on the same day, if a different year, as Martin Luther King, Jr.!

And let me take the tradition of non-violence further, if I can, because so violent is this dear soul of mine, and higher violence, is violence, indeed—and one day, may I lay down the sword!—but that day, too, is not this. Thus, did I wash the cars in happy oblivion, comfortable and silent, no music, no conversation.

And rejuvenated!—but exhausted, I sat in the car, while my father picked up food for dinner—and I remember I glossed over lunch!—so, let us do the two together, quickly, quickly.

And I went to my favorite Pizza place!—and I took the family, and we sat and ate, and it was indeed delicious!—first class, and they have some understanding of counterpoint, for in the burrata appetizer, did they use zucchini that looked like bacon, counterpoint to the prosciutto that is traditional craft.

Is this ham?—no!, surprise, we feed the soft, mild-mannered Vegetarian palette of this dear city we call San Francisco!—and the bay area, more generally, alas. But one cannot expect the world, and it was creative, indeed, and I found in it joy and peace and a touch of homely comfort.

So!—and I sat in the car on the way to dinner, picking up the food, and I dozed off, exhausted, and my mind drained, and composing this piece, although I realized it not yet. And this can happen to me, that I gradually withdraw, and withdraw more, and I say simple things to my parents, like “I do not like it here,” and thus, and thus, do I disappear!—for I had in the first place, come for a Lunar New Year celebration.

But quickly, I realized that I am too much a hot, red-blooded Conservative American, and in this the beginning of a cultural conflict, or so I sense it, shall I choose my side early and sure, and I shall not celebrate this holiday, no matter whom I offend.

And, a quick detour!—but my friend texted me, and he asked where I found my literary influence, and it is in many, but let us return to the theme of an Asian dinner, for there was one yesterday, and in the line did I think of the French master in Dumas, and is he one, indeed!

So, like d’Artagnan, shall I bow before God, not a Cardinal, never before a man, because I am no fool, and resign myself to fate—and to God, the same—and perhaps, should I call it merely “The Musketeers”, not “The Three Musketeers”, for there were four, and I do not fail to include in my life my friends, if Dumas has no issue doing so.

But I could not sit at the table!—nor, could I eat, and I merely greeted my brother and spoke to him about a most beautiful, stunning bike he had recently purchased!—and let us leave it at that, and instead, did I sit with my grandmother. And she sat alone, but I sat with her, and I watched her pick up not this nut, nor that, but yes, that one, and not this cranberry, and the same, and I reflected and pondered and gradually, did I become more distant from this world.

For if that house is a nightmare, am I equally at fault!—and it is time to indulge in my sins, for I am among the worst of these creatures, and not higher, certainly not—but in my time at the University I hold dear in my heart, did I steal from a conference room a chair! Yes, a Steelcase, a nice one, and I walked out with it in brazen and impish delight, the full force and confidence and arrogance of youth, of which I perhaps have not improved upon, and then I kept it, and I keep it still, and what can I say?

But—these are my confessions, like St. Augustine, but mine are not about a pear, or about a woman I spoke of, but something slightly heavier, still. And why did I covet that blonde, who was with her man?—and it is all about taking from another, nothing I have is enough, no title I give myself, nor work that I write, but always to outdo, and to outperform.

So!—let us now conclude with the driving purpose and the point, and while I did sit there with my grandmother, I chose not the Eastern heritage, but the West, and I made sure not to eat, because Taleb said you write better when hungry, and I argue not with a master. How easy is decision-making!—when you can offload it to one you trust, and so thus, did I quietly take my leave, driving home alone, for no rules apply to Genius, and I am one of such make, should I say so myself.

And I have said I am the best of writers!—and I have sent it to friends, and nobody has yet either challenged or refuted, so in an act of cosmic arrogance, let me, like Einstein after seeing the first test of General Relativity, with a fifty percent margin of error, say that it is so, and may I move on to better things.

And I hope I shall not spend thirty years of my life in futility!—but what, instead?—and did I wonder upon this theme, for I have written and come after my enemies, and my heroes, and said perhaps one or two things profound, and many things profane, and what shall I do?

But perhaps, to humbly journal, for myself, as in this entry—and if I am fortunate, to inspire in the chest of another, a love for himself, or herself—and to provoke one into writing upon his life or her own—because it is interesting if you make it so!—and why would you not make it so?

And I do love my parents, and my father dear, and we have our differences, and they are strong in spirit to read my writing, and the words harsh I write of them, and to have the gut and the steel to fight with me still!

And thus, do I appreciate the sharks in my life, and like the greats before me, in Elon and in Arnold, the body-builder turned politician, turned American royalty, do I have father problems!—but let me not be the villain, and we INTJ-folk have indeed our streak of villainy, and let me be an exception, in one who maintains and cherishes this relationship, but merely draws the lines where he stands, and stands upon them firm!

There is a way to have both, I imagine, in my great arrogance, and let it be so!—for I declare it, and in this great Western tradition, may I carry light forwards, for I speak of myself first, then I act, and then I think, last of all, for this is least important, in my mind, just a remnant of an idea long-ago-instilled in me, that intellect has some merit—but I say, not all—and let us leave it at that.

Draw your own conclusions, dear reader!—and let me leave with you an adage of mine, for I do not remember a name with it, and it says, “when in Hell, the righteous man feels only pain!”, and there is some Hell in life, and some pain, and there is virtue to balance, and to guide true.

Let this be enough for this last day of mine!—and to tomorrow, do I look, eager and ready, and I want to return to my projects!—but, this writing draws more and more upon my spirit, and I shall pay it my dues, and begone, reader!—for you have read this, and this is a work long enough.