One place I return to in my contemplations is one that, when I last travelled to it, made me think that out of boredom I had purchased a cynical outlook.
I had bought F2, which replacement motorbike I continue to think I aught to rename, with a particular idea of technological progress. The workstation has always been a problem, for GNU desktops took to following the trend. Talking to employees about alternatives to defacto standards would show decided ignorance of business momentum.
And business owners had limited patience for the features they'd have to do without, even on the server where I still held that GNU was the right choice.
The first time I had travelled through the place of cynical outlook, was with a feeling of moving effortlessly over a final hurdle. I didn't have a particularly exciting job, but, like most people, had found ways of spending my money which kept things on an even keel. But I lost that job because I wasn't playing nicely with the other children.
I mean no offence. At my seventh birthday party a good number of my classmates had been invited. And they spent a lot of time playing games that other parents had made for them, such as that which involved a boy and a girl holding an apple between them with their bodies.
If I look at my class two photos I might be able to name my guests (it is worth noting that we used Roman numerals, with small letters, for the grades we called classes, whereas the grades called standards used Holy Roman numbers).
I'm pretty sure I didn't go inside and play on my computer. I think I knew enough to know that that would have made the other boys feel jealous, who were being made to feel awkward. I certainly did take the first opportunity to make myself scarce; but whatever it was that I found to occupy myself with, I was sought out and asked to return to the Fun. Some of us had really cruel parents who, for the sake of the good opinion of other parents, weren't willing to tell them to shove their apples up their arses.
Standing around amongst adults who had commandeered my birthday party, there was little to do but eat sweets. The result the next morning was an obvious one.
Chocolate is like beer to me. If it is in my house it gets finished as quickly as it can be without it being consumed such that it isn't being savoured. But sweets have never been much of a temptation to me; even by the time I started school I preferred substances with flavour, such as honey.
But even then the unadulterated stuff was hard to come by.
I gather that in bygone times there were defacto standards for the labelling of the stuff that isn't tampered with. To some people, everything represents degeneration. Others talk only of improvement. In between, there are plenty of ways for a psychologist to keep himself in clover.
Being an unsociable extrovert, psychologists tend to turn the conversation to what they know of history; or, as some term it, turn the talk to that of big cannons and exploding bullets.
Before I turn the talk to irregular business practices, which is a defacto standard, and psychologists with conflicting business interests, which is more of the same, I take a placard from a girl who didn't tell anyone how she felt about me, which, while I lived for many years in doubt about it, hearing as I did that she married someone else, I doubt not that there would be only one psychological condition, and that one of the most ancient and clearly defined examples of sin that exists, that would bring people to give me full credit for the self-assuredness I've exhibited, without any girl but Mom not making suggestions on what I should do in order to make myself attractive.
The placard was for an organization that is really just more of the same. My feelings towards the person who told me about the vandalism is not a sin: it is documented in Genesis 4 as part of the nature of things.
And that chapter we read every morning when we get up for work.