TPS Report #19

I came into possession of a talisman, a touchstone that symbolizes my relationship with movies, with computer programming, and with rebelling against authority. Yes, I now have a red Swingline stapler similar to Milton's of "Office Space". I even filled it with staples even though I almost never staple things together at my desk. But I could, and that's what's important. Perhaps I will print these 19 TPS Reports, collate them into a stack, attach a cover sheet AND a memo, and staple the whole mess together, just for the fun of it. A strange sort of cognitive dissonance comes from watching myself imbue this inanimate object with magical properties. Why does such a mundane thing make me happy?

I have not been playing chess, but I have been going over my opening repertoire. I have not been training middle game tactics, but I have been annotating rook and pawn endgames. I have not been studying the games of masters, but I have been watching some broadcasts from the St. Louis Chess Club. I have not been going to the chess club, but I have been blogging about chess. It's like I am of two minds: one that is attracted by chess, and one that is repelled. Autumn tends to strengthen the pull of the chessboard on me. But I actively resist some of its basic trappings.

In tracking where my blog referrals were coming from, I found out that my old friend Temposchlucker started blogging again at the end of 2015 and went strong through every month in 2016, until August when his blog went dark again, temporarily or not. A key question seemed to awaken his passion for analysis: How does one see the invisible? Sometimes, I am surprised at what I see. It is as if my mind sees without the participation or consent of my conscious will. Neural networks, like the one used to beat the Go champion, use nodes to needle the network into producing an integrated result. Somewhere, I have neurons that fire faster when pieces are knight forks apart or related by bishop and rook pins. How do those neurons get their programming? Will Tempo or the knights or anyone else find that thing that trains the eye to see what it doesn't see?

I was somewhat inspired by the volumes of words produced by Temposchlucker and by another blogger on the "Path To Chess Mastery". But in the end, the proof is in the pudding. Can I train myself to be as good as a master? Is that even my goal any more? It is a question that seems more likely to be answered in the negative given my emotional momentum. A rejuvenation of my commitment to a younger man's goals seems unlikely. The expression is usually "Time will tell," but I wonder if it is more accurate to say "Time may or may not tell."