If the Little House seemed little when I was littler, it’s even smaller now.

Familiarity shrinks everything. Including love. Including everything tangible and intangible. Though, Dad would tell you that nothing intangible exists. But, then, Einstein would tell Dad, “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” Which, perhaps, is to say that, ultimately, everything is intangible. Of course, everything, ultimately, is. Intangible, that is. Thus, if everything is an illusion, then, really, anything is tangible.


Reality is Reality only at the mind’s insistence.

Ultimately, you choose what to believe (as a result of whatever influences are acting upon you—which is to suggest that you never really choose anything all-by-yourself, at all)

Any of this should not be news.

Nonetheless, you “choose” what is Right and what is Wrong; for example: whether or not that war was a good idea to get sunk into, whether sleeping with that girl or that guy won’t (or will) have a lasting effect on you (be it viral, psychological, or both), whether sticking to your creative guns will, ultimately, lead to a stable financial situation and/or happiness—assuming either is desired.

But then, I’m taller now, and that is another reason the Little House seems littler. In my shorter years, the only reason I came back to the Little House was to be in this room where the Apple II was. To play those awfully primitive games.

All you ever are is a repackaging of matter and information—information that is rarely “fact,” and, at many times, information that is much closer to entirely being fiction.

The older I get, the more I realize everything is some form of fiction. Someday, it will be “proven” (unless it already has been “proven”) that, in some circumstances, one plus one equals more or less than two.

Anyway, the idea—in order to get by in this world—is to utilize your repackaged characteristics as Positive Selling Points. So someone will hire you; befriend you. So someone will fuck you. So someone will marry you. So anyone will love you.

Anyway, who the Hell is Dad—or, for that matter, B. F. Skinner—to question Einstein?


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