I thought I was finished writing about the whole ‘gotta-do vs wanna-do’ struggle that plagues humanity. But with last month’s thumb resting even more heavily on the gotta-do scale, I realized I’d only highlighted the problem — and not solved it. Without the necessary assemblage of free minutes required to partake in any long, leisurely, multi-episodic crime dramas, I instead turned to YouTube for some satisfyingly short snippets of restful pablum. Unlike most folks, however, I tend to skip over the adorable animal videos, and head straight toward the math and physics channels. It seems I’m as big a sucker for a good quantum mechanics video as I am for another Scandi Noir.

Inevitably, and as predicted by quantum physics, this month’s gotta-do excesses became entangled with my YouTube viewing preferences. And it was through this entanglement that I solved the whole gotta-do skew — recognizing that the imbalance exists solely because I’ve bothered to monitor it. In other words, I’ve been looking at my reality through the lens of classical, Newtonian mechanics.

But in quantum mechanics, Schrödinger’s equation shows us that an object exists in many different states simultaneously, until such time as you choose to look at it. All this woe-is-me, I-have-no-time, my-photography-is-meaningless existential angst that is ULTRAsomething would disappear if I simply stopped trying to measure my progress. For example, it’s only when I look at my web stats that the site’s precipitous 95% decline in readership becomes reality. Instead, I should consider web stats through the lens of quantum physics, where the site is simultaneously both an abject failure and a phenomenal success — and everything in between. All I need to restore my ego, and reclaim a smidgeon of dignity, is to avoid ever checking on how I’m doing — thus un-entangling the site from the constraints of a single universe.

Quantum physics reminds us that the best way to eliminate the problem of mounting gotta-do tasks is to simply stop measuring whether or not they were completed. Since Schrödinger has shown us that they’re just as likely to be complete as not, I might as well assume they’re done and get on with the more soul-satisfying wanna-dos.

Buoyed by the promise of Schrödinger’s equation, I next sought to apply it to my bank account. If I stop checking the balance, then the account remains in the multiverse — where I am both millionaire and nillionaire. Unfortunately, our science-denying society demands we pick a universe, and that we pay our debts to that universe. Which means that while I’m here in this world, wondering if I’ll ever get to retire in time to do the things I wanna-do, there’s some other version of me that’s already kicking back, writing music, and mounting photography exhibitions around a COVID-less world. Lucky bastard.

But just because the electric company demands I pony up payment every month — triggering a measurement that forces the collapse of my bank account into a single value — that doesn’t mean mathematics and physics can’t offer an even better solution.

Consider the Banach-Tarski Paradox, which proves (mathematically) that it’s possible to divide a single object into five parts, and then reconstruct those five parts into two objects — each an exact duplicate of the original. Finding a way to apply the math to, say, a shiny gold bar would go a long way toward hastening my early retirement goals.

The problem with Banach-Tarski is that the soundness of the mathematics are constrained by the physical properties of matter. So while it’s theoretically possible to turn one gold bar into two; two into four; and so on, the tactile nature of those bars, given current technological constraints, prevents it from happening.

Which is when I stopped thinking about money in terms of gold bars, coins or stacks of currency, and started thinking of it in terms of what it really is — a virtual concept. If you have $5000 deposited in your bank, that doesn’t mean they’ve stuffed fifty crisp $100 bills into an envelope and scribbled your name on it. Nope. Your $5000 isn’t really there. It’s a number on a spreadsheet. It’s virtual. It’s math… just like the doubling process made possible by Banach-Tarski.

So without the physical constraints of an object, I surmise that it’s possible to virtually separate your bank account into five different bank accounts, and then recombine them in such a way as to have doubled the account’s original value.

I probably need to watch another few YouTube videos in order to get my math chops up to speed — after all, I can’t just willy-nilly divide my bank account into five new ones — I need to calculate exactly how much to allocate to each one. But I have no doubt this will work perfectly.

I find it hard to believe there are people who prefer to spend their precious wanna-do time watching kitties getting stoned on catnip, when they could instead be learning useful skills — like mathematically doubling their money! But just remember: if you decide to try this technique yourself, always honour the principles of Quantum Physics, and never be so stupid as to check your account balance to see if it actually worked.

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THIS ARTICLE: This article, along with Folding Time, might just constitute the first two chapters in my new book, Physics by Mori. A mori, should you be wondering, is what a moron believes to be the plural of the word. Which is admittedly inaccurate — what with me, the author, being only one moron, and not a plurality of mori — and thus a rather moronic title to choose. Though it’s probably no more moronic than my wanton misappropriation of physics, which I am all too wont to do.

And speaking, as I was, of quantum entanglements — the concept is readily apparent in many of the photos I’ve taken this month. I seem to be merging DNA from various distinct art movements into new and unholy abominations — a bit like when Seth Brundle fused with the common house fly. Hence we get a neo-impressionist rendering of a subject more associated with Julius Shulman; a pictorialist manifestation of J.M.W Turner’s mannered paintings staged directly into brighly lit skys; a collision of Sophie Taeuber-Arp’s abstract-geometry with German Expressionism; and a mashup of Egorian-style anti-fidelity photography and a bit of René Magritte inspired surrealism. And yes, I designated my own photography as a ‘genre’ — after 12 years of toil and turmoil on the ULTRAsomething site, I think I’ve earned it.

REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.

I have a serious problem with self-discipline. I am a strident practitioner of the “you gotta-do what you gotta-do before you can do what you wanna-do” philosophy of life. Which means I’ve managed to get a heck of a lot done in my many decades — none of which has really mattered one single bit in the grand scheme of life.

By continuing to capitulate to the endless stream of life’s gotta-dos, there’s rarely enough time for more than the simplest of wanna-dos. In a single week, I can write several owners manuals; update and revise others; systematically test new hardware & firmware updates; discuss the design and development of future products; research and learn competitor’s products; manage personal finances; troubleshoot computer issues; fix a few broken items around the condo; chase down several OPS’s (“Other People’s Screwups”); make a few market runs; cook; clean; the usual. The wanna-do side is often balanced by nothing more than the mundane act of watching a movie on Netflix. Which, besides failing to provide actual ‘balance,’ isn’t even something particularly high on the wanna-do list — it’s just the only thing that fits within the time and energy constraints that remain after addressing all those gotta-dos.

And if plowing through the weekly wanna-do list isn’t enough, I’m forever and proactively plowing through next week’s too. Between the inevitable obstructions, my decades-long battle with migraines, and having the immune system of an enfeebled centenarian, I can’t just do what I gotta-do today — I also gotta-do what I gotta-do for tomorrow. That way, when the monkey throws its wrench into the works, the gotta-dos still get done.

So week-by-week, month-by-month, year-by-year, the gotta-dos are achieved and the wanna-dos are not. Which is precisely why I began this article by asserting that I have a serious problem with self-discipline — one that, admittedly, is counter to that which plagues folks with teetering inbox towers; dishes in the sink; and a thriving community of frisky dust bunnies under the bed. I’d like to be more like these people. Really, I would. Except I can never fully enjoy participating in the wanna-dos while the stress of all the gotta-dos is staring me straight in the face.

To date, the only way I’ve found time to slip a few wanna-dos into my life is to convince myself that they’re gotta-dos. This is probably why ULTRAsomething is still hanging around after nearly 12 years — even though it’s the proverbial tree falling in the forest. By making the care and feeding of this site a gotta-do, and by making photography a central component of the site’s language, I manage to turn a wanna-do (photography) into a gotta-do. This elevates photography to the same level as, say, reclaiming a little drawer space by scanning my 1990’s tax returns. ULTRAsomething is an artificial construct whose sole purpose, I believe, is to allow me to accomplish a few things I wanna-do by masquerading as gotta-dos.

Curiously, the one thing I always wanna-do the most is create music. But my particular methodology makes this a totally immersive task — one that requires I dedicate large blocks of time across multiple days in order to achieve the results I desire. Which is precisely why the thing I wanna-do the most is the thing I actually do the least. I’ve simply never found a way to convert something as time and labour intensive as music production into an actual gotta-do. Photography, by contrast, takes very little effort, and is usually accomplished with a simple press of a button while I’m out running my day’s gotta-do errands.

As I slide into the final quarter of my life, all these unaddressed wanna-dos torture me. But the old gotta-dos just keep rolling in — the need for income primary among them. So until I figure out how to monetize my soul-nourishing wanna-dos, I’ll continue to live the gotta-do vida.

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Several years ago, in order to prevent the annual gotta-do grind from having a more serious impact on my sanity than it does, I decided that another wanna-do needed to find its way into the gotta-do category: Tokyo. After three trips in five years, I’ve come to realize how important Tokyo is to repairing my spirit, restoring my will, and feeding my soul. In a normal year, I would probably have spent time this past month sorting out this winter’s travel and accommodation plans. But this is not a normal year. So in a grossly inadequate effort to keep Tokyo close to my heart, I opted to populate this month’s article with a few of last years’ Tokyo photos. All were taken with a Leica M10 Monochrom. I could hunt through my database to see which lenses I used for each shot, but that really doesn’t seem like something I gotta-do.

REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.

Later this month, the leading digit on the old mortality odometer will advance one click. And while I place zero significance on any birthday that affects only the least significant digit, changing decades always summons a moment of reflection — usually with negative consequence.

Thirty years ago, in order to insulate myself from the emotional impact of a new decades digit, I decided to dispense with the idea of Base-10 mathematics — creating a model that divided life into a series of 20-year stages. This same year, Tim Berners-Lee was still beavering away on an idea he called the “world wide web,” so I hadn’t the technical means to distribute my new paradigm to a global audience. But in the spirit of “better late than never,” I shall present that model now.

At ages 0-19, one is a “kid” — ensconced in a microcosm, and devoid of any practical knowledge or skills. Without any real-world concerns to occupy their minds, the kid years are a breeding ground for the neuroses, fears, habits, misconceptions, and aberrant personality traits that will cripple us for the rest of our lives. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we realize that other people have an entirely different idea about what constitutes “acceptable behaviour.”

At ages 20-39, one is an “adult” — individually insignificant but, collectively, ruler of the world and dictator of both culture and commerce. Energy, enthusiasm and idealism are at their peak — matched only by ignorance, stupidity, and a seemingly endless supply of demonstrably poor judgement. This is the stage in which no serious psychological trauma occurs, because we are all just cogs in a vast collective, even though we’re too benighted to know it.

At ages 40-59, one is “middle aged” — rulers of themselves, and masters of self preservation. Extensive knowledge and experience enable one to establish niches of expertise, and to build comfortable and fortified castles, with moats of freshly imported alligators. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we discover that our philosophical enemies have managed to build bigger and better castles.

At ages 60-79, one is a “senior” — ensconced in a microcosm, and devoid of any practical knowledge or skills. Though one does indeed possess boundless wisdom, 20 years’ worth of middle aged complacency has rendered it totally irrelevant. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we realize that we’ve wasted our prime years of life, and there’s no getting a second chance.

At ages 80-99, one is a “geezer” — historically rare, but through the miracles of modern medical advances, is now a “thing.” Much like kids, geezers accept their standing as second class citizens and also enjoy bragging about their age. Unlike seniors, geezers have managed to re-purpose their vast reserves of knowledge into more practical concerns, like devising tediously complex medication schedules. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we realize we haven’t a clue how to operate any of our household appliances.

At ages 100-119, one is a “living monument” — possessing first-hand accounts of events long-relegated to the dusty tomes of the past. Living monuments often pique the interest of local television news editors, who frequently punctuate their town’s upcoming celebration of an historical event by interviewing the one person, still alive, who was there to witness it. Unfortunately, these brief moments of celebrity are soon forgotten — both by the viewer and by the monuments themselves. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when, in those rare moments of lucidity, we realize who we are, where we are, and how damn old we are.

At ages 120 and up, one is a “vampire” — possessed with a thirst for blood and a chronic sun allergy. Vampires gravitate toward dank, dark, secluded recesses where they feed on vagrants and other societal misfits who were unable to build or retain castles of their own. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs whenever some yokel with a torch cracks open the coffin and shoves a crucifix in our face.

In hindsight, I think these classifications might be a tad bit naive — after all, I conceived them during the age of “ignorance, stupidity, and a seemingly endless supply of demonstrably poor judgement.” But, like most psychological games one plays with oneself, they did help ease the pain every other decade. Turning 30 was a breeze for me; as was turning 50. Turning 40, however, was an existential train wreck, and it took several years before I could fully reconcile that I had graduated into ‘middle aged.’ I know now that the blame for all that turmoil rests solely on the shoulders of this ridiculous classification system of mine.

Fearful that I’m about to succumb to another psychological meltdown like the one I endured at 40, I recently revisited my life stages theory, and discovered that I’ve basically failed to adhere to any of my own definitions. My kid years were often spent reading history books, biographies and philosophy texts, while my teenage musical forays extended well beyond the pop music of my time, and deep into the classical and avant-garde canons. My adult years, though filled with the requisite idealism, did not reflect the idealism of my own generation — and I rebelled against it with the ferocity that others rebel against other generations. And in middle age, I failed to command a niche, build it a castle, or purchase a single alligator for its mythical moat. And yet, in spite of this, I never became vampire food — even with my proclivity for hanging around dark alleys at night, taking photographs.

So as far as I’m concerned, my whole “stages of life” thing is total crap. Debunked. And if that’s the case, there’s no reason whatsoever to put any merit on a decade shift that’s about to propel me into some nebulous fourth stage… At least that’s what I’ll be telling myself later this month.

Coping mechanisms are a wonderful thing.

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THE PHOTOS: I don’t really know why I’ve adorned all these photos with latin titles. Given my age, I’m going to chalk it up to a case of nascent senility. Should I ever start publishing photos that should be read literally, rather than metaphorically, you’ll know my brain has entered an advanced stage of senescence. Mercifully, by that point, I will no longer know how to operate any of my digital devices — so any tangible evidence of my cognitive demise will remain unpublished.

REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.

Troubled by a peur du jour? COVID is a trendy choice — particularly if, like me, you’re of the wrong age; the wrong sex; and were inexplicably absent on Immune System Installation Day back in the womb. Or maybe the economic collapse has you distraught over an inability to pay this month’s bills; or perhaps disquieted by a realization that, if you can pay this month’s bills, your life savings might be drained in the process. Maybe you’re casting a nervous eye toward the receding ice caps, the erosion of civil discourse, or an emboldened North Korea. If you’re lucky enough to live near my home in Vancouver, then you’re now at the epicentre of the North American Murder Hornet invasion.

Death by viral infection; death by exposure; death by nuclear fallout; death by hornet venom — so many fresh new demises that weren’t nearly as probable just a few months ago. If only there was a place we could go and hide for a little while — a kind of “safe place.”

I might just have a solution…

Several years ago I did something wildly out of character — I took a class in self-hypnosis. A few articles hinted at its potential benefit to migraine sufferers, and as a decades-long combatant, I thought I’d give it a shot. I’ve experimented with every medical, scientific, and pseudo-scientific “cure” known to man, and none has yet succeeded. Which make me an easy target for snake oil approaches. Enter “self-hypnosis” school.

I don’t much like taking classes. Classes contain people. And more often than not, all the people in a class are of a like mind with one-another, and of an unlike mind with me. Within the first hour of the first class, I discovered this experience would be no different.

On our maiden voyage into self hypnosis, we were told to clear our minds and recollect a distant, long-forgotten memory. I closed my eyes, shut off my brain, and immediately flashed back to an experience I had not thought about in decades. It was high school, and I was on stage in the school’s auditorium, performing in front of the entire student body and faculty. This was the era of prog rock, and my ‘band’ consisted of me on Rhodes electric piano, and Ralph on an enormous drum kit, which comprised about an octave of tuned toms, gongs, snares, and whatever else Neil Peart, Carl Palmer, or their ilk would have hammered on back in the day.

The performance was going well — and we easily navigated our way through numerous odd time signatures and key changes, until we reached my favourite part: the part where I stomp on the fuzz pedal, crank my Fender Deluxe Reverb to maximum volume, then slide it in front of the piano’s four 12″ speakers to create a feedback loop that screams like a dying banshee. Using all the strength available to my scrawny high school physique, I would then shove, angle and tilt the 88-key monstrosity around the stage. The changes in distance between the piano’s amp and the Deluxe Reverb amp would alter the pitch and timbre of the banshee howls, which allowed me to actually “play” a melody composed solely of feedback.

At least that’s how it normally worked. And indeed, that’s how it worked for about the first half of the feedback solo… but then, right at the climax when it sounded as if the banshee couldn’t possibly scream any more, she didn’t. She died. The wails fell silent. Suddenly, the only sound emanating from the stage was the flailing of Ralph’s 5/4 stick work and the thunder of his double kick drum. My contribution to the atmosphere was no longer auditory, but olfactory in nature — the distinct smell of burning electronics wafting from my Rhodes.

A wave of panic washed over me. I’d entered unknown territory — territory that could well define my very reputation and permanently impact my delicate high school psyche. The endorphins hit with the intensity of a car crash. I was going to have to improvise my way out of this. I looked back at Ralph. His eyes were wide as dinner plates. Knowing instantly that something had gone awry, he’d leapt into frantic drum soloing mode.

Time slowed to a nearly imperceptible pulse. Within the span of a single second, I somehow managed to conceive and consider several courses of action — ultimately deciding that the best path forward was to find a way to keep making some sort of sound. If I didn’t make a sound, and make it soon, the audience would likely figure out that my piano had blown up, and I’d be standing there like an idiot in front of the entire school.

So I reached out with one leg, and kicked over the Deluxe Reverb amp, which contains a spring reverb that, when jarred, creates an explosive crash. The enormity of this sound, when experienced at full volume, was reflected by the front row of the audience — all of whom winced in pain. Perfect! I kicked the amp again, sliding it into the base of the piano with an even greater crash. Then, with amp underfoot and wedged against the bottom of the Rhodes, I began to kick it repeatedly — in time with Ralph’s drumming — as I tore into the guts of the piano hoping to find and repair the issue; ripping off the top shell, and tossing it aside to a smattering of audience applause. White smoke spiralled upward off a circuit board, and glistened in the hot stage lighting.

Gazing down at the charred, melted electrical components, I knew for certain there would be no miraculous resurrection of the piano. But the audience had bought into the dismantling, kicking, and crashing sounds — believing them to be all part of the act. I looked back at the flurry that was Ralph — who, under the influence of his own adrenaline rush, had pushed the tempo to imminent embolism range.

With the piano now dismantled and the reverb springs still quivering within the inverted amp, I’d done all I could. I needed an exit. With both hands, I lifted the amp to my waist, then tossed it several feet across the stage. It landed with the most incredibly horrific noise ever heard, and as the sound of colliding springs echoed around the auditorium, I calmly walked off stage. Ralph played on for another thirty seconds — sticks and feet flying in a frantic effort to match the sonic intensity of the pummelled amp — before kicking over a few cymbals and calmly walking off himself. 75% of the audience sat in stunned silence, while the remaining 25% cheered loudly — pretty much the usual response to any performance I would give. I had snatched success from the jaws of defeat.

When my hypnosis classmates and I emerged from this first session, the instructor informed us that whatever memory we just experienced was our “safe place” — the place where we feel protected, comfortable and totally at ease. This, she said, was the place to which we could always return when we needed to feel balanced and secure. She mentioned that, while everyone’s “safe place” would obviously be different, most involve relaxing on the beach, or fishing, or maybe sharing a meal with friends or family. Everyone in the class confirmed that yes, these were exactly the memories they had.

When queried, I mentioned that my “safe place” is apparently a place of abject fear — where fate conspires against me at the most inopportune instant. A place where I’m forced — with no preparation and no time — to devise and improvise a solution. My safe place was the opposite of relaxing — it was an adrenaline fuelled panic rush of sheer exhilaration.

From that moment on, I was ostracized by my classmates. And for the rest of the semester every one of them would avoid making eye contact with me. To her credit, the instructor did continue to inquire about my self-hypnosis experiences for another class or two — until the time she had us visualize a shape and go ‘inside’ of it. Every single person in the class pictured the exact same shape — a box. When asked what shape I created, I said “I went inside a unipolar triangle wave that was being both modulated and folded by a pair of bipolar sine waves of different frequencies and I was enjoying watching and trying to predict the varying shapes that evolved around me.” That was the last time she asked me to share an experience.

But the funny thing is, I do now flash to that high school stage performance whenever I get stressed, and I always feel calmer as a result of doing so. So it apparently works, exactly as promised. Which means, perhaps, that each of you can employ this same technique to define your own “safe space.” Only, unlike my teacher and classmates, I won’t judge you negatively if your space is a tad bit eccentric.

And for those left wondering, the answer is “No. Self-hypnosis had no impact whatsoever on my migraines.” So my search for the ultimate cure continues. Maybe next time, I should just try actual snake oil.

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Sometimes it sucks to be your own sole source of stock photography — particularly if you, yourself, are not a stock photographer. Unlike most bloggers, who can select appropriate photos from an online pool of billions, I’m stuck thumbing through whatever meagre puddle of images I’ve shot myself. Fortunately, both my photography and my essays are derived from my own personality — and since the psychiatrists have all assured me that I am, indeed, only one person, there’s usually a wealth of synchronicity between my words and my images. But this was not the case here, where I chose to write about a topic well outside my usual sphere of being. So once again, I had to dive into the Lightroom catalog to see if any of this years’ photos could suggest ‘hypnosis’ in any way at all. I like to think, if you squint your eyes tightly enough and spin around until you’re dizzy, you might actually believe these photos all work to support the article. Then again, I am a trained practitioner in self-hypnosis…

REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

Possessed with a shoddy immune system and a hair trigger bronchial inflammatory response, I’m one of the more diligent members of today’s virtualized physical distancing “crowd.” Fortunately, as a devout and practicing introvert, I’ve worked from home since the mid-1980’s, and am comfortable with my place on society’s periphery — more eyewitness than participant. Like a sperm whale that needs but a single breath per hour, I can easily subsist for a month or more following a single social interaction. It’s made me uniquely qualified to endure the current social distancing measures with relative ease. As others succumb to the lassitude and melancholy of extended isolation, I simply continue to operate, as always, in my role as observer.

But even a whale needs oxygen; and even I need social interaction. So before my brain turns to mush from a dearth of human contact, I decided to publish a few COVID-related observations that I’ve jotted down this past month — totally random and without benefit of narrative.

CARTESIAN GEOMETRY: When lining up for groceries, my fellow citizens have proven to be fairly adept at maintaining two meters of separation between themselves and the person in front of them. Alas, when the line snakes back in on itself, they pay absolutely no attention to the proximity of those immediately beside them — blithely unaware that objects exist in a 3-dimensional space. While this is certainly a frustrating phenomenon, I can’t help but to be fascinated by the psychology behind it.

THE FIVE-SECOND RULE: We humans are also maintaining separation while we wait for an elevator. Upon its arrival, we then cram together into a coffin-sized box — returning to prescribed distances upon exiting. I have identified this as a modern variant to the “Five-Second Rule,” which is the mythical belief that it’s perfectly safe to consume food dropped on the floor, as long as it’s picked up within five seconds. In the future, because hoarding will insure the majority of humanity won’t have access to food, I predict the meaning of the “Five-Second Rule” will no longer be understood, and the term “Elevator Rule” will be used in its place.

NOTE TO SELF: Make sure, prior to the start of the next pandemic, that I’m not already seven weeks overdue for a haircut.

EXPOSING REGRETS: Had I ever known I would be forced to eat my own cooking for months on end, I would have put a little more effort into learning to cook.

NANOPHOTOGRAPHY: My photography style has been decimated by the pandemic. Though it’s still technically possible for me to photograph people using either of my preferred focal lengths — 21mm or 28mm — social distancing insures they will be rendered at a height of 7 pixels.

TELEPHOTOGRAPHY: In light of the above, and in order to conform to physical distancing measures, I’ve taken to walking around town with a 135mm lens on my Leica. Alas, with nothing going on anywhere, all this has done is enable me to bear photographic witness to the vast amounts of nothingness “over there” rather than the vast amounts of nothingness “over here.”

THE LAW OF RELATIVITY: I’m a tiny bit jealous of those people who were able to put the CO in COVID, and have isolated in pairs. Social distancing must be a lot more fun for those who can do it together.

DARWINIAN AMENDMENT: All this obsessive hand washing has resulted in the transformation of my soft, supple human skin into hard, leathery reptilian scales. From this result, I have devised two possible theories: 1) Reptiles have excellent hygiene; 2) Reptiles are the mutated offspring of humans who once endured prehistoric pandemics. It is highly possible — if not downright probable — that both theories are true.

SUBLIMINALISM: Am I the only one fascinated by the background objects chosen by each and every home-bound, self-isolated pundit that Skypes into cable news? The carefully selected artwork that obviously does not normally reside in that location; the curated collection of books selected to imply gravitas and intelligence; and the oh-so-popular framed diploma. It’s like you get mainline access to each and every individual’s insecurities, neuroses, and baggage. It’s a psychiatric treasure trove.

TINDERING YOURSELF: I continue to shave, shower, dress and groom as if nothing has changed, yet I know full well that I will not interact with another human being that day; nor the next; nor even the next. Why do I do this? At first, I thought it was habit. But I’ve come to realize that I simply like to look good for myself, since I’m the only person I ever get to see.

BLACKLISTS: I’ve recently started to maintain several blacklists. One contains the name of every company that continues to televise product advertisements depicting happy customers engaging in fun group activities and enjoying a life no longer possible. Another lists companies that feel compelled to email me and tell me they’re “here for me in these difficult time.” Just because I bought some crappy software from your company in 2007 doesn’t mean we’re BFFs — though I have been tempted to test the theory and call one of them for emotional counselling.

INCONGRUITY: If the letters we use to communicate are called the “alphabet” and not the “letter system,” shouldn’t the numbers we use be called the “enadio” and not the “numerical system?” Or does this make too much sense? And yes, I realize this has nothing whatsoever to do with COVID-19, which is precisely how I know the brain mush is settling in…

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THE PHOTOS: “Pandemic” was shot just prior to the lockdown using a Minolta 28mm f/2.8 M-ROKKOR lens on a Leica M10 Monochrom. Although not its original intent, it now serves as a rather dark and foreboding depiction of a single individual’s sphere of contagion. “Cartesian Distancing” illustrates the proper (but rarely adhered to) 3D social distancing technique, and was photographed with a Ricoh GRIII in the early days of the pandemic. “Over Here” was shot on a Leica M10 Monochrom fronted with a 1967 Leica Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 lens. The photo itself is not all that compelling, but having mentioned that I’d recently started to hunt for photos with that particular lens, I did feel compelled to include one — both as an example of that experiment, and as an example of why I’ve decided to abandon that particular experiment.

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I recently strolled into my building and caught site of a freshly printed stack of newspapers, piled high and awaiting distribution. “You can get fined a whopping $109 for driving with a dog on your lap” screamed the headline — the only actual news story to adorn the front page.

Several things should have come to mind: Such as why, in a world immersed in fear, uncertainty and chaos, this particular story rates as front page news. Or why so much physical space is being occupied by such a wordy headline — surely a decent copy editor could have honed this down to something snappier? And the word “whopping” — really? That’s the adjective they chose to describe the fine? Even if I offer blanket amnesty for the use of trite colloquialisms, I still don’t think “whopping” is the word I’d use to describe the enormity of $109 Canadian dollars. That’s less than the cost of the average cable TV bill — yet I guarantee you I’d get more enjoyment cruising around town with a Clumber Spaniel on my lap than I’d ever get from a month’s worth of broadcast television. That’s not whopping. That’s value!

But, curiously, I didn’t think about any of these things. Rather, all I could think about is how unjust, arbitrary, and vague this law really is.

What if your dog’s a better driver than you are? What if you’re blind? Are you telling me a sightless human is better equipped to guide a vehicle through traffic than a service animal? Would such a fine be levied if the human slid over into the passenger seat and relinquished total vehicular control to the pooch? Is the law really about sharing a seat, or is it about whose hands (or paws) are on the wheel? Would I still be fined if I sat on my dog’s lap, rather than he on mine?

And isn’t this whole lap law discriminatory against dogs? I didn’t read anything about it extending to any other sentient beings. If I drive home from the pet store with a goldfish named Rudy swimming in a Ziploc™ bag upon my lap, am I getting the same $109 fine? And if not, what’s so great about Rudy that he’s excluded from the law?

If this legislation really does apply to all living creatures, then what about plants? Would operating a motor vehicle with a 5 cm tall Tillandsia nestled between my thighs cost me $109? What about a 2 meter tall ficus? What about inanimate objects? Will I receive this same fine for driving home from Ikea with a queen size mattress perched on my lap? I’m pretty sure it would impede my ability to drive, but it’s most definitely not a dog. So where’s the line? My seatbelt is on my lap when I’m driving. So are my pants. Yet, were I to remove either, I’d be fined once again. Is there no logic? Is there no consistency?

If the legislators are singling out dogs, then why? Are they suggesting it’s a public safety risk if your beloved Norfolk Terrier rests her head upon your lap as you drive her to the euthanasia appointment? Call me a moron, but I don’t believe this is a greater source of reckless endangerment than taking your pet racoon for a joy ride — lap or no lap.

Frankly, I’m sick and tired of seeing dogs bear the brunt of such senseless discrimination. My building allows cats, but not dogs. What’s the rationale here? Siegfried & Roy can live next door in an apartment full of lions and tigers, but the nice young couple down the hall can’t have a happy little pug?

Most buildings that do allow dogs will limit their size and weight to only the smallest breeds. Many of these possess the very qualities that neighbours find the most irritating — barking constantly or racing around the hardwood floors as if it had a pair of Energizer batteries up its butt. But an Irish Wolfhound? Most buildings will ban those outright, yet they never bark, don’t shed, and are guaranteed to sleep for at least 23 hours/day. Plus, their back legs are long enough to easily reach the clutch.

The depth of banality behind this law is incomprehensible. What if you drive an autonomous vehicle? Will you still be fined? Seems to me that it doesn’t much matter who or what is in your lap when you’re tooling around town in a car that’s guided by satellite. And speaking of satellites, I bet you $10 they don’t let dogs ride in those either.

It’s a silly world, chock full of silly people making silly laws, and writing silly articles about them in silly newspapers. Fortunately, you can always count on me to see past the daftness, and provide a counter-argument both sensible and wise. Maybe it’s time I run for mayor.

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THIS ARTICLE: Like most people in the world, the bulk of my media consumption this past month has been dominated by COVID-19 news. The virus’ toll is staggering, and the prognoses devastating. Worldwide demand for fresh content from irreverent wordsmiths, cheeky photographers and experimental musicians is currently rather low (in contrast to our vast importance during normal times). Consequently, I see no benefit to penning an article that encourages hand washing and social distancing — you all know this already. It’s not like anyone visits the ULTRAsomething site for news and public health alerts. In light of this site’s current irrelevancy, I flirted with the idea of shutting it down for a couple of months — before remembering that it’s irrelevant even in the best of times. So I decided that the best thing I could do is to continue doing what I do: publishing total frivolity for the enjoyment of those who seek it. Whether that decision makes me a welcome distraction or a “covidiot” is up to the judge and jury of social media. So stay safe. Stay vigilant. And whatever you do, don’t drive around town with a dog on your lap.

REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

Almost daily, for the past 20 years, life’s more perfunctory tasks have guided me past a drab little collection of pizza-slice windows, poutine joints, head shops, weed stores, and one ramshackle corner lean-to — its architecture the product of disrepair more than design — painted in grime and demarcated only by a spiritless little sign that reads “Canada’s Oldest Adult Store.”

I never once considered this sign might mean anything other than what I thought it to mean — a conclusion reached not just by the neighborhood in which it canted, but by my assumption of the way in which words are summed in the English language.

Specifically, when faced with a phrase whose meaning needs parsed, I simply work my way from right-to-left — summing words in that order to define the intent. In mathematical terms, the following formula depicts this technique:

(Canada’s + (Oldest + (Adult + Store))) = Meaning of Phrase

Following the brackets as if we were in a middle school math class, we begin with the word on the right, “store,” which defines the purpose of the establishment — to sell something. We then add the word immediately to its left to further define the establishment as an “adult store” — euphemistic lingo for “a store that sells blow-up girlfriends, silly costumes, and befittingly garish silicon hot dogs.”

Continuing in a leftward path through the equation, we next modify the phrase “adult store” with the word “oldest,” which tells us that this is “a store that sells sexually-themed products that’s been in business longer than any other store that also sells sexually-themed products.”

Finally, at the far left sits the word “Canada’s” — which, according to the formula, further narrows the meaning to be “a store that sells sexually-themed products that’s been in business longer than any other store in Canada that also sells sexually-themed products.” And this definition, summed in this way, has been my assumed interpretation of this sign for the entire 21st Century.

But a couple of days ago, for reasons I can attribute only to the lingering effects of a recent flu, those four little words grabbed my attention as I stood waiting for the crosswalk signal to change. The more I stared at the sign, the more I realized I didn’t have a clue what it actually meant. The mathematical formula I used to derive its meaning was little more than a presumption — and one I could easily invalidate.

Consider the phrase, “Mental Health Care Professional” — many of whom will, I assume, be reading this post for some evidentiary research into my future hearing. What happens if I sum those four words using the same right-to-left formula I’d applied to the store?

(Mental + (Health + (Care + Professional)))

Doing so causes me to arrive at the assumption that a “mental health care professional” is “a professional who cares for peoples’ health but who is, themselves, mental.” I’m quite certain this isn’t the intended meaning of the phrase, since very few people want their health needs met by someone with mental issues.

Because the actual definition of “mental health care professional” is known, I used this definition to modify my word-summing formula, so that it produced the expected result:

(((Mental + Health) + Care) + Professional)

Having derived a new formula, which produced an accurate result, I naturally chose to apply it to the “Canada’s oldest adult store” phrase:

(((Canada’s + oldest) + adult) + store)

Crunching the English with this new equation tells us this phrase actually means one of two things. Either 1) it’s “a store that sells Canada’s oldest adult” or 2) it’s “a store that sells products meant for purchase by Canada’s oldest adult.”

I’m not 100% certain, but I’m reasonably sure it’s illegal to sell human beings in Canada, so I’m going to assume the second meaning is true. Besides, since North American culture places absolutely no value on age or experience, it would make no sense for a store to try to sell such a thing — particularly the oldest and therefore culturally least-valuable version in the country.

But even the second meaning is doubtful, since it would imply that this is a store that sells products targeted specifically at a single individual — the oldest person in Canada. That’s a seriously exclusive clientele. And what happens if the oldest person in Canada doesn’t live in Vancouver? Why have a brick & mortar store when your one and only client is more-than-likely going to be ordering online?

With my natural inclination toward knowledge, and a realization that my 12 year-old blog is built upon a desire to communicate effectively, I sought the answer the only way I knew how — I walked into the establishment.

And my original assumption proved rather accurate — I saw no old people for sale, nor any old people perusing the wares.

Which means I have absolutely no idea what the correct formula is for summing words in a phrase. If the meaning of one 4-word phrase requires the words be summed in a certain order, and the meaning of another 4-word phrase requires a different summing order, how can anyone hope to speak English and actually be understood?

It’s moments like this that I’m thankful for my propensity to communicate through the unambiguous medium of photographs. I mean, there’s no way those could ever be misinterpreted…

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Three floods in the condo and a flu have prevented me from taking any new photos this year. Fortunately, I can still cull from the massive backlog taken during December’s Tokyo trip. All are from the M10 Monochrom using a variety of lenses. “Tindertown” used a v4 Leica 35mm f/2.0 Summicron; “Surrogates” used a Leica 21mm f/3.4 Super-Elmar-M ASPH; While “Venus de Vending,” “Warholier Than Thou” and “Counterculture” all used a pristine Minolta 28mm f/2.8 M-Rokkor, but to wildly different effect.

REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

I arrive in Tokyo numb-of-mind and lethargic of body — a common result of an 11 hour flight, 17 time zone changes, and an utter inability to sleep on planes. In lieu of rest, I stroll the aisle, hang around the galley drinking apple juice, and execute numerous farcically unrealistic tai chi exercises — the motivation for which, I assume, comes from breathing stale 767 air for 8,000 km. All the while, I gaze enviously at the rows of sleeping passengers, each blithely unaware of the medieval torture devices into which they are buckled. I make my usual stab or two at aerosleep, which yields nothing but a stiff neck, a painful back, and a nasty cowlick.

It’s not just the physical discomforts that prevent my sleep, but the total absence of inner peace, harmony, and calm. I’ve long harboured a suspicion that airline travel is technically impossible, and I’m not too keen on being 35,000 feet over the Pacific Ocean when the world figures this out. Curiously, I can trace the origins of my flying perturbation to that day when, as an Electrical Engineering major, Boeing offered me a job. I could barely orient a pair of AA batteries properly, and they want to entrust me with designing aircraft?

Like a child who pulls the covers over his head to hide from a monster in the room, I’ve developed my own rather ridiculous fear-coping mechanism. I’m sometimes calmed by the sound of droning machinery — a situation that should work in my favour, given that a 767’s jet engines produce a rather potent sensory-engulfing blanket of drone. But I can never quite decouple my mind from the fact these are airplane engines — propelling a giant chunk of metal that isn’t technically supposed to be airborne at all. So I’ve taken to putting on noise cancelling headphones and playing Éliane Radigue’s Trilogies de la Mort — a 2 hour and 49 minute masterpiece of continuously droning oscillators from an ancient ARP 2500 synthesizer. I find it enticingly therapeutic — even though one play gets me through only 25% of the flight.

My time in Tokyo is always tainted somewhat by a modicum of trepidation — the return trip consistently looms just beneath the surface of my thoughts. In some ways, travelling back to Vancouver is a better experience, and in some ways it’s worse. On the upside are the tailwinds, which shave a couple hours off the return flight, meaning a single play of Trilogies de la Mort gets me 33% of the way home. The biggest downside to the Tokyo-to-Vancouver flight is it results in a 41 hour day. And since sitting in a roaring tube of physical impossibility is, as previously established, not conducive to sleep, I’m forced to stay awake for 33 straight hours.

This year, my 41 hour day was on December 25th. Christmas Day. I’m rather certain this would make me the envy of several million children around the world, but my mind was consumed with fact-checking Bernoulli’s Principal for errors and oversights, rather than with thoughts of holly and mistletoe.

Through the miracle of human madness and its desire to partition time, I arrived back in Vancouver 8 hours before I left Tokyo. I breezed through customs, jumped a train, strolled home along eerily empty city streets, and dumped the contents of my suitcase into the laundry. 30 minutes later, my top-load washing machine chose that particular load to disprove the Property of Matter — the science of which erroneously maintains that liquids take the shape of the object containing them — and instead dumped an ocean of water into my condo, destroying the bulk of its flooring, several kitchen cabinets and a couple of walls.

And thus began a fresh new odyssey, which (six weeks later) continues to spawn new and thoroughly unwanted odysseys — in fact, there have been two additional condo-destroying floods since the one on Christmas day. And while the end is nowhere in sight, I suspect this latest visit from the entire Murphy family might just provide a topic for an upcoming article.

There are those who still believe in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s pronouncement that “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.” Clearly, Emerson’s era preceded the invention of the airplane and Kenmore appliances.

©2020 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Since my life now involves staying home and entertaining tradesmen for 10-12 hours/day, I haven’t had too many opportunities to go out and take new photos. Which means I get to populate this article with a few more shots from December’s Tokyo trip — some of which were even taken in the daylight! All photos are courtesy of the Leica M10 Monochrom, using an assortment of lenses that I simply don’t have the time nor inclination to list. Obviously, the first photo is a metaphor for this article; the second is a curiosity; the third is simply amusing; the fourth one even I don’t understand; and the fifth represents the sort of unbridled joy I will experience once the latest journey finally ends… assuming it ever does end.

REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

I’ve always been comfortably confident that not one single hoarding gene hides within my DNA. I am fastidious, tidy, and minimalist — perhaps even to a fault (should you choose to subpoena the opinions of an ex or two).

I have a strict one-in / one-out rule — if something new comes into the condo, something old goes out. It’s why I’ve owned hundreds of synthesizers in my lifetime, but rarely have more than a half-dozen in my studio. It couples nicely with my “if I haven’t used it in a year, then I don’t need it” policy — which does, admittedly, sometimes result in the premature disposal of some actually useful items. But such is the price one pays for being a hoardless horseman.

To date, the only physical evidence of a possible hoarding compulsion is my camera cabinet — which I acknowledge has far more old film cameras than any one person needs. However, my willingness to sell rarely-used gear coupled with the discipline to occasionally purge the shelves of inoperable junk seems to refute that possibility.

But just this month, after decades of minimalist smugness, I’ve uncovered evidence to suggest that I might indeed suffer from a hoarding disorder — hiding (as disorders often do) in plain site.

Yes, my name is Egor, and I hoard snapshots of Tokyo.

Later this month, I’ll be travelling back to Japan — where a mere 57 weeks after my last trip, I will spend 14 days snacking my way through dozens of different neighbourhoods while snapping photos with near reckless abandon.

To a ‘normal’ person, this probably doesn’t seem like aberrant behaviour. But in light of the fact I’m one of the world’s most parsimonious photographers, it stands out as a glaring anomaly. Under non-Tokyo conditions, it can easily take me two months to spool a roll of film through a camera — and that’s if I carry it every day! Even shooting digitally, my totals rarely exceed 50 shots in a month.

But Tokyo? I still have unscanned slides from my 1995 visit, un-catalogued shots from my 2015 visit, and un-viewed photos from 2018. Yet here I am — going again with the singularly specific goal of collecting even more photographs from the streets of Tokyo.

But, as anxious as the local chapter of Hoarder’s Anonymous is to receive its membership dues, I’m not yet prepared to pull out my chequebook. Maybe it’s not a hoarding foible at all, but one of my other many foibles cleverly masquerading as hoarding?

A likely candidate would simply be Newton’s Second Law of Travel, which states that “the very act of being in an environment distinct from one’s own wakes the eye and triggers the shutter finger, thus resulting in a mountain of crappy photos.”

But if this were the case, any trip I take beyond Vancouver’s city limits should result in a marked increase in photographs — yet it doesn’t. It’s only Tokyo. Besides, I’m not sure I’d classify my Tokyo photos as crappy. You might. You probably even do. But I don’t.

So maybe it’s not a case of becoming ‘less selective’ when I press the shutter. Maybe it’s just that Tokyo actually speaks to the same subliminal instincts that motivate all my photographs. I rarely take photos of things that interest my eye — I take photos of things that trigger some sort of instinctual je ne sais quoi that stirs a feeling deep within.

In spite of being a very visual person and photography being an obviously visual medium, when I look at my own photos, I’m not affected by them through the usual process in which an image triggers a memory. Rather, viewing my photos kindles the identical amalgamation of thoughts, instincts and emotions that drove me to take the photo in the first place. My best photos do not act as second-hand reminders, but as first-hand stimulants.

I’ve always said that photographers should photograph themselves. Not literally — like some Instagrammer run amok in a quest for more “likes” — but figuratively. And the fact I see myself woven into the very fabric of Tokyo is probably what causes the outpouring of photos taken there. I am practicing what I preach — I am photographing myself.

Granted, maybe I’m just trying to rationalize my way out of the horrific realization that my DNA isn’t hoarding-free. Or perhaps I’m just attempting to justify another self-indulgent trip of snack ‘n’ snap happy wandering around my favourite city. More likely than not, these (and not hoarding) are the real foibles facing me… well, these and an egotistical need to make all my photos be ‘self portraits.’

©2019 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THE PHOTOS:

Really? You want technical information on this collection of photos? You’re as nutty as I am…

REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.