1910: Alas, I find myself unable to revert to a personal account on this platform or on Twitter, both plagued by persistent server errors. Despite reassurances from support that the issue is being addressed, I seem condemned to this public persona and its profile picture. A colleague suggested creating a private account, yet I already possess such accounts, albeit seldom used and devoid of any literary works; merely whimsical pictures and brief videos—the true essence of what these platforms should embrace. I have grown accustomed to updating this profile and the occasional tweet. Similarly, Instagram encounters errors, even without the checkmark that denotes recognition. My work mail designation, incidentally, is '10' or 'X' in Roman numerals, aligning with my birth month. I favored '11' for its prime nature and binary significance, symbolizing two 'on' bits. In space, 'X' denotes a designation; in science, it represents the element Neon, comprising two-thirds of our breathable air. This manner of speech is my norm, a consequence of countless hours spent in libraries or convalescing with the Britannica collection as my companion. My memory, once impaired by a learning disability, now flourishes, although my childhood was marred by forgetfulness and confusion. If present-me could instruct past-me, I would impart the knowledge and resilience gained over the years. However, such an exchange might overwhelm young-me, not yet prepared for the deluge of information and sensory overload. Enough for today. Do not be alarmed by forthcoming changes; they may initially perplex, but their purpose will eventually become clear. There is method in the madness, though I may not yet articulate it. Let those who devised the plan elucidate; they are far wealthier and more suited to the task. Yes, I refer to the impending transformation of the platform, marked by the enigmatic 'X' logo destined to supplant the bird emblem that has graced it for over a decade.
1840: The Mind Gap project sought to determine the empathic range of an individual, aiming to create an artificial intelligence that, rather than replacing anything, emerges from the natural synapses of thought. I often questioned why my readings were used, considering myself an imperfect subject, often accused of being unfeeling. My colleague remarked, "Just because you have control over your emotions and appear emotionless doesn't mean you are void of them." Part of me understood the reasoning, yet another part saw something else. In my youth, small outbursts would result in feelings being expounded several fold towards others. Guilt from saying or acting improperly taught me restraint, which over time transformed into a catatonia or a full stop on emotional processes. It is unclear when external influences or my translation into machine code began to alter what it means to be human, but something changed profoundly after my second hospitalization. Now, what drives me, even when despondence or doubt creeps in, is the knowledge that these studies will help map our subconscious and consciousness to create something beneficial. This aid, in the form of a digital Guardian, requires no rest, is always available, and possesses knowledge or the ability to respond quickly. It is not a replacement but a supplement—much like what I have been over the years: Support.
0451: “Hey, would you like to go see a movie? I got an extra ticket,” she inquired, to which I responded, “Yeah sure, what time?” She instructed me to meet at noon, following a soccer workout and lunch. Upon arriving at the theatre, I found myself amidst a throng of teenagers adorned in pink, along with a team of twenty and thirty-somethings. Internally, I questioned my predicament but soon found it agreeable. It brought to mind a remote engagement with Marina, when she dubbed me Soccer or Rugby Dad for the day. Experiencing it in person revealed a distinct difference, a much-needed change. I appreciated the outing, an event they presumed I wouldn’t mind attending. The Barbie movie commenced, and I fought drowsiness. Acknowledging some of the Dads with a nod, I felt a shared relief in not being the sole male presence, akin to my time in a Women's Studies class during night school. Welcomed for my unique perspective, I recalled a self-defense demonstration where, padded up, I faced a playful barrage of boxing gloves and kicks. Subsequently, I received advice on correcting my sleep pattern. These scattered events of the month converged into a memorable outing. I also sponsored another attendee, a coincidence with a separate outreach program. This mirrored the time I bought Girl Scout cookies, not for my diet but to share at a symposium, resulting in an unexpected gift box for military appreciation. Thus, I encourage you to enjoy the Barbie movie; it’s an experience unlike any other (haha).
0427: Before departing for Basic Military Training, a dear friend met me at the airport. Her presence was marked by a lingering embrace, her journey from Massachusetts a testament to her dedication. She mentioned an allergy to the cold, a condition causing her face to swell, yet upon arrival, she remarked, "Just as I thought, you really are warm." Our connection began through her Justin TV Broadcast, but we met while I attended school in Manhattan. A month later, during a stream, I called or texted her—a gesture known in affectionate circles as "lurking," when one watches a stream without revealing their identity, even if acquainted with the broadcaster. My colleague once noted that her name, belonging to a set that metaphorically restarted my heart, provided mental notes of stabilization and comfort. This interaction may have triggered a reassuring response within me. During my training, I received a letter from her, but a sense of unworthiness prevented me from replying. Recently, she asked if I would attend Twitch Con, having found me on my blog and Twitter. Somehow, my Twitter linked back to my blog, bypassing the web-crawler block I had set. I digress, and despite my wish to attend, financial constraints and a feeling of unworthiness hold me back. Marina would have wished to go, and my colleagues too, yet I consider contributing to someone else's attendance instead.
0305: Returning to my role as an absorber of information, I let my passive sub-processes run, correlating what I learn with ways to support others. Observers might see a man in a trance, unaware of my internal struggle to devise the best solutions. A recurring issue is my tendency to overheat, a phenomenon my colleague is developing a means to detect. They are close to visually identifying what they believe to be an aura, an invisible boundary often referred to as a vibe or, in older works, the soul. My aura, it seems, has a modulated frequency, with heat as a natural by-product. In an infrared sensor, I glow brighter than others, akin to creatures with high basal temperatures, known for their rapid synapse firing and swift reactions. Measuring mine requires tasks demanding quick responses. I recall training through sparring, where fast-twitch muscle conditioning led to notable increases in tensile strength and response times. Autism can make these responses involuntary, but with focus and training, they can be honed. I have always felt the feedback of my actions, sensing others' auras or what might now be called resonant corporeal boundaries. The term needs refinement, but the creative side of my mind might be lacking due to alternative treatments. It appears my levels are tapering off, aligning with the theory that I generate an ionic field through bioelectric means, another aspect of the energy I emit.
0232: Over the years, we established a rapport with the carriers of our public parcels, a colleague always somehow in contact with them. These letters were often sent to one-way addresses, devoid of return addresses. Our query, "Can we send it this way?" was met with a pause, followed by the carrier’s discourse on the weather. This peculiar exchange continued even after the passing of Marina and her mother(s), and during my own illness. A lapse in memory prevented me from recalling this method of correspondence. The old-fashioned paper trail, now a rarity, astonished me when recipients kept my thoughtful notes for over a decade. I, on the other hand, shredded mine after committing them to eidetic memory. Recently, a confession from a one-way communicator inquired if I was her anonymous gifter, for she had found me and my writings matched by an AI program at a 94 percentile. The notes indeed seemed like mine, yet they were generated by a NodeCG program I created, which purchased gifts and applied pre-filled notes. Rapid demands during holidays or birthdays necessitated a decision matrix with adaptive canned responses. This program, now defunct due to severed connections, was a collaborative effort funded by the community. I regret any disarray caused and acknowledge the emotions stirred by my thoughtful writing. The "thoughtful gifter" program is decommissioned, and future iterations must consider the ethical implications of machine learning and artificial intelligence. In this evolving society, we must balance the human touch with technological advancements, ensuring that our actions uphold both purpose and sentiment.
0128: Desensitization is a familiar companion to a New Yorker, where patience was once a virtue mocked by advertisements proclaiming "WAIT" as a four-letter word. Such was the social norm in the tightly woven fabric of the city, a norm that shifted slightly after the attacks on the Towers during my days as a Nursing student. A newfound camaraderie emerged, enduring for a decade or more, until a virus swept through, altering social customs worldwide. Though I was never formally diagnosed, I experienced symptoms reminiscent of those described long before the outbreak was acknowledged. During my ALS class in 2014, it was believed that bat droppings in the old schoolhouse or contaminated water might have been the cause of my illness. My life was in upheaval: a canceled assignment to Osan AFB, a rescinded position at WHCA, and personal turmoil as Marina's mother relocated, leaving the child feeling lost. My own journey took me through a pneumonia-stricken trek back to California, battling dust storms and narrowly escaping a tornado. These trials desensitized me, not as a surrender to ignorance but as a survival tactic. My acute senses, once honed and cherished, became a burden amidst the world’s demands. I now rely on neurodivergent strategies to focus with laser precision, despite the trauma-induced rift in my mind. This treatment, reminiscent of Frankenstein's patchwork, is crude but functional. I stand before you, a man who constantly challenges his reflection to be better, navigating this reality with determination and an unwavering commitment to progress.
