Writing is a microcosm representing the Multiverse. A writer creates a story with an ending. In the end the protagonist dies. The writer re-writes the story. The protagonist lives. The writer writes a sentence with three adjectives used to describe the appearance of the protagonist. The writer edits the story, changing the adjectives to their opposites. The protagonist is completely different now.

In the Multiverse, every possible outcome of every situation everywhere occurs. The enormity of such a thing defies understanding. But so does the universe defy our true appreciation because of its enormity, and the fact that every second it grows larger. Think about that for a second, and all of a sudden, the Multiverse seems tame..relatively speaking.

So every writer is a participant in the Multiverse..verse..poetry..Hmm. I create a story, with characters who believe certain things and behave in various ways. That is a multiverse within the Multiverse, ad infinitum. Wow..now that’s something to think about. Pictures with mirrors showing pictures with mirrors. Infinity as a concept, both philosophically and mathematically. Divide anything by zero and you have infinity. Divide zero by anything and you have zero. That’s the mirror picture..the multiverse in the Multiverse.

What’s the point? Trying to understand everything. But you can never achieve that understanding..it’s a limit as x approaches infinity. You’ll never get there. So stop trying? That is death. Can you effect (not a typo – to implement) how you die? Only if you commit suicide. But they’ll call it an accidental shooting or an unintended overdose. What if you leave a note? That’d do it. But some embarrassed family member would destroy the note, and it would revert back to accidental. It’s awkward having a family member commit selfiecide. Makes the family feel like failures. Upsets the natural balance in the universe.

So what’s to be done? Avoid politics. The definition of woke is irrelevant when defined by a fascist. It’s just the false narrative to be opposed, no matter what “it” is. Solve algebraic equations, preferably trinomials. Unsatisfying, you say? True..unless you get out your graph paper and draw them. That feels like taking back a bit of control, doesn’t it?

Lunch is always good. Try something tasty and different, not the usual sandwich or salad or soup and salad or sandwich and soup or soup and salad combos. How about crab on a split roll with a dab of a lemony homemade mayo? Love alliteration in all its cozy familiarity.

Find the comfort of madness. Whoever said you had to be sane ALL the time? I like the idea of leaving to someplace else where you can make up the rules as you go along. But avoid using drugs to get there. There’s a boomerang effect that makes it most unsatisfying. Like one of those equations that, when you graph it, has two legs, one on the negative side and then it curves and goes straight up on the positive side. Why? What does that represent in nature? Sometimes nature is bizarre that way.

I was looking at four blue jays pecking away at the bird seed Erik scatters outside the sliding glass doors. I looked to see if I could distinguish one from the other. They moved too quickly for me to study them. Maybe if I took their picture, I could see subtle differences. They must know who’s who in that milieu, right? More alliterative multiverse.

This thinking foray was brought to you by the eternity of rain we’ve experienced over this past week. It’s starting to be annoying. But it wasn’t raining in Africa. At all. I’d be happy to share some. Aren’t you glad you’re not in Khartoum at the moment?