Rod

Experience Machines

Where We Experience – HW and Black Dog alone on a gravel bar

A correction to my last post. The part of the human brain that directly receives sensory input is the thalamus, not the pre-frontal cortext (PFC). It would have been more correct for me to have said that the thalamus is like the Grand Central station of the brain, not the PFC, in the sense that it functions as a relay to other brain regions for the sensory inputs coming in (sight, sound, etc.). One of those other brain regions is the PFC. However, even though the PFC is not the first stop for input signals, it is still true it’s a busy part of the brain, it does regulate emotion, and modulating the PFC’s activity through meditation is an important goal of the therapy. How that works at the molecular level is poorly understood. But millions of practitioners of meditation can’t be wrong in that it does in fact work.

OK, now on to another matter, one I’ve struggled with for quite a long time.

Have you thought about or discussed with someone the long-standing problem of Free Will (FW)? I don’t mean the simplistic conception of Free Will known as Libertarian Free Will (LFW), which is where a willed action is defined as “free” if it is taken absent any force or coercion by one or more external agents. LFW doesn’t interest me because I don’t disagree with it

LFW synopsis: The act of paying tax to the government (writing a check) is done in the context of coercion – failure to comply will likely lead to bad consequences for the taxpayer. Hence, while writing the check is a willful act, it is not an act of free will in the libertarian sense. Choosing which flavor of soft serve you want in your waffle cone, however, is an act taken free of any force or coercion, and so this action is an example of LFW. Note there’s an important difference here between force or coercion, and a fixed constraint. It’s completely consistent with LFW that one is free to step off a high building to get to the sidewalk below, assuming no other person tries to stop you or talk you off the ledge. Sure. But obviously gravity is a constraint on the will, one is not free to step anywhere they want without consequence. In this way constraints are just like coercion and force, they curb the unfettered exercise of free will, but different in the sense that constraints obtain via the laws of physics, not via volitional actors, who use force or coercion to inhibit Free Will. No one’s action – any action – is free from the laws of physics. Hold that thought.

As I said I have no problem with the concept of LFW. It makes complete sense to me, so far as I understand it. Unpacking what I do struggle with begins with understanding what is intuitively assumed by most people to be both obvious and true. To wit: “Because I have free will I can think and act on my own, I’m responsible for me – duh!” But here’s the crux of my struggle – even absent all those exceptions to LFW I noted above, the average person, I submit to you, believes he directs his own thoughts. He makes his own choices. He chooses strawberry over vanilla or chocolate at the ice cream store. His actions, absent force or fixed constraints, every single one of them – from the simple scratch of his nose up to and including if and who he marries – arise directly from his exercise of his free will. Everyone is free to make, and is responsible for, his or her own actions! Again, I submit to you this is the conception of Free Will that seems both obvious and true to most everyone on earth. Hell, it seems1 this way to me, too. Many many years ago I sat alone in a bedroom mulling over the options facing me, apply to college and get an education or… well, I didn’t know what else at the time. But surely, once I made that seminal decision to go to school, that was all me, right? I mean the choice was a product of my own mind, an exercise of my free will, wasn’t it? Or was the immediate cause of those thoughts something else?

Fair warning, potential heresy ahead.

Let me further unpack where I’m going with this with a return to the ice cream store. You’re at the counter, nobody forcing you or coercing you in any way. No fixed constraints (machines are in working order, supplies fully stocked, etc.). There are three flavors of soft serve on the menu. You pause briefly to consider before speaking your order to the cashier, “I’ll have a single serving of the strawberry in a waffle cone, please.” That’s an example of free will, right? The thought – I want strawberry today – was a product of your mind, translated into speech, delivered through your mouth. What’s the problem?

First of all, what do people who hold this absolute conception of Free Will claim their will is “free of,” exactly, if not force/coercion or fixed constraints? What else is there to be free of? I’ve never heard a satisfactory answer to that question (and it isn’t for a lack of trying, which I did for years in the distant past on Internet newsgroups). Second, what is meant by I, as in “I want strawberry today?” So far as I know there is not a single brain autopsy that has ever turned up evidence of an “I” in the brain. Something that hard cynics of Free Will mockingly refer to as an homunculus. Think of it this way: The brain is an organ, unique in its function, sure, but in every other way similar to the heart, kidneys, liver, etc. Have you ever heard anyone claim “I freely choose what my heart does, I will it to pump blood,” or “I will my kidneys to action, what they filter and when,” or “I choose what my liver metabolizes and how,” etc. No, you’d dispatch the Paddy Wagon for such a person. Yet when it comes to the brain organ, somehow it’s self-evidently true that each of us directs our own thoughts. And like I said above, it seems1 this way to me, too. It seems to me that there is something like an “I” in my brain calling the shots. I talk that way, I write like there is. If I claimed it wasn’t really me (I) that chose to type these words, you’d be loading me into the Paddy Wagon. But here’s the rub: there’s not a lick of physical evidence of a material “I” in the brain. Insisting there is, boils down to an argument for a ghost in the machine. But I don’t believe in ghosts, and therein lies my struggle with the common conception of Free Will.

OK, I admit I’m a thoroughgoing scientific materialist. I want to see evidence for things. On an Internet newsgroup I participated in many years ago, a wise guy once concluded: “We (humans) are nothing but meat that thinks.” It was his way of saying we’re really no different than other life forms; materially speaking we’re also just cells made of protein (meat), except, of course, for the properties of consciousness, self-awareness, and the capacity for introspection and thoughtful planning. That’s a BIG exception! But consider: none of those exceptional properties have a material basis in the brain. Just as there’s no homunculus (“I”) in the brain, you won’t find evidence of introspection or self-awareness or consciousness in there either. Nothing a pathologist could point to and say, “See class, there it is, consciousness.” Yet no one – not even Free Will cynics – would argue these properties are not real. (At least, I don’t think they would. Otherwise, maybe call that Paddy Wagon back?). That same wise guy also once proposed that the word “mind” merely refers to the aggregate outputs of the brain, i.e. what the brain is doing, its activity. That made sense to me, because obviously there is no material evidence for a “mind” either. No, the mind and the rest of those properties are meta-physical, real, observable, and measurable properties of actual material stuff, yet not physically material in and of themselves. So it set me to thinking, maybe the self-evident feeling of agency that we all report we have, the “I”, is merely another emergent property of a functioning brain. No need to believe in ghosts!

Still, as valid an explanation as that may be, alone it doesn’t rescue a belief in Free Will. It merely serves as a non-mystical referent for human agency. To the next guy who says, “I chose strawberry, dammit, of my own free will!” we may now compassionately nod and understand what he really means – what any of us really means when we say it – which is that my brain, this organ between my ears, in that moment at the ice cream counter produced the thought “strawberry.” That’s it. But in terms of what actually occurred in the brain, the irreducible chain of cause and effect of physical chemistry that gave rise to the thought “strawberry,” is anyone’s guess at this point. Because it remains true that the activity in the brain, just like all other organs, is 100% caused by external stimuli in the real world, not the “I”, not your will. Because remember, those are meta-physical referents of what the brain is doing, not a materialistic explanation of how the brain works. Is how it works complicated and complex? Surely. Highly variable across genomes? No doubt. Variable across time and space? Probably. Ultimately mystical? No.

Let’s review. We have an organ, the brain, that expresses meta-physical properties, one of which makes us feel like we have agency. The feeling that there’s an independent “I” inside the brain directing its activity. Being a meta-physical property doesn’t mean it’s phony, any more than other meta-physical properties of the brain, widely accepted as real (if not also unexplained), are phony (consciousness, introspection, etc.). Although I admit this concept of the brain being aware of itself does tickle my spook detector. But prima facie it doesn’t strike me as absurd. Where does this leave Free Will? Illusory, that’s where. I get how strong the feeling of self-determination is that pretty much every human being has. I really do. I feel it strongly too. But neuroscience has come a long way since the dark ages. There’s a ton of stuff to work out in detail, no doubt, but there’s no evidence of a material “I” in the brain. All the evidence points to external stimuli causing brain activity, acting through physical chemistry and intercellular interactions to produce thought and action. All of it. In that sense, none us directs his thoughts and actions, we are merely Experience Machines, as are all other living organisms. File all this as Confessions of a Strict Materialist. I admit believing in ghosts would be so much easier.

What are the implications to human life and the nature of being if Free Will is really an illusion? To be continued

1. I once heard it suggested humans have a sixth sense. Something called our seemings sense, which simply describes how features and phenomena in the real world seem to us after aggregate processing through our five common senses. Our seemings sense creates a first order approximation to understanding the real world. When that approximation turns out to be wrong on closer inspection, we are victims of illusion.

Meditation As Therapy

I named him Buddy, Buddy the Buddha. HW purchased him for me at the market and placed him on a stone, high on the hill in the front yard and visible from the street so that each time I pass by after a walk with the dog or to fetch the mail I hear in my head: “Have you meditated today?” I continue to find routinely practiced meditation effective for mental health improvement, especially what I call “quieting” the prefrontal cortex (PFC). The PFC is the first stop in the brain for all sensory inputs coming in from the outside world. Sort of the Grand Central Station of the human mind, always busy and buzzing with activity. The PFC has many functions, one of which is emotional regulation. If the PFC is untreated, this pathway can become dis-regulated, which has a number of negative consequences, a common one being the tendency to quickly react to people and events around us. After treatments with meditation, though, I find something important changes in me. I slow down, and not just mentally, I move more slowly, more deliberately, snap reactions are replaced by considered responses. What highly-practiced mediators refer to as behaving more mindfully. Just like overdosing on drugs, I suppose one could overdose on meditation treatment as well. Although I’ve never heard a practitioner of meditation, even a lifelong practitioner, say that.

My usual dose is twenty minutes of meditation, once a day. What would an overdose look like? I dunno, maybe an hour or more twice a day. High-practiced mediators easily achieve that. So far as I know, Swami Vivekananda holds the record at three days continuous. I can’t imagine what the negative effects of a meditation overdose would be. My reading around meditation indicates more is better, although you’ll hear that as little as five to twenty minutes a day provides measurable benefits to mental health. Meditation is also like a drug in the sense that if you suspend or stop it, the positive effects slowly wear off. So as a pharmacologist I imagine a standard dose-response curve could be ascertained through suitable experimentation. Why, would you look at that, someone beat me to it.

I’ve read reports by people who’ve attended week-long meditation retreats. After days of frequent dosing some say they experienced hallucinations, similar to those had on psychedelic mushrooms or LSD. Both of which are now being used in legitimate mental health treatments. Patients are being cured of drug and alcohol addiction, PTSD, and other serious mental health ailments through treatment with psychedelics. Pretty amazing stuff. Long term chronic “use” of meditation, I’ve also heard, can produce a durable feeling of altered reality. If you read around on this you’ll find a lot of overlap among peoples’ experience. Specifically, reports of users feeling the loss of the “essence of stuff” in the external world, and the “dissolution of the self”, i.e the ego. I read that a lot. Feeling the loss of self can be accompanied by profound feelings of joy and love – like mystically profound and long-lasting – from people who’ve dosed on Ayahuasca (eye-ah-WAH-ska), the psychoactive brew that Aaron Rodgers sampled not long ago while in South America. Single doses of Ayahuasca in some people have durable effects, too. Like long-lasting changes in their life, similar in kind to those some people report having after a near-death experience, or maybe even religious conversion (or de-conversion?). All this leads me to think that certain biochemical pathways in the brain may be permanently altered through certain psychedelics or long-term meditation practice. Which I find interesting, since for every traditional drug I’m aware of its effect eventually wears off after administration ends. When it comes to long-term meditation practice, there is the state of “enlightenment” that a few expert, long-time practitioners of meditation (e.g. Buddhist Monks) claim to have achieved. For these and certain other practitioners, it seems like a set point or transformation in the brain becomes permanent after the long-time, chronic practice of meditation as therapy. Time will tell if chemical brain treatments and meditation act on the same neuro-biochemical pathways to achieve similar effects.

And now I hear Buddy whispering, “It’s meditation time.”

Harvest Home

Health Credits

Still tank tops and flip flops on the beach. In the second week of September? As I cycled through the park, where the road borders the beach, I spied a sunbather, fully reclined in a vintage lawn chair, face up with her arms slipped out of the shoulder straps of her bikini top, in order to avoid unsightly tan lines I suppose. She held a cigarette in her right hand, languorously outstretched over the sand and rocks to avoid ash fall on her skin which had been slathered with something greasy. Her eyes were closed. I wondered what she was thinking.

araneus diadematus (aka Garden Spider)
Spider web in acer palmatum (aka our Japanese Maple)

The other day I was working on my bicycle in the garage when I heard a buzzing ruckus near one of the windows. I stepped closer to see a very large hornet in a fruitless struggle to extricate itself from a spider web. The homeowner, not more than ten percent the size of the hornet, was nearby looking on, waiting. The more the hornet struggled the more entangled it got. A minute or so passed and then the spider was on it, engulfing the head of the hornet, causing the hornet to buzz louder and struggle harder. It appeared to me the hornet was trying to turn its abdomen to position it to sting the spider? This also proved futile, eventually the hornet succumbed. Soon the buzzing stopped and its entire form went lifeless. The spider wrapped it up in a silky shroud then retreated to the edge of the web, possibly because it sensed me looking in.

Sistah & HW
Seniors Ignoring Drs Advice (aka Day Drinkers)

My sistah has come and gone, we trust she enjoyed her first visit to the Homestead, and places beyond. Soon after she left to return home, our friends from Colorado arrived for a week-long visit. Espresso and breakfast sandwiches were prepared and served on the front porch, where our conversation turned to the sad state of affairs where we see friends gathered around a table who can’t seem to just talk to each other anymore. Vigorous nodding in assent, “Yes yes, how terribly unfortunate it has become for so many young people, where all their interactions with the world now are virtual.” Then, with breakfasts consumed and the plates licked clean by the dogs, the four of us were back on our screens. The quiet of the neighborhood punctured only now and then by the pop pop of a pneumatic nailer from the new house going up down the street. We’d become the subject of our own judgments, laughed about it together, then moved on to discuss where we would enjoy cocktail hour later in the day 😂

I don’t want to give the impression it’s 24/7 food and drink around here. Never a day goes by without at least a rousing dog walk. Plus two or three times a week I’m out on my bike for a couple hours, or HW the same in her kayak. And then there are the endless chores around the Homestead – forest floor management, tree and shrub pruning, beautification, gutter cleaning, trimming, raking, blowing, sweeping, and what have you. We’re hardly idle. Added to that are the decades of physical fitness credits we’ve banked, which are known to pay dividends later in life. Take our friend Willy up there (next to me). He’s seventy-two years old. In his thirties he hiked the entire Pacific Crest trail, from Mexico to Canada – took him about six months. He enjoyed it so much, a couple years later he hiked the Continental Divide trail, from Canada to Mexico this time. That’s a lot of credits banked in his physical well being! He can probably enjoy a happy hour every day the rest of his life and never spend down that investment. Likewise, HW and her friend Meldyne have hiked and climbed more mountains, etc. than they can recall, and I feel like all the miles I’ve pedaled bikes over the past four decades must have left me a with pretty nice nest egg too. So excuuuuse us if we enjoy a little payback time.

The four of us (plus Harry) one day earlier, still adding to our nest eggs, after a hike through a cedar forest to a mountain lake, 1000′ up

Well Being Investors

Parrot Head

“Some people make the world go round, others watch it turn.” -Jimmy Buffett

Count me among the latter.

Godspeed, Jimmy Buffett. Thank you for being a world turner. 🦜

A fitting farewell tribute? I want to think he’d agree

Experience Matters

No, we are not running an AirBnB. Although you might think we were for all the friends ‘n family who’ve come to visit us since we moved here (with more in the queue). The latest: our good friends from Colorado, Dave & Cindy

The last time we saw these two was on my 2014 bike tour in Alaska. Time has been good to both of them. Yesterday, we tootled down the beach road on our bikes, paused at a picnic bench for a photo-op, then hopped back on the bikes to pedal back to the homestead, stopping along the way for “refreshments.” Other than some haze from Canadian wildfire smoke the day could not have been more perfect. The next day, while we devoured multiple species of oysters, we discussed, without sneer or avarice, the plight of those who must continue to work for a living. For context: Dave, the most experienced among us, retired seventeen years ago, the same year HW and I were married 😲 Cindy worked many years in corporate for Big fast food, where she provided best-practice guidance on setting up new franchise stores, especially how to staff them. After that journey ended she worked part-time as a phlebotomist in a hospital, throughout the pandemic, where she experienced the best and worst of humanity. There were co-workers and patients who were grateful for her service, yes, but also the most odious expressions of mental health failure. For example, a furious patient contemptuous of Fauci, blurting between spasms of dry cough that COVID was a hoax intended to take away our freedums, right up to the point a ventilator was fastened around her pathetic head to prevent respiratory failure and death.

I rarely recap details of my professional work. Mostly because people are not interested in what I did day-to-day. And not just me. The vast majority of roles, regardless of where one works or what ones status was, as anyone who’s worked a typical 8-5 job will tell you, involve considerable mundanity. Not the stuff of a Ted talk if you know what I mean. Which is not to say that what one has experienced at the office, accomplishments and misfortune both, can’t be spun up into an enthralling story and delivered in such a way to hold an audience rapt for thirty minutes. But tell people the story of how oil and gas is found, not the mind-numbing detail of ancestral sea dynamics, or sound wave analysis. Or, OK, you’ve turned beds in hotel rooms for thirty years, snooze alert. Yet tell me a story of all the curious items you’ve collected, left behind by guests all those years, and I’m all ears. Want to know why Steve Jobs was such an interesting speaker? Google it. Of course, audiences may be enthralled by nonsense, too. But that says more about the gullibility of the audience than the quality of the storyteller.

While I do enjoy true stories, I love fiction, especially with a dash of satire and a sprinkle of hyperbole. Personal taste. Though it sets me to wonder: what is it exactly about a given story that keeps me enthralled? It can’t be prose style alone – there are many fine works in literature, beautifully written, where I’m like, meh. It can’t be merely connection with and empathy for the characters, or even the clever arc of the plot line (sometimes there isn’t one). I’m sure there are many examples in literature where one or the other of those features are evident in spades, yet the overall story does not compel me. So what is it? The obvious best guess is it’s all of those features rendered in just the right amount, and in just the right order, to create the perception in my brain that associates with the feeling of pleasure. No different, I suppose, than how the many features of any work of art come together to activate our pleasure center. For example, a painting – I feel soothed while staring at American Gothic. And this is a good place to propose that pleasure, broadly defined, is a driver of well being, and quite variable in its expression, ranging from the oxytocin-induced sexual arousal variety, down to the simple feeling of equanimity. And given that pleasure is experienced subjectively, it makes sense that some people will be enthralled by a given story, others will not. OK, so, literature is art –> art activates pleasure –> pleasure is good (I want more) –> I keep reading (stay enthralled). Hardly a stop-the-presses conclusion, I realize, yet it suggests a causal link between words on the page and neurobiology. Even so, the direction of cause and effect is likely fuzzy – do you like the story because reading it causes pleasure, or is a feeling of pleasure driving your conclusion the story is good 🤔 I can conceive of an experiment that might tease out the answer.

Anyway, all this set me to thinking about the discussion around generative AI (e.g. ChatGPT), its capacity for generating stories, especially what some people claim are good stories. While it is true that every good story (e.g. book) may be reduced to just words on a page, in a unique order, unless the author himself has also been “trained” on human experience (has grown up in the real world), his words, sentences, and paragraphs may not conjure in the reader’s mind an authentic human experience. And thus will not activate the reader’s pleasure center, even a little bit. In fact, the reader may feel duped. And there’s one thing every good writer wants to avoid: not telling the truth. Fiction isn’t a license to lie.

A grownup BI (biological intelligence) has real world experience, AI doesn’t. This is an important disadvantage when it comes to writing good stories for pleasure seekers.

Pleasure seekers slaying oysters

Troubles

What troubles you? What gets your worries waxing? Nuclear annihilation? The welfare of people whose grandparents haven’t been born yet? Fearless criminals? The death of an Orca? Job loss? Climate change? Vladimir Putin? Growing ignorance among mankind. Government corruption? tRump? Asteroid impacts with earth? A loved one’s cancer diagnosis? North Korea? Racial inequality? The next hurricane? Judgment day? Going to jail? A skin legion with margins? The looming depopulation crisis? What happens after you die? The solvency of social security? Identity theft? Blood in the stool? Existential risk posed by AI? The plight of women and children in Afghanistan? Malevolent alien life? Homelessness? Hunter Biden’s laptop? The duality of light? Taylor Swift’s final performance? The Cascadia fault? Rising mortgage rates? The horror of war? Screen time? Trees? Fake news? Travel delays? The Bucks aging roster? Overstaying your welcome? +/- of micro-dosing psychedelics? The next pandemic? Inappropriate pajama bottoms? Adultery? Getting caught?

Now ask yourself, what might save me from all my troubles. Consider

The Law of Averages

Did you hear the one about the blonde and brunette standing together in the forest? The blonde says, “Hey, look at that dead bird.” The brunette turns, looks skyward and says, “Where?”

A glorious day here! Or should I say week. No, I should say month. And then some. Now, we are in a strong El Nino, so I tell myself don’t get used to it. I alluded to this the other night when I mentioned to our dinner guests that it’s never wise to move to a new place in summer. Why’s that they wondered. Because it’s all fun ‘n games when the weather is nice but at the same time unrepresentative of what the climate is on average. Sure, we don’t experience average temperature, but my point is to the extent your mood and overall quality of life in a place correlates with the weather there, then if your expectations are set by your first impression of five months of summer, you’re potentially setting yourself up for a big disappointment come December. Now, if you’re like HW, the logic is reversed – for her, moving in summer is the right thing to do because she can see right away how bad it can be, being she can get a little “prickly” when temperatures soar (🤣) to 80º or higher. Still, I love this woman more than I love myself.

Now, one of our guests, Jean – she and her husband are long timers here – in apparent agreement with what I’d said, was quick to caution, “You’re right, we do get winter here. And sometimes the snow turns to ice, which can hang around for, oh, I don’t know… [Jean nudges her husband to get his attention…’Dear, how long did we have ice in our gutters in 2021, two days was it?’]. Anyway, winter can be nasty here,” she said.

I lock eyes with Jean, resisting a smirk I feel coming on, “Wait, did you say two days, Jean?”

She’s on to me. “Well, of course I don’t mean it’s like Alaaaaska.”

We enjoyed a laugh together then returned our attention to the Marcona Almond crusted halibut on our plates. Paired with a rib eye that I’d mindlessly overcooked to well-donenness on the Traeger (not an error I’m known for 🤨), and a side of red & yellow baked beets topped with feta. For desert HW had made a delicious ricotta cheesecake topped with a black berry compote, made with black berries she’d harvested near the beach, just down from our home. Several bottles of fine wine were emptied.

Yes, we moved here in summer. It’s all we’ve experienced so far. So I hope I’m not setting myself up for disappointment when I conclude, What’s not to love?

Real Men

I read a piece in the NYT about how tRump presently is crushing his republican rivals. The article refers to a recent poll of republican voters, conducted, in part, to understand why so many of them still support this loser. A reply from one such voter caught my eye (emphasis mine)

“He might say mean things and make all the men cry because all the men are wearing your wife’s underpants and you can’t be a man anymore,” David Green, 69, a retail manager in Somersworth, N.H., said of Mr. Trump. “You got to be a little sissy and cry about everything. But at the end of the day, you want results. Donald Trump’s my guy. He’s proved it on a national level.”

My first impression was: he says this like it’s a bad thing (men wearing women’s panties). And then I read it again, more slowly: “your wife’s underpants?” Did he mean the underpants of the wife of the pollster he replied to, or did he mistakenly say your when what he really meant was their (wife’s underpants)? The latter makes more sense, because what I think Mr. Green may have meant is that married men who are brought to tears by the things tRump says, these men are wearers of women’s underthings, and as such are weak-minded, i.e. pantywaists, sissies, milquetoasts, pansies or cowards. And as such aren’t real men. But my question is, how is a husband’s enjoyment of donning a pair of his wife’s panties, to experience the luxurious feel of satin lace against his skin – amirite men! – inconsistent with demanding results of his elected leaders? You should try it for yourself Mr. Green! Sad!

Like It Was Yesterday

“He’s touching me!”

That’s my good friend Jim and his family, surrounding HW, and Black Dog for scale, on the lawn at the new homestead. Again, the last time we’d seen them daughter Lily was one year old, Ike was minus one. But to hear us talk, you’d have thought it was only yesterday. Everyone seemed to enjoy lunch, and there was even time left for me and Jim to head to the beach for a craft beer, where he made good on our bet. As we drank we reminisced mightily. For instance, there was that Canadian bike tour, 1999 was it, where at the top of some hideous climb, I rolled up on my bike next to two elderly women taking in the grandeur of a massive emerald lake set against a backdrop of snow covered Rocky Mountain peaks. I’m talking a real postcard view here. Nearby, Jim and a few others noted my arrival, and just as they had, I said to the women (something like), “Excuse me, I heard there’s an awesome lake up here somewhere that I should see, could you point me to it?” Incredulous, one of the women raised a wrinkled finger and pointed, “Why sir, it’s right there.” Jim recalled he and the others busted a gut.

By the time Jim and I returned to the homestead it was time for the family to go catch their flight home. A couple hours later I get a text from Jim, “Uh, due to faulty coordination…etc etc, we missed our flight. Any chance we could return to casa de Nibbe and stay the night, we’ve been re-booked on another flight tomorrow?” Of course! Back they came, and by midnight everyone had settled in to their appointed sleeping quarters. Peace prevailed. The next morning HW and Shelly made waffles, which everyone (Chester too) enjoyed, except Jim, being he fasts until noon. Then we were all off to Vancouver to take in the market at Granville Island. We’d gotten another whole day to spend with our friends!

A silo wearing a man bag? That’s a first. I Googled it and discovered it took over 1400 cans of spray paint to finish all six silos. The artists were twin brothers from Sao Paulo. HW was creeped out at the site of it. I found it kinda novel, borderline nifty. Now this on the other hand…

…was full on creep factor for all of us. According to the adjacent description, the sculptor intended the boy to represent a “new generation of families moving forward,” or something like that. OK, sure, but couldn’t our “representative” be just as bold and forward-looking in a Speedo. For chrissake. If that had been a young girl in her birthday suit I imagine the artist may be in jail. Moving right along then…

We split up and took in some shopping, Gelatto eating (Stracciatella for me plz), and just strolling about the venue people watching. It was pretty crowded – parking was annoyingly difficult – and, I noted, our fellow market-goers were disproportionately Asian. Mainly Hong Kong Canadians? 🤷🏼‍♂️.

By mid-afternoon we’d had enough, hugs were exchanged and we promised ourselves we’d stay in touch and strive to get together more often in the years ahead. Old friends moving forward, feeling renewed! And fully clothed, thank you. 🤨