After a few weeks of downtime, I am hopefully back to regular entrykeeping. Since early December
of last year, I've been entrenched in an emotional maze brought about by the momentary reacquaintance
with my ex-girlfriend. Predictably disappointing, but I don't regret it - actually I can't regret it
yet as I'm technically still engaged with it. It may be over at this point (current date is 01.07.25)
as I haven't gotten a response back after the likely punctuating conversation we had on the 29th going
into the 30th, but I am treating it as if it is ongoing. The consequence of this critiquable activity
has been exhaustion, mentally and physically, as rollercoaster emotions are high-drain on both. While
I've still been able to, with the help of David, sit in front of towers of equipment ragtagedly
interconnected via multiple patchbays and attempt to make music, and edit my website which I must
clarify each time I mention its existence its abecedarian level of unsophistication - I'm about as
novice as web hobbyists run - I haven't had the energy to sit down and offload collected ideas about
whatever, be it sociopolitical ideas which have been more frequent due to the ever relevant H1B
dialogue, or topics akin to the aforementioned activities. And this has created a feeling of mild
constipation, as while my prolificness of demos has nosedived, the ideas/degree of investment hasn't,
creating a backup of loose clay-like ideas desperate for excretion into a white textbox.

A conclusory expression akin to a piece of scotch tape on a cumbersome cardboard box, I am trying not
to allow the romantic issues I experience to affect me as logically I do understand that these issues
are anything but unordinary. But in the way things may not be unordinary, they still carry a burden
and impair me all the same. Helplessness aside, my areas of mental/fiscal concentration have been
those of creative engineering philosophy with a minimalist bent, getting into telephony and setting
up a functioning phone line equipment test array featuring phones, phone line simulator(s), fax
machines, TADs and modems. In absence of a concise goal of my studio environment, the constant state
of etch-n-sketch-like refinement/definition of an area (like autopatching using video matrixers, or
creating PCM tapes, etc.) is observable, as is the deterioration of previously labored patterns in
fine silver dust trails, and I've been over a period of time prioritizing more and more the
documentation of multifangled systems and their applications, their components and precedures. This
prioritization has manifested into the humorously autistic microsoft sam procedure module narrations
but also reanalysis and update of outdated figures like the Amperages charts and such.

A recent outing with an unsuspecting individual saw the conversion of my last Saturday into a day
of adventure, learning and (paid) vehicular maintenance, within a short window of time. The previous
day at work was a slow one if I remember correctly, with one of the later activities being the
contacting of soon to expire mailbox renters - Ed Braddock being one of them. Coming in around 2022,
I was the one who saw to it that he could establish a mailbox, as my boss at the time was initially
somewhat hesitant. My persistence paid off as for two years, Ed rented there and last Friday marked
the end of the second year's period. At the end of the phonecall I made to Ed, as I was thanking him
for being a patron of ours, he proposed that we do something the following day - I accepted, and we
met at Black Rifle Coffee at noon. Arriving there roughly three or four minutes prior to him, I
ordered a coffee and took a seat inside the surprisingly filled establishment, when soon after I
recognized Ed approaching in his red/gray jacket. He made his way, not having noticed me yet, to
the counter to place an order of his own, when he spotted me and abandoned that wing of progression.
He took his seat next to me in the slightly noisy room and after a handshake/hello, we made our way
to the seating area outside. Talking for maybe 35 minutes, we covered topics from the values of the
establishment we were at, to the importance of truthfulness to the security of one's uprightness,
Jordan Petersen's literary works (12 Rules For Life and 12 More Rules For Life), Stalin-era Soviet
Union and some scenes of his paranoia-defined reign toward the end, the infrastructural decay
occuring in parts of Russia, Greenland pertaining to fracking sites, and illegal immigration and
the plights of cartel-terrorized Mexican nationals. After the playout of those conversational links,
he proposed that we visit the Russian food market we had been conversing about over the phone - the
locale had been a place of relevance for us as this was where he procured buckwheat for Paul and I
some months earlier. I accepted and he drove me up there, which coincidentally was like 65% of the
way to Trey's house, who I was initially due to meet with that day. On the way up we talked about
Nickelback, the US' automotive manufacturing/liquidation disaster and TPM chips, a contribution of
mine. After the 15-20 minute visit to the market, we headed back to Black Rifle and he spoke highly
of a pursuit of military-funded education after I had mentioned electrical engineering as a career
path I was interested in. All around, the engagement was fruitful - I bought groceries, enjoyed a
multiple topic intellectual exchange, and conveniently afterward I got my car inspected as the
sticker is in its last month of validity. Returning home, I consumed everything I had bought over
the span of a few hours while I watched an Anthony Cumia keynote and worked a bit on my website;
anymore, this is an ideal playout of an evening, and this particular 24-hour period was notable
as one of the more enjoyable examples in recent memory.

The previous week marked the climax of what remains the latest shattering of an illusion of happiness
for me. Two days left and one day right of one week prior to the 4th of January saw the in-person
meeting and Christmas exchange (giving, not receiving) with whom I, three years on, would still
regard as the love of my life (cringy, right? The prospect of love at age 21, a feeling so raped of
meaning in the current promiscu-social hellscape), and the derailing of whatever unspoken concealed
convention article with her. What began as emailing escalated to Messenger calls (I believe there
were two) by my insistence, which was a mistake. I proved incapable of handling the ability to
somewhat see the movements of this person I've been so empty in the absence of, and soured my time
fermented esteem remoneration for them. It is a truly pathetic situation and communication dynamic,
where this lady is still in an active relationship and I make futile efforts to persuade her to give
me, an unhygeinic low-self esteem male another go. There was such a restricted action set that I
found it imperative to seize the opportunity, while I still had it, to make an earnest transmission
of my true feelings, not played down or implied as I had been supressing them. Its not as if she
didn't already know these feelings - my unintentionally punctuating compliment of messages also
served to ask questions for the sake of my own satisfaction or devastation more appropriately. I have
over time learned to not ask questions I don't want to know the answer to, but when the question
that commandeers all of your mental resources for weeks is in the plans of a person who only allots
a sliver of time/energy to you altogether, you are compelled to ask, to press, to sacrifice the future
of this dribbling for the chance to shake from the spigot a more substantial amount of life. And as
of now it looks like this tug only achieved the opposite, perhaps infinitely.

The coexistence / mutual respect issue is getting increasingly lost as my resolve weakens and spirit
deflates with every passing week. I'm of course referring to the deteriorating condition between
men and women within Western society, a phenomenon that dogmatics like David would write off as
hallucinated. Individuals like David, who lead Genesis-Land Of Confusion MV-esque drug addled
and oppression begged existences are only capable of going with the grain of popular social opinion,
which ensures that any critical perspective on the architecture itself to be lost upon them. While
this sounds harsh, it is only fair given the degree to which their compass grows more biased against
reason, against critical thinking and predictably is much quicker to condemn, to join in on the
bookburning euphoria, to delegitimize the expressed plights of prisoners of the social justice
machine.

A brief exchange with a regular customer of the shipping center I work at a month or so ago
changed my perspective a bit on the state of mind of normal Americans. In an age where there's
a mounting social/ideological divide across people anywhere on the economic ladder, people not
necessarily taken by either extreme's draft like myself want to feel some comraderie with the
image of peers in no man's land. Unfortunately for us, with the back massager balls of sensationalism
rolling around and frequently upsetting the sitting places of these commonly hard principleless
individuals (people who don't cling to ideological concepts such as land ownership and scream about
the injustices of these concepts but instead accept the realities of things on their face and
are more provoked by human / creed irritants), it seems often that these residents of the white
inbetween move to the blue, like beach balls getting suckered into the water with the tide.
Take the assassination attempt on Donald Trump in July 2024 for example - afterward, there was a
noticeable spike in resonation / support with and for the presidential figure. And over the last
half year, the blue radiation has penetrated many of these briefly enlightened or precipiced to
perhaps roll into the other groove, slightly obscured by the decades of editing to the tracks via
the education system, mainstream news media and feminine entertainment earthmovers, preventing
effectively that will.
Poor analogies put aside temporarily, the customer with whom I spoke with said, or parroted,
something to the effect of 'if you encounter two or three assholes then you may be the asshole
yourself'. I countered this civilly and casually, despite being quite annoyed by that. The
conversation from which this was born is hazy for me the forty or so days its been since the
anemic exchange, but it wasn't a critique of me - we tend to make small talk whenever he comes in,
maybe a third or fourth of the time, and these are waning in yeild. Perhaps a seventy year old
ex pro golfer and twenty-two year old clock puncher don't have very much commonality. We are both
male, and have carried surface level conversations about how the way of men is generally
straightforward and, when required, compassionate - I recall an account of his about how in a car
collision, the people that had emerged from their respective vehicles and had entered the area from
nearby out of a preparedness to render aid were all males. And anymore, the spirit of benevolence,
or voluntarism is in a captive state, thanks to what? My theory accuses the feminization of our
society. Where outgoingness is only permitted to tightskinned grapes and those not fitting that
desired threshold of desirability are stepped on. On a basic level, the sexual climate does inform
the greater global interpersonal attitude. Where social media is optimized for female dominance,
men are oppressed and sour and are unable to remedy the situation through the former channels of
'going out with friends'; when your male friends have, under the influence of feminine mannerism,
abandoned you for what shouldn't ever have been enough to actuate that extreme gesture,
this is impossible. Focussing on hobbies is furthermore made tedious when the virtual antpile
implements hierarchies within it and politicizes the adeptness of participants of an activity which
should be an isolated refuge from their chaos (look at guitar music and the influence social media
has had on it). The urban wants to permeate everything and have infinite influence, and tragically
succeeds at a higher rate than it doesn't. So of course, a dejected person under these conditions
who laments that they seem to encounter vessel after vessel who abraises them, the asshole indubitably.
A pinch roller whose rubber has been torn off from external manipulation cannot function correctly
given this vandalism should simply unscrew itself and roll into a sewer vent, because it
inconveniences the consumer, the female. Maybe it comes down to ill calibration of the overarching
machine. Maybe.