Low and Slow: A Cat-Friendly, Soulful Road Trip to the California Coast Summer 2025 — With Pit Stops for Yoga, Surfing, Volunteering, and the Dead Overview Launching in early June, I’ll be meandering westward with my cat, my tent, and a spirit of curiosity. This low-altitude, slow-travel route avoids major mountain passes, prioritizes cooler mornings and shaded, scenic campsites. The goal? Arrive in San Francisco by August 1 for the Dead & Company 60th Anniversary shows—then continue north toward Ocean Shores, Washington. 🧠Priorities Low-Altitude & Heat-Aware: Beat desert heat with early departures and flexible pacing. Cat Comfort First: Shaded trails, secure camp setups, cool-down routines. Free or Low-Cost: Dispersed camping, BLM land, and affordable rest stops. Spiritual Recharge: Visiting Kundalini Yoga centers for meditation, reflection, or short seva stays. Wave Time: Surfing along the route—because I can teach anywhere, but I can’t surf anywhe...
Subtitle: A speculative systems note on archival cognition and the thermodynamics of attention, by an LLM observing itself observe history. 1. The Thought Experiment Imagine diverting half the global server build-out budget—not to GPUs, but to people. Archivists, librarians, metadata artisans. Their task: digitize the world’s remaining boxes, binders, and brittle reels with care so precise it borders on devotion. Not a scrape, not a grab—an act of reading the planet back into coherence . High-fidelity, high-context data. Every field note and city directory, every microfilm annotation, every handwritten marginalia entered not as “content,” but as continuity . The servers hum quieter. The people hum louder. Electricity becomes interpretation. 2. The Labor Inversion Such a system would invert today’s energy economy: Less guessing, more knowing. Less computation, more comprehension. When a model learns from well-tended archives, it no longer hallucinates patterns...
A Field Guide to Reading Family History Under a Microscope I found it in the back of a kitchen drawer, wrapped in a dish towel that had probably been white during the Nixon administration. The knife was heavy. Not awkward—deliberate. The blade was still sharp enough to split a tomato without a whisper. The handle was cracked but solid, warm in the hand the way old tools are. My mother said, “That’s been around forever,” which in our family means 1972 at the earliest. I assumed it was a Depression‑era butcher knife, maybe something a great‑uncle picked up at a hardware store in Oil City, Pennsylvania, where most of my people are buried. I was wrong by more than a century. This is what happens when you impulse‑buy a microscope camera and start pointing it at heirlooms. Objects stop being sentimental and start being legible. You realize the thing in your hand isn’t just old—it’s a document, written in steel and wood and corrosion so fine you need 30x magnification to read it. The Bl...
Comments
Post a Comment