Oh, no, Masta Po.

Again, I'm searching for the emotion. The lyrics sound a tad daring. [Backpedal, backpedal.]

No. I never heard the phrase. Pooh must be some killer aphrodisiac.

I can spill some more of my guts. I don't mind. I've been depressed for several years. I could hold down a job and go through everyday motions, but I was far from feeling inspired. You may have inferred this from the snarkiness of my posts here.

Justin's performance in Irving was out of this world. The whole show was strong. I remember a lady arguing for a very long time about seat numbers behind me and me thinking it odd it did not perturb me. For a moment, I noticed all the people moshing in front of me, the security guards chasing them, the sidebar discussions in the audience, and having to stand up anytime somebody wanted through. It didn't bother me in the least.

What I felt at the show was what I felt long ago in a dream. I was, actually, driving back from you-know-what in Savannah or Charleston and pulled off for 40 winks. I read a verse from Zechariah, which I'd have to look up, and went to sleep. I dreamed I was in an old house and three ladies from church were talking about "The Happening." I was totally immersed in the Holy Ghost, but I fought it because those ladies had no authority to be baptizing me in fire. I've often regretted fighting it, wondering what it would have been like to go all the way. At least I woke up from that dream with the proverbial "no disposition to do evil." That's how good it felt in Irving.

So, why do I follow Justin around the countryside? It's because he can create that sense of, quoting you, "supreme ecstasy," better than anything else I've found. I'm not going to pretend to know his mind, but he certainly acts like a compassionate prince on stage, and I've never seen him be a jerk or cruel or anything like that. He comes across as loving and caring for everybody. I don't want to entertain any up is down and down is up garbage like Mr. Stalker tried to shove off on me.

Secondly, I accept it would be a tad weird for me to fantasize about dating Justin. He is so very married, and so he is off limits. That said, I'm 54 years old and unable to get a date. I have no forehead, a long nose, a long chin, beady eyes, a chiseled complexion, big bones, a fat gut, fat thighs, scars, age spots, gulch-like wrinkles, and crumbly teeth. I wear too much makeup, spend too much time with my hair, and dress like a prostitute. Emotionally, everybody saw me have my little meltdown at the show. I'm branded toxic and I don't deserve to live that down. Intellectually, I'm a cipher. As for job skills, I've never cracked 100 on a typing test, and I rarely score over 50 on the entry-level settings here: http://arithmetic.zetamac.com/. I've never had a promotion on any job, and I'm hardly charitable. Since we're all into music, let's just say if you like how Bob Dylan sings, you'll like how I play piano. OK? So, if Justin were to want another woman in his life, he's got everything, so he could have whoever he wants. He's got two hot babes on stage with him and gazillions of gorgeous adoring fans.

That said, Justin is still a precious soul with unmatched capacity to fill an evening with love and light. He's got an incredible talent for singing. I recall when I was too afraid to look up at the stage just being wowed by how strong his voice was. You know I stare at Justin a whole lot, and what I see is sweetness, kindness, love, compassion, chivalry, consideration, politeness, affection, thoughtfulness, warmheartedness, sympathy, sensitivity, mindfulness, etc. His lyrics, on top of reflecting all this, betray wisdom, insight, intelligence, sanity, understanding, clear thinking, vision, brilliance, reason, etc.; plus he has a very special metaphysical dimension that touches the souls of many, many people for good.

Where were we? Ah, yes. What is love? At the simplest level, love is a feeling. I say love loves even when it hurts, but it doesn't hurt to love Justin. It feels gooooooooooooooooooooooood. A better form of love, I believe, requires service, and I don't have a clue how to even be nice to Justin. On the flip-side, whether he knows it or not, he has done so much for me over and over again through the years. Being able to share what he creates goes a long way toward fixing sundry dysfunctions. At the lowest level, I believe it is fair for me to say I love Justin, as I say I love ultramarine, Asiana curry, exegesis, violet skies, palm trees - except Justin seems to exude a love (for all) that inspires me and washes away my hurt and anger. He's pretty handsome and talented, too.

Back to "supreme ecstasy," the Holy Ghost does not deceive. I used to feel him so strongly at shows, but I couldn't tell where it was all leading, and I still don't know. While I am considerably more jaded these days, but trying to reform, I know I can get a high from going to see Justin in concert. If it is all leading to a magnificent crash-and-burn, then I can only say it must have been God's will for me to crash and burn and rest in the comfort that I was being obedient to something.

So that's the final story
The truth in all it's glory
See how much I care
You know Justin drives me crazy
Thrills me and amazes me
Drives me to despair

But maybe I was wrong
Not knowing how my love should go
(How my love, how my love should go)
But I wasn't wrong
In knowing how my love would grow
(How my love, how my love would grow)
And every time I think of Justin
Every time I think of Justin
Every time I think of Justin
It always turns out good

Disclaimer: In all of the above, I claim no powers to be able to say Justin did this or Justin did that, Justin thought this or Justin intended that. He is free to think what he wants of me, and my crazy crush knows no end or beginning.

(I just botched my answer to the math question. Take 2 ... )

I was walking The EVO! tonight, and talking to her in EVO! talk. I lamented my mental deterioration and thought how just six years ago, I would have been sparring with somebody in physics. I went back to a question I left unanswered. I may still have a folder of notes on the subject, articles to look up later, etc. It was the question: What does an accelerating charge look like? Well, in an elementary model, the charge would just move with the point-like particle, borrowing the parlance of undergraduate physics books. The inverse-square field would remain spherically symmetric.

My dear, but there’s a universe out there

And that's what defines the problem. All the other matter in the universe has its electric fields that reshape the field, but nobody has measured exactly how long it takes. Sure, we're told electromagnetic radiation, which would result from the motion of charge, moves at c, but the Coulombic field could be instantaneous for all I know. Adding to the complexity is the inextricable nature of charge and mass, causing the mass inertia to add to any electrical inertia, and nobody's separated mass and charge to find out how much one influences the other. That was sort of where we left the argument.

So, to unravel things, we go back to the simplistic model. David J. Griffiths described it as a being from another dimension dropping an isolated charge into an empty universe with something akin to a magic pair of tweezers.

I know we could fall from the heavens

Yep. That's what it's like inside my mind, except I went of on a couple tangents in the third paragraph.

Snapping out of the reverie, The EVO! and I arrived at a nice echo chamber, a porte-cochère for a cancer unit. (We were in a medical park after hours. The woods got too dark.) I wanted to sing a song I had written, but I could not remember it. It finally jogged loose after the cleaning man showed up and we were on our way. I started singing it and realized I had shifted key three times in the original. It sounded so much more normal to do it this way. Grrrrr. As I sang, the lyrics made sense. They were what I would consider fairyland of love lyrics. I put them in because they occurred to me and they fit in sound, not in meaning. Today, I realized they had a really nice meaning. I want to go back to writing music. I do I do I do.

Shortly thereafter, I noticed we had a full moon tonight. The world did not melt into space, but I sang something about being mesmerated by somebody. Don't bother calling a doctor. Call me a scalper. Justin starts touring in almost a weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekk.

But I would appreciate you tutoring me in physics when we meet somewhere on the road. I don't understand half of what you were saying, which is what I was saying in the post Ajax denied me.

I'm a Newtonian mechanic, so I'm going to be denser than everybody else. I don't think of time as being made of matter, so I don't imagine it flowing or oozing or anything like that. If time flows, can you make a nozzle and squirt it so it goes faster? And then get a Bounty to clean it up?

How shall I describe time? I used to get in debates with Charlie (my former boss) often on the subject. I am not one to say there is no time because trees do not get smaller. There is definitely an arrow of time, metaphorically speaking. But I don't believe there are time particles. I don't believe time has behavior. To say it is a human construct can be taken at least two ways. I believe time exists without humans.

I stalled trying to think of an analogy. I really could enjoy some sleep. Try this: Matter is nouns, kinematics are verbs, and time is the paper on which the sentences are written.

One reason I'm Newtonian is I like the old kind of logic where science progressed by resolving contradiction. Einstein came along, and the vogue began to be articulating paradoxes. To say twins take different journeys about the gravity well and one comes back older and younger than his brother tells me there is something wrong with you theory. When I was practicing physics vocationally, nobody could name a single invention that used special relativity theory.

"Einstein said so" is not science. It is the appeal to authority fallacy that preceded it.

People do not understand your physics because your sentences are hand-wavy. It's not your fault. Words have multiple meanings, and to make sure people don't choose the wrong ones, you need the tedium of Hayek or Rothbard. Ah yes, Rothbard. I left him on the sands of - not time - Bournemouth! (That's a true story, but do you know what on earth I'm trying to say?)

I'll be happy to spar should we meet on the road - if The EVO! doesn't drown us out.