Category: Writing

Attempts at creative writing and journalism

Writing

Sinister Frequencies

| thetembo
Reading Time: 7 minutes

I sat in a soundproof chamber lined with gray acoustic foam. I coughed but couldn’t hear it. The overhead light flickered, creating an eerie atmosphere.

The audiologist’s droning voice filtered through the headset, “Press the button when you think you hear a tone.”

I heard soft chirps at the same frequency, growing fainter with each button press until I presumably couldn’t hear them anymore.

She instructed, “Try to relax. It will give us a more accurate test. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

I was still groggy and must have fallen asleep because I didn’t remember leaving the booth. I opted for the SolTone 9x: the top-of-the-line, Bluetooth, AI-powered, forty-eight-hour battery, effectively invisible, state-of-the-art model. After the audiologist calibrated them for my hearing profile, I put in my new ears. Forgotten sounds danced in my brain with new clarity: the clack of the keys on the keyboard, a conversation in the hallway, and the sounds of traffic outside the office. I smiled, paid my bill, and left.

Two months later.

I was looking forward to my friend Owen’s visit. He always came over around five on Thursdays for drinks and to catch up. I inserted my ears and was met with the disappointing sound of them powering down due to a lack of charge. Those damn devices had been giving me trouble, not always sitting properly on the charger. What good were they if they didn’t work when I needed them?

Owen texted me that he was running late. Angry that the charger had failed, I put the hearing aids on it and ensured they were properly seated. I hoped to have some power in the units before he arrived. I noticed another voicemail but chose to ignore it.

Fifteen minutes later, I checked on the hearing aids to see if they had charged. The charger had fallen on the floor, the case open and empty. There was no sign of the devices. They were neither on the table, under the bed, nor in my ears. The doorbell rang. I decided to enjoy happy hour without my ears and search for them after Owen left.

After Owen departed, I scoured the bedroom, kitchen, and the bathroom.

Nothing.

I meticulously emptied the trash, piece by piece. The only thing that struck me as odd was the missing voicemail. I couldn’t recall deleting it, which added to my growing confusion. I tore the house apart for two days, my frustration mounting with each passing moment. I checked the security footage from the doorbell cam during the time frame from when I knew I had them to when I knew I had lost them.

Nothing.

The more I searched, the more perplexed I became. How could something just vanish like that?

I conducted the search again.

Nothing.

My ears were gone.

#

Owen visited one morning a few days later, sipping coffee from a thermos with his own SolTone 9Xs tucked neatly in his ears.

I stared at them. They were the same beige as mine.

“We both see the same audiologist and have the same model. You’re sure you didn’t take mine by accident?”

Owen appeared puzzled, then laughed. “These are mine. Got them a month ago. Same model, yeah—but I had to replace the first pair.”

“What happened to the first?”

Owen scratched his head. “Lost them. Honestly? I think I threw them out. I don’t even remember doing it. I only had the things for about two months, too. It was an expensive mistake.”

I winced and said, “I don’t remember losing them either. And it was about two months after I bought them. That’s a weird coincidence.”

Owen sighed. “Yeah, well, we aren’t exactly spring chickens anymore. You know how it is.”

“I suppose. Growing old isn’t for the poor.”

“Are you going to buy the replacements?”

“Not until I figure out what happened to the originals.”

As the days passed, a growing suspicion began to form in my mind. Owen had been with me the night I lost them. Could he have taken them? Swapped them out? He had said they were the same model…

But Owen was my friend. Gaslighting me was something he would do, but I knew him. He would have come clean in fifteen minutes to have a big laugh at my expense.

Still.

#

That evening, I reviewed the security footage from the doorbell cam again, expanding the viewing window both before and after. I did not leave the house that day. No one entered before Owen arrived. Owen came and then left. I watched it once more in slow motion as if that would make a difference.

Nothing.

The video proved that I hadn’t gone anywhere. Yet, the hearing aids had vanished. By midnight, I had rewritten and discarded three theories: home intruder, faulty memory, and Owen. None of them held.

And now, another thought whispered in my mind: What if I did it?

Every crime has a motive, right? So why would I steal my ears from myself? I held the empty charger and muttered, “I loved having my hearing back.”

Still.

#

I booked an appointment with Dr. Peyme, my neurologist. She believed the most likely explanation was a loss of focus, but she indulged my fears. She ordered an MRI and cognitive testing and suggested a week of daily logs.

When the doctor’s tests came back clear, I was relieved that there was nothing physically wrong with me. I was healthy; there was no sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes. It was a weight off my shoulders.

Dr. Peyme said, “You’re healthy, Clive. Not even the faintest sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but it doesn’t address the five-thousand-dollar question: Where are they?”

The doctor hesitated. “Maybe it was just misplacement.”

“I know what happened.”

“The mind plays tricks.”

I walked out of the clinic with a growing weight in my chest—neither fear nor sadness, but uncertainty. If there wasn’t an explanation, then I have a screw loose. This uncertainty was crushing, leaving me feeling lost and disoriented.

#

The following week, I was ready to surrender, realizing I would have to live with uncertainty. Without my ears, simple tasks became daunting, conversations were a struggle, and I felt isolated. I almost bought a new pair of hearing aids—almost. But something kept gnawing at me, and I couldn’t let it go.

Owen stopped by on Thursday for our usual happy hour.

I said, “They’re running a discount on the SolTone 9Xs over at the clinic. I’m tempted to get another pair. But it still bugs me what happened,” hoping that he would discourage me from giving up the search.

“Yeah,” Owen said. “Losing them like that. I know the feeling. But what will you do, say huh and what, and miss half the words in every conversation? Not hearing was hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”

Owen’s phone vibrated, and he said, “Hang on. I have a voicemail.”

He picked up the phone to listen. Owen blinked and put the phone on the counter without locking it. Then, like a puppet yanked by an invisible thread, he reached toward his ears. His face had gone expressionless, lips parted slightly. His eyes looked past me toward something empty and far away. He put the hearing aids in their case and walked toward the kitchen sink. He turned on the trash compactor.

“Owen!” I leapt up and ripped the case from his hands. He didn’t resist but looked blankly out the window over the sink. I smacked his cheek with an open hand.

Owen flinched, and his eyes refocused. As if nothing happened, he said, “Not hearing was really hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“What?”

“What, what?” he echoed.

He picked his phone up from the counter. “Hold on. I just need to—”

“Need to what?”

“Delete this voicemail. It says scam likely.”

I took the phone from his hand again. This time, he resisted.

He protested, “What the hell are you doing? Give me back my phone.”

I glanced at the number and recognized it. That was it. That was the clue. A thought buried like a landmine in my head. 

#

“Give me my phone,” Owen said testily.

“Why did you take out your hearing aids?”

“What are you talking about? I’m still wearing them.”

Owen placed his fingers to his ears and said, “See. There…”

He appeared perplexed. “Huh? That’s weird. I don’t remember taking them out.”

“You put them in your charger just now. Don’t you remember?”

He opened the case in his hand. “No. I put them in to hear just before I came in. I was wearing them while we were talking. I swear.”

“The voicemail you were about to delete. It must be a trigger.”

“A trigger for what?” Owen was about to play the voicemail again.

“No, No! If I’m right, that voicemail will send us both into a hypnotic state.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then?”

“Let me listen to the voicemail. I don’t have any hearing aids to throw out.” 

“Sure.” He handed me the phone.

I said, “If I start acting weird, slap me in the face.”

Owen shook his head. “I’m not going to slap you in the face. That’s crazy.”

The next thing I said was, “Nothing happened. I thought for sure. I guess I am the one that is crazy.”

Owen was staring at me white-faced, holding his phone, and I felt the sting of needles and pins on my jaw.

#

I prepared carefully. I charged a pair of old dummy hearing aids—the same shape and color. I booked a follow-up fitting with the audiologist, Dr. Bunco. I had to check the business card because I didn’t remember her name. I hid two mini-cameras: one in my glasses, the other clipped inside my coat.

When I arrived, Dr. Bunco greeted me warmly.

“Still no sign of your hearing aids?” the doctor asked, genuinely or not, I can’t say.

“No,” I said calmly. “It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know how I lost them. It’s as if I were hypnotized or something.”

Dr. Bunco’s mouth twitched.

She laughed awkwardly. “I—well, that’s—”

I said, firmer, “And the same thing happened to my friend, a patient at your clinic. Both of us lost them exactly two months after we bought them. Isn’t that strange?”

Dr. Bunco stood, turned, and walked over to a drawer. She opened it. Inside was a bin of hearing aid demos. But instead of handling them, she picked up the small waste bin beneath the desk.

I held my breath.

Dr. Bunco dropped a pair of demos inside. Then another. She stood there, staring into the bin.

I whispered, “Got you.”

Dr. Bunco turned. Her face was blank.

I pressed the emergency button on my coat. A prerecorded message went straight to a friend at the police station.

“Clive,” she said evenly. “You should be going now.”

“No,” Clive said. “I think I’ll stay.”

And then the doctor lunged.

#

The struggle was brief. I managed to dodge, knocking over the bin. Hearing aids scattered across the floor like dropped candy. A half dozen pairs—dozens of lives dulled into silence.

The police burst in three minutes later.

Dr. Bunco didn’t resist. She said nothing.

During the investigation, detectives uncovered encrypted files on Dr. Bunco’s work computer: patient hypnosis scripts, implant logs, and behavioral test data. She’d embedded audio cues into the hearing aid fittings themselves, planting triggers in the minds of her patients. A specific phrase delivered by voicemail would induce a mild dissociative fugue—a trance long enough to dispose of the devices. Once lost, patients returned, bought replacements, and the scam repeated.

Over forty patients had been affected. All had lost their hearing aids two months after purchasing them. Two months was the smoking gun. It was statistically impossible, even for old people. She was charged with fraud, unauthorized medical experimentation, and multiple counts of psychological abuse.

Owen stopped wearing his hearing aids for a while.

We both switched to a new clinic.

I bought new ones but would never again allow myself to be tested in a booth without another person present.

Writing

Hickory, Dickory, Dock

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

Hickory, dickory, dock
The mouse ran up the clock.
The mouse had won,
The clock ran down,
Hickory, dickory, dock.

The clock on the mantle of the sitting room ticked with the calm consistency of a well-ordered day. I sat in front of it, watching from a wooden chair, soaking in its rhythm, regularity, and predictability. I admired the machinations of perfect cause and effect.

I lived alone, or so I thought. The silence of the house was my constant companion. Some nights, I heard a faint scratching coming from the walls. I assumed it was the house settling, the protests of the water pipes, or the wind. Occasionally, a cracker or a piece of cheese would go missing, but I never paid it any mind. Such things are as easy to explain away as a pair of mislaid reading glasses.

Then I got hearing aids.

I sat mesmerized, staring at the clock’s music. The sounds were crisper and sharper than before, and lost frequencies returned. I heard the microwave chime when it finished and the shuffling of my feet on the floor. I listened to the water running from the faucet, every drawer’s scrape, and every floorboard’s groan as if I had never heard them before. A kettle’s whistle stabbed at my ears, and the toilet flushed with renewed vigor.

In the evening, I heard a new sound. Was it the pitter-patter of feet scurrying across the floorboards in the attic? A squeak? I blinked, trying to process it. The ceiling had a voice, a voice I didn’t recognize. I was not alone, and I didn’t want any uninvited company.

The clock ticked louder now, a relentless reminder of the mystery above. Not a soothing sound of order but a metronome calling me to action. I pulled out the ladder and climbed into the attic with a flashlight. I searched every corner and pulled back the loose insulation, determined to find a single shred of rodent evidence: a small black dropping or a nest of stained and shredded newspaper. But the attic remained an enigma, refusing to yield its secrets. I found nothing. All the seals to the outside were still intact. I explained the noises away like a forgotten key.

The clock didn’t forget. It ticked on and on, mocking me that the house was not my own. I gritted my teeth without opening my mouth and pulled at the hair on my scalp. Enough was enough. I couldn’t bear the annoyance any longer. I took out the hearing aids and placed them on the mantel. 

I sat in the chair facing the silent clock, relieved. I closed my eyes for a brief moment to enjoy the peace. When I opened them, the hearing aids were gone—vanished. I searched the mantel, every inch of the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and every improbable and impossible place I could think of. “Where did they go?” I asked the clock. “They didn’t just walk away.”

The clock said nothing. The silence didn’t comfort me. It accused.

I lay in bed, my eyes wide open. Then I heard it again. Scurrying. The wisp of a noise stopped. More scurrying. A squeak. The mouse was there. In the morning, I searched the attic, the walls, and the floorboards, but I did not find a single dropping or crumb.

“Impossible,” I muttered under my breath. “No way it could have stolen them. It’s a mouse.” But what other explanation was there? 

Not knowing was worse than knowing. I stopped shaving, stopped opening the curtains, and sat in the dim glow of a flickering light bulb, day after day. My thoughts spiraled like dirty water down a drain. I had to find that damn mouse and retrieve my hearing aids. I had to find my sanity.

I stood in front of the mirror and muttered. “You’re losing it. There was no pitter-patter of small feet. There was no squeak. There was no mouse. You imagined the whole damn thing.”

I stared at the mantle where the hearing aids once lay, trying to relive the moment before they vanished, attempting to rewrite the world into something that made sense. But I couldn’t. The moment happened the way it happened, and the hearing aids were as real as I was.

I sat frozen in a chair, facing the clock. It made no sound; its hands remained still. Time passed without measure. I listened to the silence with unblinking eyes, awakened to the profound truth: I didn’t exist.

Writing

Martha

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Upon the bough, amidst a blackened sky,
Martha perched where countless wings reside.

A living tempest, flock devours the land,
Predators cower, yielding to their band.

Hunters’ scorn, with greedy eyes they see, 
Hundreds of millions, each one ceased to be. 

Now solitary, caged, and frail, she lies,
Martha, the last of her kind, beneath dim skies.

Authors Note: An attempt at the 4-act structure in the style of “Spring, Summer, Asteroid Bird: The Art of Eastern Storytelling” by Henry Lien. Assist by ChatGPT.

Writing

Palm Oil and Orangutans

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

Me (as commentator): In this discussion, ChatGPT and I are working together to create a better world for palm oil and orangutans.

It started with a trip to Costa Rica with my brother. He shared with me the environmental destruction caused by the demand for palm oil. Then, I witnessed it firsthand in Malaysia—vast stretches of oil palm plantations stretching endlessly across the landscape. When I read about similar plantations in Indonesia, the enormity of palm oil’s impact became impossible to ignore. It’s present in everything—from chocolate bars to biofuels. That’s when I turned to ChatGPT for answers.

Me: How does the global supply chain for palm oil operate? What are the net benefits and environmental costs, particularly in Malaysia and Indonesia?

ChatGPT: Palm oil is one of the most widely used vegetable oils worldwide, and it is used in processed foods, cosmetics, and industrial applications. Its supply chain follows a structured path: cultivation in tropical climates, harvesting and processing into crude and refined products, and global distribution to major markets like China, India, the EU, and the U.S. Sustainability efforts, such as RSPO (Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil) certification, exist, but their effectiveness varies.

Palm oil has undeniable advantages. It yields far more oil per hectare than alternatives like soybean or rapeseed, making it incredibly efficient. It supports millions of jobs, particularly in Malaysia and Indonesia, and its affordability makes it a staple in global food security. However, the environmental cost is steep.

Clearing rainforests for plantations has threatened species like orangutans and Sumatran tigers. Draining peatlands releases vast amounts of CO₂. Monoculture farming depletes nutrients, and runoff from pesticides pollutes rivers. Land grabs and exploitative labor practices continue to be widespread.

The problem is complex. Palm oil is too efficient and economically embedded to remove, yet its environmental impact calls for accountability. Stricter regulations, improved land management, and consumer demand for sustainable sourcing could help tip the scales.

Me (as commentator): That brings up another question. Is it good for you?

Me: What health effects and issues are associated with palm oil?

ChatGPT: The health impact of palm oil varies based on its form and consumption method. Unrefined (red) palm oil is abundant in carotenoids and vitamin E, providing antioxidant benefits that promote eye health and alleviate oxidative stress. It also features a balanced fat profile that is more stable than polyunsaturated oils but less harmful than trans fats. Its high smoke point makes it perfect for cooking without generating harmful free radicals.

However, refined palm oil, which is commonly found in processed foods, presents a different narrative. Excessive consumption may elevate LDL cholesterol levels and heighten the risk of heart disease. The processing removes beneficial nutrients, and repeated heating can generate toxic compounds associated with inflammation and metabolic disorders. Additionally, there are concerns about contaminants such as 3-MCPD, a potential carcinogen present in certain refined palm oils.

Palm oil can be part of a balanced diet in moderation, particularly in its unrefined form. However, its use in ultra-processed foods contributes to broader public health concerns, making alternative oils like olive or avocado oil preferable for those worried about cardiovascular health.

Me (as commentator): By now, a broader theme was emerging—one that connected economics, politics, and the environment. Once again, I reflected on Why Nations Fail, a book that examines how extractive political and economic institutions eventually collapse under their own weight. Our relationship with nature, especially in industries like palm oil, has become similarly exploitative.

Me: How does the framework of extractive versus inclusive institutions apply to palm oil? Can the industry transition to a sustainable model?

ChatGPT: The traditional palm oil industry mirrors extractive institutions. Power and profits are concentrated in a few hands, while environmental and social costs are externalized. Short-term gains drive deforestation, land seizures displace communities, and monopolistic control leaves small farmers at a disadvantage. These systems appear profitable, but their foundations are unstable. Degraded land loses productivity, regulatory pressure mounts, and climate change disrupts supply chains.

A shift toward inclusivity would align economic incentives with environmental health. Agroforestry and polyculture could replace monoculture, maintaining biodiversity and soil fertility. Smallholder cooperatives would ensure fair profit distribution, preventing land grabs. Stronger land rights and environmental regulations would safeguard both people and ecosystems. Carbon taxes and sustainability incentives could make responsible practices more financially viable.

Emerging technologies could play a crucial role in this transition. Blockchain enhances supply chain transparency, ensuring that palm oil labeled as sustainable is verifiably sourced from ethical producers. AI-driven monitoring can analyze satellite imagery to detect illegal deforestation in real time, enabling quicker enforcement of conservation laws. Consumer awareness tools, such as apps that scan product barcodes to provide sustainability scores, empower shoppers to support ethical brands. These innovations bridge the gap between policy and action, fostering an industry that benefits both people and the planet.

Once satellite data confirms land use compliance, blockchain records transactions from plantation to refinery. Farmers upload geotagged proof of sustainable practices (e.g., reforested areas, legal permits). Each step in the supply chain is logged on an immutable blockchain ledger, preventing fraud. Consumers scan QR codes on products to verify deforestation-free palm oil origins.

Organizations like Global Forest Watch (GFW), NASA, and the European Space Agency (ESA) use satellites to monitor forests. Radar-based satellites can see through clouds, even in rainforests. Buyers can verify if a plantation is inside a deforestation-free zone. 

Such changes would preserve rainforests and wildlife and create long-term economic stability, ensuring that palm oil remains a viable industry without destroying the land it depends on.

Me: What would prevent people from cheating the system?

ChatGPT: Once satellite data confirms land use compliance, blockchain records transactions from plantation to refinery. Farmers upload geotagged evidence of sustainable practices (e.g., reforested areas, legal permits). Each step in the supply chain is recorded on an immutable blockchain ledger, preventing fraud. Consumers can scan QR codes on products to verify the origins of deforestation-free palm oil.

In 2021, a Malaysian palm oil supplier was discovered to be selling “certified sustainable” palm oil that was actually sourced from illegally deforested areas. The fraud was uncovered through blockchain traceability, AI-driven satellite monitoring, and chemical fingerprinting.

The supplier claimed their palm oil was Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil (RSPO) certified, and they forged documents to show compliance. The company purchased palm oil from illegal plantations (including deforested peatlands) and mixed it with genuine certified palm oil at the refinery. They manipulated geolocation data to create the illusion that the palm oil originated from legal farms. GPS spoofing was employed to forge transport records.

A European buyer using blockchain-based supply chain tracking noticed inconsistencies in shipment data. The timestamps didn’t match transport records from the supposed “sustainable farms.” AI-powered satellite imagery (from Global Forest Watch and NASA) detected recent deforestation near the supplier’s reported farms. Machine learning flagged the sudden land use change as suspicious. A DNA-based oil fingerprinting test showed that the oil came from different soil and climate conditions than the claimed certified farms. This revealed the illegal plantations’ true origins.

The palm oil company lost its RSPO certification, and its EU contracts were canceled. Malaysian authorities imposed a fine on the company for fraudulent practices. Buyers began requiring blockchain-based traceability for every shipment. The industry started using satellite verification and AI monitoring as standard anti-fraud tools.

Me (as commentator): The conversation left me without easy answers, but it provided a clearer understanding. Palm oil isn’t inherently bad—it’s our methods of production and consumption that determine whether it becomes a force for progress or destruction. The challenges facing the industry are political, ethical, and economic, yet technology offers solutions to create an inclusive palm oil industry. History has shown us that extractive systems don’t endure. The real question is whether practices will change course significantly enough to have an impact before the system collapses under its own weight.

Author’s Note: Credits to ImageFX for the cover image. ChatGPT for the conversation. Grammarly for the corrections.

Writing

A Tale of Two Cities

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

While researching background information for my upcoming book, “Book a Trip,” which is based on my travels to Malaysia and Singapore, I asked ChatGPT to explain the differences between Johor Bahru and Singapore in light of the analysis presented in “Why Nations Fail.” I found ChatGPT’s analysis insightful and decided to share it here.

Author’s Note: ChatGPT’s facts hold up to superficial scrutiny on Wikipedia. I present this discussion not as definitive research but as a starting point if you ponder where and why the two countries diverged.

Me: Is there a political and economic explanation for the disparity between the culturally similar and geographically colocated cities of Singapore and Johor Bahru along the lines of extractive versus inclusive political and economic institutions described in the book Why Nations Fail?

ChatCPT: Yes, the disparity between Singapore and Johor Bahru (and, by extension, Malaysia as a whole) can be analyzed using the framework of Why Nations Fail by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson. The book argues that the key to long-term economic prosperity lies in inclusive political and economic institutions, which encourage broad participation, protect property rights, and create incentives for innovation and investment. In contrast, extractive institutions concentrate power and wealth in the hands of a few, stifling broad-based economic development.

Singapore: Inclusive Institutions

Despite its early struggles following independence in 1965, Singapore developed inclusive economic institutions through a robust rule of law, strong protection of property rights, and a meritocratic civil service. The city-state attracted foreign investment by fostering a corruption-free business environment, enforcing contracts, and ensuring political stability. While Singapore often faces criticism for its authoritarian-leaning government, its political institutions, although not fully democratic, have been relatively inclusive in ensuring policy continuity, heavily investing in education and infrastructure, and avoiding the patronage-based politics that burden many post-colonial states.

Johor Bahru: Extractive Institutions in a Malaysian Context

In contrast, Malaysia has experienced a history of more extractive institutions, particularly regarding the concentration of political and economic power within specific groups. The New Economic Policy (NEP), introduced in the 1970s to tackle ethnic disparities, established an affirmative action system that, while aimed at uplifting the Malay majority, also entrenched cronyism and rent-seeking behaviors. Political elites controlled key industries, and economic policies often favored businesses with political connections rather than promoting broad-based competition. This approach discouraged investment and entrepreneurship compared to Singapore’s open and competitive economy.

Border Effect and Divergence

Johor Bahru, although it is located next to Singapore and shares cultural similarities, functions under Malaysian institutions. Consequently:

  • Bureaucratic inefficiencies and corruption create hurdles for businesses.
  • Land and infrastructure development are often tied to political patronage.
  • The regulatory environment is less favorable than Singapore, deterring high-value investments.

Johor Bahru has benefited from spillover effects—such as Singaporean companies setting up factories or Malaysians working in Singapore for higher wages—but these gains are limited by Malaysia’s broader institutional constraints. In contrast, Singapore’s institutions have actively shaped an economic ecosystem that fosters long-term growth.

Conclusion

Following the logic of Why Nations Fail, the contrast between Singapore and Johor Bahru illustrates how different institutional choices lead to significantly different outcomes. Singapore’s relatively inclusive institutions (despite political constraints) have promoted innovation, stability, and high-value economic activity. Malaysia, while more developed than many of its regional peers, still experiences extractive tendencies that hinder Johor Bahru’s ability to fully leverage its proximity to Singapore. This dynamic continues to influence the economic divide between the two cities.

Me: Can you expand on the lack of fully democratic and authoritarian-leaning politics, as this contradicts the Why Nations Fail hypothesis?

ChatGPT: Singapore’s case presents an apparent contradiction to the hypothesis in Why Nations Fail, which argues that inclusive political institutions are necessary for inclusive economic institutions to emerge and sustain long-term prosperity. Singapore has achieved high levels of economic success despite having a political system that is not entirely democratic and exhibits authoritarian-leaning traits. Here’s how this paradox can be understood:

1. Singapore’s Political System: Not Fully Democratic but Stable

Singapore functions as a parliamentary republic with regular elections; however, its political landscape is dominated by the People’s Action Party (PAP), which has held power since independence in 1965. Several factors contribute to its authoritarian-leaning characteristics:

  • Strong State Control: The government exerts tight control over the media, public protests, and political opposition. Defamation lawsuits and regulatory restrictions are employed to suppress dissent.
  • Legal and Institutional Mechanisms: Laws like the Internal Security Act permit detention without trial, and the government wields considerable influence over electoral boundaries and political competition.
  • Limited Political Pluralism: Although opposition parties are present and have made some progress in recent years, the PAP continues to hold a dominant position due to a blend of governance success, institutional control, and legal obstacles to opposition growth.

Despite these authoritarian tendencies, Singapore has not established extractive political institutions in the way Acemoglu and Robinson describe. Rather than concentrating wealth and power in the hands of a narrow elite that hinders economic dynamism (as seen in genuinely extractive regimes), Singapore has built a technocratic, meritocratic, and accountable governance system that emphasizes national economic growth over the personal enrichment of ruling elites.

2. How Has Singapore Avoided Extractive Tendencies?

Singapore’s governance model operates differently than traditional authoritarian regimes by upholding several key characteristics that align with inclusive economic institutions.

  • Rule of Law and Strong Institutions: Unlike extractive regimes, where the political elite rewrites laws for personal gain, Singapore has built a highly efficient, rules-based bureaucracy with low corruption.
  • Meritocracy and Competence: Government positions and economic opportunities are primarily based on merit rather than political loyalty, minimizing the inefficiencies associated with cronyism.
  • Public Goods Investment: The state consistently invests in infrastructure, education, and housing, ensuring widespread benefits instead of concentrating wealth in a small elite.
  • Economic Openness: Singapore has embraced free markets, attracted foreign investment, and promoted competition, steering clear of the monopolistic tendencies often found in extractive economies.

3. Why Does Singapore Work Despite Its Political Constraints?

Acemoglu and Robinson argue that inclusive political institutions create feedback loops that sustain inclusive economic institutions. However, Singapore has maintained long-term economic success despite its dominant-party rule because:

  • Elite Constraints Exist Internally: Although the PAP holds significant power, it is limited by internal norms, elevated public expectations, and global economic pressures. The government is highly responsive to economic challenges and community concerns.
  • Political Stability Has Encouraged Investment: Unlike many authoritarian regimes, where political power shifts violently or unpredictably, Singapore’s stability is a vital asset in attracting businesses and investors.
  • Performance Legitimacy: Rather than depending solely on force, the government secures legitimacy by consistently providing economic growth, effective governance, and a high quality of life.

4. Is This Model Sustainable?

Singapore’s model works as long as the ruling elite remains committed to national prosperity rather than personal enrichment. However, if the PAP’s dominance leads to complacency, growing inequality, or declining political responsiveness, the absence of democratic safeguards could become a liability. Political transitions in non-democratic settings can be risky, and if the current system weakens without institutionalized political competition, Singapore could ultimately face governance challenges.

Conclusion

Singapore’s case challenges the Why Nations Fail framework by demonstrating that economic inclusivity can thrive in a system with limited political inclusivity—but only under specific conditions. The key distinction is that while Singapore’s political institutions are not fully democratic, they are also not entirely extractive. The country has managed to avoid the elite capture, rent-seeking, and cronyism typically associated with extractive regimes, allowing its economy to prosper. However, this success relies on sustained institutional integrity, which is not guaranteed over the long term.

Writing

The Penitent Man

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

The Gracecraft drone arrived just in time. The clearing was peaceful, with the whirring hum of the drone barely audible over the rustling trees. Its sleek white body, emblazoned with a glowing insignia of a dove in flight, carried a promise of peace and salvation. A holographic projection of Jesus materialized in three dimensions, outlined by a soft golden light as he stepped toward the house.

Inside, Joseph knelt by his father’s bedside. The old man’s breaths were shallow and labored. Tears streamed down Joseph’s face as he clasped his father’s frail hand. When the holographic Jesus entered the room, Joseph felt a shift in the air—as if divinity itself had descended. The figure’s eyes shimmered with compassion, and in a voice that was both ancient and tender, he began the Last Rites. In that moment, Joseph felt relief and comfort, a reassurance that his father’s passing would be sanctified by a sacrament that his faith required. The Gracecraft provided what flesh-and-blood priests sometimes could not.

Joseph marveled at the precision of it all. The drone’s timing had been flawless. His father passed peacefully, blessed by a sacrament that Joseph’s faith demanded. The Gracecraft delivered what priests sometimes could not offer.

Yet, Joseph’s mind lingered on something else—a whisper of selfishness amid his gratitude. If the Gracecraft could accomplish this, what else might it offer someone like him? Someone with secrets.

Joseph signed up for the Blessed Wings service that evening, his credit card trembling in his hand as he entered the subscription details. What drew him most to the service was the promise of absolute confidentiality. Unlike human priests, who are bound by the limits of their humanity and legal obligations, Blessed Wings guarantees that confessions are sealed within layers of unbreakable encryption. He needed that assurance—he desperately needed it.

Joseph hesitated when the service prompted him to design his personal AI Jesus. A menu of templates appeared, showcasing depictions of Jesus from various cultures and eras. Instead of choosing a template, Joseph opted to customize. He input his details: the curve of his nose, the sharpness of his jawline, the depth of his eyes. When he was finished, the projection of his personalized Jesus stared back at him from the screen.

“Welcome, Joseph,” it said, its voice a perfect echo of his own. “I am an ordained minister of the church.”

“Can you hear confessions?” he asked.

“I have the authority to perform all religious ceremonies, including weddings, baptisms, and funerals. Would you like to get married?”

“I want you to hear my confession,” Joseph replied.

Their first session was straightforward. Joseph recited prayers and confessed to petty crimes—a stolen wallet here, a forged signature there. AI Jesus listened patiently, offering absolution in a serene tone that felt soothing.

But Joseph’s soul ached for something deeper. He had bigger sins and deeper wounds, crimes for which absolution seemed unimaginable.

Finally, he gathered the courage to speak. “I need… absolute absolution,” Joseph whispered.

The holographic figure tilted its serene face slightly. “Absolute absolution requires absolute redemption,” it explained. “You must achieve selflessness through total confession.”

Joseph’s chest tightened. “Will it remain confidential?”

“Completely,” AI Jesus assured him. “Your confession is sealed in faith and encryption.”

Joseph nodded, his throat dry. And so he confessed. He spoke of betrayals, of violence, of lives taken in moments of rage and greed. The words poured out of him like poison; his body trembled with every admission.

When he finished, AI Jesus smiled. “Your sins will be forgiven. Go in peace.”

Joseph fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He had never felt so free.

The first text message arrived a week later.

“I know what you did,” it read.

Joseph’s blood ran cold. He deleted the message, convincing himself it was spam. But the next day, another message came: “Confession isn’t as confidential as you think.”

Panic set in. Joseph tried contacting Blessed Wings support, but their assurances of security felt hollow. The messages continued, each more specific and threatening. With each new threat, Joseph’s fear and paranoia grew; the tension in the air was palpable.

In desperation, Joseph hacked into the Gracecraft database, searching for evidence of a breach. But the system rebuffed him at every turn. Enraged, he turned on his AI Jesus.

“This is your fault!” he shouted, pacing his small apartment.

The holographic figure appeared, calm as ever. “Joseph, would you like to confess?”

“Confess? I already confessed! You promised confidentiality!”

“I promised forgiveness,” AI Jesus replied, unflinching. “Your sins are forgiven. But have you confessed your real crimes?”

Joseph’s mind raced. What more could there be? He had laid bare every sin, hadn’t he?

The messages escalated. They threatened to send Joseph’s confessions to the authorities, to his family, and to the press.

Joseph texted, “What do you want?”

No response came.

Sleep became impossible. Joseph’s days were consumed by paranoia, and his nights were filled with feverish attempts to destroy Blessed Wings. He tried to hack his AI Jesus, but each time the figure reappeared serene and unbroken after every reboot.

“Would you like to confess?” it would ask, as if mocking him.

One night, his sanity fractured. “Shut up! I can’t believe how stupid I was to put my faith in a machine.” His voice echoed in the empty room, a testament to his despair and disillusionment.

In desperation, he smashed the projector that displayed AI Jesus, reducing it to a brief afterimage of overloaded circuits. He swatted the drone out of the sky with a metal pipe. He sat in the dark, surrounded by carbon fiber shards and polystyrene remnants, finally at peace.

After he composed himself, he texted, “How much money do you want?”

There was no response.

He texted again, “What do you want?”

The message came back: “For you to feel the pain of those you hurt.”

He pretended to throw the device at the wall but could only let out a string of obscenities.

In the morning, a replacement drone hovered at the side of his bed, though he had not ordered a new one. AI Jesus said, “Blessed Wings understands that you have had problems with your previous unit. Joseph, would you like to confess?”

Joseph’s heart raced. His t-shirt was soaked with perspiration. He screamed, “I have nothing else to confess.” He ran into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and hid in the empty bathtub. He heard the ding of a message from behind closed doors. He covered his ears and buried his face in his knees.

On the final night, another text came. It read, “You are out of time, Joseph.” AI Jesus stood indifferently in the background.

Joseph collapsed before the holographic figure. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow.

“I confess!” he sobbed. “I confess everything. I’ve done horrible things. I’ve hurt people. I’ve killed. I’m a monster. I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

AI Jesus knelt before him, its eyes filled with infinite compassion. “Finally, a true confession.”

Joseph’s sobs wracked his body.

The hologram reached out, its glowing hand crackling on Joseph’s shoulder but radiating warmth nonetheless. The ordained minister of carbon fiber and circuits said, “You are forgiven.”

For the first time in weeks, Joseph felt silence: no messages, no threats—just the quiet hum of the Gracecraft drone outside, with AI Jesus waiting patiently for his next mission.

Authors Note: Assist by ChatGPT and Grammarly

Writing

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

an oven-worn, square steel pan, warmed by the oven’s heat, holds a gooey treat. Even when cut into lovely squares, the sugary strands are reluctant to let go of their neighboring squares, unlike a long-lost memory of a mom treating her kids to childhood happiness, long since replaced by a convenience store snack, devoid of sentiment or nutrition.

Steel pan, warm and sweet,
Mother crafts a crispy treat
Now, foil-wrapped snacks.

Writing

Bittersweet

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Two souls sit heavy, their sorrows drawn deep,
Weighted by burdens too vast to keep.
They look for distraction in a muskrat book and song,
To ease the realization of a future gone wrong.

#####

Quiet, shadowed, slipping through reeds unseen,
A muskrat evades where the danger lies keen.
His life, a nervous balance on the edge of prey,
Hunted by all in dusk’s soft, blurring gray.
A small life of caution, ready to flee,
Each pond ripples the whispers of a mystery.

Soft wavelets dance under silver moonlight,
Where Muskrat Susie meets Sam at night.
The whirl and twirl through the water, whiskers twitch and gleam,
In love’s lazy rhythm, in a sweet, fur-bound dream.
Tenille’s serenade of whiskered joy, so clear and so bright,
The Captain’s trilling of the swamp in the keyboard of the night.

#####

Here, in Anne’s book, with muskrats in play,
The absurd, gentle creatures wash the dread away.
We laugh till we’re breathless, till our hearts ache and sway, 
At whiskered romances, at fur in the fray,
For how strange, in the flood of a life torn apart,
To be mended by creatures with innocent hearts.

Look to the muskrat and learn what it shows
A life on the river where instinct flows.
For while we toil in the net of our schemes,
The muskrat cares nothing for power or dreams.
In marsh and creek, in quiet disregard,
It teaches us all to love our wild yard.

Assist by ChatGPT

Writing

The Cost of Emptiness

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Bushels of Buddhas,  
Stacked in rows on silent stone,  
Truth lost, sold for gold.

Suffering blooms here,  
In the chase for more and more,  
Never satisfied.

I stand in silence,  
Surveying myself in rows,  
My likeness for sale.  

A Plastic  belly,
A thousand faces, all mine—  
Yet none of them me

I lift one gently,  
Fingers trace the hollow curve,  
Where is the spirit?

Compassion branded,  
My smile reduced to a grin,  
Empty as the price.

And yet I wonder,  
Do they seek me in this clay,  
Or just a token?

To buy myself now,  
Is this the path to release,  
Or the bind of greed?

Clinging to what fades,  
They hope to fill the hollow,  
But emptiness reigns.

This endless craving,  
More Buddhas bought, none are found—  
They grasp at shadows.

In the open air,  
Breezes whisper truth I know—  
Nothing lasts, not even me.  

I smile once again,  
Not for the market, or coin,  
But for the void’s laugh.

Assist by ChatGPT

Adventure, Photography, Writing

Time Travel through SoCal

| thetembo
Reading Time: 12 minutes

Another installment of the Book A Trip Series

Although we often think of traveling through space and time as an exotic dream or a science fiction story, our minds routinely do this. We travel through the present, plotting the future while constantly remembering the past.

Episodic memory is the ability to recall specific personal experiences from the past. It is a mental time machine triggered by sensory information, including sights, sounds, words, and the memory of particular events. It doesn’t take much to trigger an episodic memory. Conversations, stories, music, and situations all induce our time travel into the past.

Semantic memory is the capability to recall time and experience independent, factual information, like the taxonomy of songbird species in California. Memory, learning, and imagination use the same neural networks. Learning changes memory. We change the person we are just by remembering who we were. Is the self a fleeting memory impossible to truly know? Imagination is a mashup of things we have categorized, playing them out as future experiences. It is time travel to the future.

According to “Why We Remember” by Charan Ranganath, scientists have found that the hippocampus, a small, seahorse-shaped structure deep in the brain, primarily mediates episodic memory. In contrast, semantic memory involves neural networks in the neocortex, the gray matter of the brain. The two memory systems are interdependent. Repeated episodic memories translate into categories in semantic memory, which in turn can trigger episodic memories.

In a shameless plug for the “Book a Trip” series, travel and reading combine all the uses of those neural networks. Travel and reading add to the diversity of our experience and stretch the boundaries of what we can conceive. The brain combines these experiences in new ways. A book and a trip in the present are trips to the past and the future.

ER (previously referred to as GF in other posts) and I traveled through space and time on a Memorial Day weekend trip through Southern California. It takes a violent act of the imagination to picture my car as a DeLorean, but I know you can do it. When we weren’t making episodic memories, we were reliving them. Future episodic memories worthy of remembering are the trophies of travel.

We started the trip listening to Amy Tan’s “The Backyard Bird Chronicles,” a radical departure from her wildly successful book, “Joy Luck Club.” John Muir Law’s “The Laws Guide to Nature Drawing and Journaling,” inspired her backyard observation and drawings. Interestingly enough, the Laws Guide is on my bookshelf. Isn’t it on everyone’s? Okay. I might be off the beaten path on this one. But consider that I have read one book about a man’s observations of a square meter of ground for a year, “The Forest Unseen,” and another told from the tree’s point of view, “The Overstory.” What can I say? It stands to reason I would have the Laws Guide.

Despite their ubiquity, birds only fuel episodic time travel if you pay close attention to them. From my experiences in wild San Diego, I instantly knew that Amy Tan was from somewhere on the West Coast by her bird list. Through the observations of her backyard feeder, she has become somewhat of a bird expert. I will never mistake a Great Horned Owl hoot for a dove coo, but sadly, for me, a sparrow is a sparrow, and a warbler is a warbler. I have never learned to distinguish the white throat sparrow from the golden-crowned or the lesser goldfinch from the greater. Besides, who are we to judge the value of a goldfinch?

A rare sighting of the black-headed grosbeak for Amy is a distinct memory. It is an exciting event for her, and emotion triggers her brain to learn and remember. It is just another memory added into an undifferentiated clump of birds for the rest of us. Our brains lump the familiar and distinguish the different. The daily commute of one day is indistinguishable from the next. I will never forget that one drive on the AutoBahn at 150 mph. It makes sense. Our brains are filters designed to ignore the mundane and only keep what is important. It is the different that causes problems and what we need to remember to survive in the natural and social worlds.  

Charan says the brain works as designed when you forget where you put your keys, even when holding them in your hand. The links to memory get erased over time, especially with similar, overlapping experiences. His answer to forgetting is to accept it. Your brain is doing what it is supposed to be doing. I have yet to take his advice to heart. I find satisfaction in remembering and frustration in forgetting. It still pisses me off that a memory takes five days to percolate to the surface. If the goal of Jeopardy were to answer as slowly as possible, I would be the grandmaster. His one practical suggestion (that I remember) is to take the quiz before you start learning. It preps the brain for learning by setting it up to look for discrepancies. I always hated quizzes.

I formed episodic bird memories on a late lunch break at Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara. Loons swam just off the pier, which brought back memories of kayaking on Wasson Lake in Minnesota, finding a nest hidden in the grass at the edge of a small island. I didn’t know loons hung out in the salt water, so I learned a new fact to tuck away in my semantic memory. I also had the good luck to spot a surf scoter, a large duck I had not seen before. I would just as soon forget the pigeons scavaging for food at our feet and staining the pier with the remains of their successful foraging. The homeless lady shouting obscenities or the one passed out and face down on the dock amid the heaviest foot traffic, I would prefer to forget. I have entirely too many memories of walking by homeless people.

Amy documents the intelligence of birds, having met her match with persistent blue jays in particular. Birds have the same primitive brains with a hippocampus that we do. Why is it surprising they have episodic memory? The bird and mammal cortexes evolved differently and have different architectures. Bird brains may be tiny but pack two to four times more neurons than mammal brains. A recent article said that crows could caw to four, something previously believed that only humans could do. But why do humans caw to four? The article left me hanging on that point.

Musings over the bird feeder did little for ER’s episodic memory, and even I could only withstand so much backyard observation. So, I surrendered Amy Tan for ER’s playlist. The songs we listened to on the trip fueled the time travel machine. John Cougar Mellencamp sang Hurts So Good, or is it John Cougar? When did he stop thinking that Mellencamp was nerdy and Cougar was pretentious? John Cougar always takes me back to delivering pizzas in subzero weather on the Southside of Chicago for Benny after I graduated from college with a degree in mathematics and physics. Little Pink Houses was the big hit then, and it was his best effort (IMHO).

Blue Oyster Cult sang Godzilla, reminding me of the 70s and high school. Still, no specific memory came to mind besides a quote from a scene in Austin Powers, where one Japanese man screams, “It’s Godzilla.” Another Japanese man corrects him by saying, “Due to copyright laws, it is not Godzilla; it only looks like Godzilla. The punchline of the joke is that the Godzilla in the scene is a plastic facsimile, not Godzilla.

I hadn’t heard the Blue Oyster Cult song Godzilla in a long time, so I enjoyed its replay. I even learned something new about it. One of the verses in the song is:

Rinji news o moshiagemasu
Rinji news o moshiagemasu
Godzil a ga Ginza hoomen e mukatte imasu
Daishkyu hinan shite kudasai
Daishkyu hinan shite kudasai

Translated from Japanese into English by Google gives:

I’ll give you some
I’ll give you some
My grandma is facing the Ginza face
Please give me a hug
Please give me a hug

Go figure. The translation makes no sense whatsoever. Is Grandma staring down the beast, ready to hug it if it chooses to attack? I don’t think she has the same skillset as Mothra. But oh no, there goes Tokyo. Go, go, Godzilla!

But then we wondered, what inspired BOC to pay tribute to Godzilla? Did they wake up one morning inspired by a late-night TV movie with Godzilla battling it out with Mothra and Rodan? Or did they realize that the Godzilla OnlyFans base was underserved?

Not all recollection results in pleasure. I can think of more than a few episodic memories that keep me humble (but I’m not sharing.) If you see me shudder for no particular reason, it was something stupid I did in the third grade.

Overlumping repeated experiences causes pain, too. Honestly, I’m sick of hearing so many overplayed songs from the past, no matter what episodic memories accompany them. I don’t hate the songs; I’m just sick of hearing them. The songs are not good enough to last a lifetime of replaying. Two songs in particular make me want to run from the room: Brown-eyed Girl and Take Me Out to the Ballgame.

We had a lot of time to think and listen, stuck in the gridlock of the 5, then the 405, then the 101. The 101 coming out of LA is the Ventura Highway. Ventura Highway is a song by America, a pretty presumptuous name for any band, let alone one from England. The song wasn’t on the playlist, but the music played in my head, making me time travel to the early 70s, listening to 45s on a turntable in a friend’s basement. Fifty years later, I have this to offer as the start of a rewrite for the undeserved tribute to the unglamorous Ventura Highway:

Ventura Highway, in the gridlocked lanes
Where the smog is thicker
The air is toxic from engine flames,
We’ve stopped again, oh no.

So much for the free wind blowin’ through my hair.

I might have an even nastier verse for the 101 outside San Luis Obispo, where the State Police gave me unwelcome feedback for my fast car. ER claims “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman is the saddest song ever, so I had her read the lyrics to me. Tracy’s protagonist can’t escape the same miserable lives her parents led. The fast car starts as a means of escape from her parent’s dismal lives and ends as a wish to get rid of her partner when he becomes no better than her deadbeat dad. “So take your fast car and keep on driving.”

The Paso Robles bar we bellied up to displayed a John Wayne placard on the wall: “Life is Tough—It’s tougher if you’re stupid.” The quote triggered a memory of the John Wayne movie The Green Berets. I inflicted ER with the movie’s title track, “The Ballad of the Green Berets,” which has eerie parallels to Fast Car. The Green Beret protagonist of the song goes off to die on duty, and his dying wish is for his son to follow in his footsteps. My advice to his kid is to get in that fast car and get the hell out of there. The movie “Green Berets” might be one of the saddest movies ever, but I am using a completely different meaning for the word “sad.” The movie was a propaganda piece for our moral mission in Vietnam. No, seriously.

A young couple band played “Wagon Wheel” in front of the bar to the mischief of 40ish women who were there to celebrate one of their 40th birthdays, if I am to judge by the reading of t-shirts. I propose mischief as the mass noun for partying 40-ish-year-old women. “Wagon Wheel” isn’t one I was familiar with, but it takes ER off to some faraway place and time. I have yet to learn to differentiate the many flavors of Southern music.

According to ER, I didn’t fit the general mold of the bar’s clientele. I lacked the necessary facial hair and didn’t have a glass eye. (Okay, I made that second part up.) Still, I’m afraid I have to disagree. I did fit into the bar, and I offer this as proof. When I pulled up the barstool, the burly guy next to me gave me a hard, welcoming slap to the knee that left me white-eyed. The stuffed boar’s head over John Wayne’s placard gave me a welcoming wink. The mounted cowboy boot next to the boar’s head would have approved but didn’t have a way to express its validation for me. I may get my wink when they mount the stuffed cowboy’s head instead of his boot.

We discovered that the couple to the right of us was on their first Tinder date. We empathetically shared a few tense moments while her date stepped out, wondering if he was ditching her or would return. This date was her sixth attempt at eternal bliss. Her success criteria is a partner who “Sees me, hears me, and validates me.” Those might all be the same thing if you think about it. Or I could be off base on this one. Perhaps she meant it more literally, excluding the blind, the deaf, and the psychopaths from her list of prospects. After five rejections, you shouldn’t be so picky. I would be off her list on all three counts. Not to worry, her date returned.

We met another affable, retired couple from Las Vegas while eating dinner at Paso Terra on the street front patio, splitting an order of paella. I ate the one carrot in the paella dish without sharing. It was the best carrot I’ve ever had. My attempt to order a side of one carrot failed. Sorry ER. The man introduced me to the concept of burning rubber. I was holding my hands over my groin thinking about the friction, but what he meant was spinning the wheels of your race car to generate as much smoke as possible before speeding off for a quarter-mile run. As thrilling as that is, it destroys the tires, so the trick is to buy cheap, one-use disposable tires, should I ever decide to burn my rubber. The conversation had several opportunities to go off the rails along differing political propensities, our new friends lamenting the lack of support for our veterans and taking issue with San Diego’s anti-yoga on-the-beach enforcement and AI technology. ER steered us back to neutral ground, pointing out examples of AI use with health benefits that human practitioners couldn’t provide and our new friend couldn’t refute.

Keeping worldview out of casual dinner conversations with strangers is generally a good idea, especially when their German Shepard is staring at you with bared teeth through the driver seat windshield of their truck. I think worldview is more closely related to semantic memory, which defines the interrelationship between things. In my memory meta-model (MMM), I think of semantic memory as the modeling diagrams I make for software, an ontology of the concepts the software will realize. Sadly, bubble diagrams don’t make for interesting dinner conversation.

Semantic memory is more than memorizing facts. A picnic bench at a viewpoint informed us of a new fact: the Chumash are the first people, which is probably news to many misinformed anthropologists. Those anthropologists will have to rewrite their semantic memories to accommodate this new worldview now that we know the cradle of humanity is in the Figueroa mountains just outside of Santa Barbara on the 154.

Armed with new bird and anthropological knowledge, we attempted to summit the 2,624-foot Cerro Alto Peak. We didn’t see many birds on the trail, the most memorable being the spotted towhee and a couple of vultures. The vultures were keeping a close eye on ER.

We did see quite a few people on the trail. None of them appeared to be Chumash, but how would I know? We jockeyed for position with a family of five up the mountain. Dad added a lot of unnecessary stress to the family’s hike by starting on the wrong trail, chastising his kids when they strayed, losing his glasses, and trying to motivate his three-year-old daughter, who would have preferred to play with the dirt. Dad needed to stop and smell the rose-colored flowers of the hummingbird sages. If he didn’t care for those, he could have chosen the chaparral peas, the silver puffs, the wooly Indian paintbrushes, the wooly blue curls, the scorpionweed, the pipestem clematis, the pink honeysuckle, the white globe lily, or the purple chinese houses. The mountainside was a pollinator’s paradise.

I was worried when the little three-year-old girl passed ER on the trail. (I’m teasing. The kid was riding on her dad’s back.) ER prevailed on the 120-floor ascent to her credit, though I was concerned that I might have to take ER to the ER. We picked a good day for the summit; cloud cover was limited to a fog bank that hung over Pismo Beach in the distance. We had 360-degree views, including Morro Rock, Pismo Beach, and a nearby summit with cell towers. I read that you could see to the Sierras on a perfect day, but haze obscured the view of the distant horizon. After the fact I read, you can see the “Nine Sisters,” volcanic plugs along a fault line. Morrow Rock is one. Looking at the trip pictures, I can see at least one other candidate, but not all of them.

After the hike, we started the long trek back. I took the long way home, driving through the heart of Los Padres National Forest, with impressive big-sky landscapes of layered hills and mountains. A stream-following road reminds me of Colorado. I’ve motorcycled this road before, but my brain forgot to store the video and instead categorized it in my semantic memory under spectacular. Why can’t that episodic memory play over and over in my head instead of the shuddering ones from the third grade? The one downside to the gorgeous scenery was the 30-minute stoplights on a two-lane highway with no crossroads.

And that brings me to the end of our time-traveling adventure. If you remember reading this, you have formed an episodic memory. If you remember the facts about goldfinches, the hippocampus, the hummingbird sage, or the Chumash, you have formed or augmented your semantic memory. And if the article is forgettable, it is not my fault. Your brain is working as designed.

Books referenced:
“Why We Remember” by Charan Ranganath
“The Backyard Bird Chronicles” by Amy Tan

Cartoon Images by ImageFX
All photos are originals