Hackable Humans

Moneychangers in the Temple

A few years back, I witnessed an event of one person’s misfortune. It wasn’t a terrible thing, but the precise manner in which the event unfolded suggests far more than simple happenstance of occurrence. I was in my vehicle at a truck stop taking a break. A fair number of automobiles were parked in the lot and the restaurant appeared to be a bit on the busy side. From my vantage point of the driver’s seat, I could see the door that serviced the restaurant. Out from the doorway steps an average-to-large build man. He was wearing a breezy button-down summer shirt tucked in at his belt line, summer shorts, and on his feet were a pair of sandals. For some strange reason I noticed that his pants pocket would open and close with his stride as he walked. In his left hand, at about chest height, he held a brown bag of food, a set of keys and his phone. In his right hand he had large drink held by the brim. He was scanning the parking lot for his car. I was looking directly at him. His arm was swinging with his stride when taking his steps. Whereupon one step, the top of his large drink cup collapsed. You may have guessed this, but as this happened his pocket opened perfectly to receive a goodly portion of the beverage. Maybe one third of that iced drink spilled right into his pants pocket.

It has been a long time since I wrote an essay. I have been spending a lot of effort in creating an environment that accommodates more of my needs. The hotel room and storage trailer situation left me with much to do and only agonizing ways to do it. I’ve had my share of agony. Since I found better priorities, things are falling more in line, and a more workable environment has been made. Some routine has come about to where more avenues are available for me to occupy my time. It isn’t luxurious, but it’ll do. And I signed a lease, so there is no easy back out either. With all the physical activity I’ve been involved with including setting up my new shop, I’ve been feeling like wet cement. As wet cement, I’ve become nearly overcome with the feeling that if I stop anything, physical or mental, I will set up solid and won’t be able to move. And that will be the end. With writing prose, being a mental activity, I have been groaning over just what could I possibly write that would be acceptable to those that have read my writing and would read more, yet at the same time may be disappointed because I had all that ... umm ... mojo and then just vanished. Then I remembered the incident with the soda in pocket guy.

Here is my re-entry article.

I chuckled when I saw it happen. All that icy beverage went right into the poor fool’s pocket. I take amusement where I can get it. But I didn’t really think too much about it until now. I have heard it said that everything happens for a reason. At one time in my life, I may have explained away this incident by remarking that ‘sure there was a reason’: The fellow was holding his drink by the rim of a precisely engineered cup. The cup and lid were designed with the most efficient use of materials necessary for a hand to be able to hold the weight of the full cup by the rim. The lid gave way because the combined force of centrifugal motion, the force of gravity and the force of the man’s grip added together were right at the limits of the design. What may not have been in the design of the cup was the added force generated by the impact of his foot on the pavement. Coincidence maybe, but the explanation is as simple as that.

The explanation may not be as simple as that, though. The precision is perplexing. The liquid went right into the man’s pocket as if that were also a part of the design. Was there a lesson to be learned by that man? If so, it wasn’t a biggie; maybe to walk lighter or hold the cup by the base instead of the rim. There was certainly no lesson toward work on a moral compass or lifelong learning. Or was there? I did see it with my own two eyes. To see that fellows’ misfortune drew a chuckle from me, and if you are reading this, you may have become amused as well. The drink went right in the man’s pocket as if it were choreographed. What else may have been involved other than a precisely engineered cup? Was it indeed choreographed?

I’ve been through enough in my life to, by now, be able to think the possibility of more being involved than what might meet the eye. Everything does indeed happen for a reason. And the reason is often beyond the explanation using only a physical realm of materials and mathematics as explanation. I’m not particularly superstitious but I remember something from years back while riding my motorcycle. A real beauty that. All chromed out and loud. But it was heavy. I have a story about that, but not for now. I was riding along and a sensation came over me that reminded me of an old Pink Floyd tune. I was cresting a bridge when suddenly my hands felt like two balloons. The sensation was from my forearms to my fingers. It was as if someone inserted their arms into mine as if to tell me that at any moment they could throw me from the bridge. Obviously, I didn’t get thrown from the bridge. But it was weird. I’ve also had incidences where the moment I was falling off to sleep, an arm, or a leg or even my chest would spasm and pull me back to awake. Good or bad, I don’t know. I haven’t been one to ever have dreams. I would go to sleep and then I would wake up. But somewhere in time, I have experienced snippets of a dream. I would awaken within some sequence where I was responding to someone or doing something else where I seemed like me, but I was not me. Really weird. Sometimes it felt as if I were being used for less than good intentions. I’ve had this happen during daylight hours as well, even weirder. Where at one time, I could easily explain away the pouring of a beverage into a man’s pants pocket, there are other times, I’ve had or seen experiences I thought were merely odd, where I had no explanation. But these days, I have begun to question these incidences as more than merely weird. I’ve been a pretty good guesser on some things. Maybe I will be able to guess or discover my way to the truth on these matters as well.

Before I ever wrote anything of any substance, I was a reader. I had read articles, essays, novels, technical manuals, medical journals, and, of course, the Bible. The online reading that I did eventually do led me to Substack. Many of the authors have been fascinating, informative and somewhat stimulating to read. These authors and the Substack platform tempted me to add comment and soon enough to write an article of my own as an introduction to me as a ‘hello’ in case anyone was out there looking for me, for whatever reason. That short introduction was enough for me. I was mostly a reader; I am still mostly a reader. There was no intention to write any more for the public. I was only new to keeping a personal journal by a few years. I wasn’t even very good at that. I was a reader. Of that, I am thankful. I have learned plenty.

At the time I wrote that short introductory article, I was at a point in my life that I was totally burned out on most everything that was my life. I had no intention to write for the public. I wrote that introduction essay and then kept on reading. I commented to some authors articles in a way that was actually somewhat eloquent. I was surprised with myself. A short amount of time later, a young lady touched my heart in a quite unfamiliar way that was also inspiring to me. I am slow and as dense as a concrete wall sometimes, so our encounter was over and done with before I even knew what happened. I wrote of our, hers and my, story in my journal, though. The story was endearing to me and written well enough that I transcribed it into an article for the public. I had no intentions of any kind when I wrote that article. This makes me question everything about myself. And now, I ask why or why not? How could there have been no intentions?

There was something else that happened during the my encounter with the young lady at the hotel that was not mentioned at the time of writing. Moments from the arrival of an ambulance there was talk about amongst the police and her mother. Soon the young lady asked why isn’t anyone listening to her? She and I had pleasant, lovely and honest conversation. There was nothing she said that was false. There was no falsehood in her. She was merely drunk. But with the police about and me sitting next to her, I said something that sounded true but in actuality was quite ridiculous. I responded to her; ‘if you tell the truth, people listen.’ (yes, ridiculous, think about it) The officers were looking on approvingly. But she appeared wounded. I believe she looked upon me with a great trust. And I betrayed her. It was a terrible betrayal. She let me know it too. She closed her eyes and told me to go away. After I had published that article, that part of the event began to haunt me.

I responded to her statement in a conditioned machine-like manner. Not truthful or thoughtful, but like a machine spewing out rote, as if programmed. As if I had no wisdom at all. I did not get any contact information or anything from that young lady that graced me with her time. I just let her go. It was as if I walked away. I recall other events in my life where I walked away where something good may have been or even could have become. It seems that I have a terrible habit of walking away. It is very fruitless and has left me with very little of anything beyond a future of looking back and saying ‘coulda, shoulda, woulda’. Does this unfruitful habit of walking away relate to the recalling of the event where a man spilled a drink right into his own pocket? It may. It may not be only a habit. It may be a condition. It may be programming.

I’ve seen very similar conditions in others as well. At another time in my life, I attended a yoga seminar at the YMCA. Yoga is pretty cool and is pleasant to do when one can share the experience. The truth of me going to a yoga seminar, though, is that I was there to see if I could meet a friend. Women in yoga, okay sure. There was a woman, much closer to my own age by the way, that seemed to be going through some kind of turmoil of her own. She also exhibited symptoms quite like my own. Up until a particular evening, we were coyly friendly in a way where we were beginning to open to each other. We talked a little after one session, and I told her that I was really there for her more than for the yoga. She smiled some then turned aside and went into some spiel about being in a very serious relationship. Then she walked away. I didn’t believe her. She wasn’t being friendly to me in that way that says, ‘just acquaintances.’ It was okay, I’d see her again next week or the one after that. Well, the govna shut the place down the next week for covid and I never saw her again. I do believe we could have been very good for each other.

Either way, on looking back, if my perception is correct, I can perceive her response was very machine like, not truthful or thoughtful, but like a machine spewing out rote as if programmed. Like I now perceive, I have also done. Like a man who spilled a drink right into his own pocket. Like hands that felt like two balloons. Or a wild arm spasm. Like being conditioned, or effected, from another dimension.

Many, many years ago, I wrote a comic strip for a school newspaper. There was also no intention involved with that either. I just did it. From that experience, I learned that some things can take on a seeming life of their own. That strip did that. I could see where it was going and I didn’t want any part of it. So I walked away. Maybe I should apologize to everyone that read it and expected more. (I should really apologize for what I did in that comic strip). Maybe I’ll write it out in another article someday, but not today. The same thing seems to have happened with this. I just did it and walked away. I have very much considered just holing up and enjoying my relative serenity while I may. But I realize that wouldn’t last long, especially without maintenance. Six months, has it been since I wrote? That is no way to maintain any respect.

Maybe this walking away thing isn’t a habit. Maybe it is a condition. Maybe its programming. It is good to have situational awareness. But with these thoughts in the realm of possibility as being more than simply quirks, examining them may prove very difficult, especially with so little to draw upon but logic and enormously vast amounts of literature.

What anyone that has read any of my articles has witnessed is the latest stages of a man that has begun to gather the pieces of himself together for viewing in order to evaluate the condition of the product. Me being the product. This wasn’t the intention in the beginning. There seemed no intention past just doing it. But with intention, perhaps a greater picture of the whole can be gained. I’ve quit a lot of bad habits, intentionally. Perhaps it is time to quit walking away from the good habits. (If the conditions remain favorable)

Here I am also reflecting on the treasures in heaven passage from Matthew 6:19-21. I’m also wondering if the thieves have broken into heaven like moneychangers in the temple.

I’m also considering the passage in Luke 9:62 ‘No one who puts his hand to the till and looks back, is worthy of the kingdom of God’. This may be the more difficult than I could have ever imagined.