Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org &
Knatz.com / Teaching / Society & Its Pathologies / Social Survival /
Little boys are famous to sticking a flaming arrow up the ass of the mutt on the street. I don’t trust little girls either.
Neither do I trust the perceptions of adults: I suffered a false rap as a child, wrongly assumed to have perpetrated sadistic mutilation against a squirrel. First my mother asked me to trap the squirrel. I did. Then my mother asked me to drown the squirrel. I did that too. Horrible business, my mother absent. However I then regarded the squirrel’s corpse as mine. For once I tried to be the good student and dissect the squirrel on my father’s never-used work bench in the basement. All his tools were dull. What did I know about tools? or dissection? Knives, saws, chisels and hammers … nothing we had, at least not in my hands, so much as scratched that dead squirrel’s skin. I finally figured that the scrotum would offer the weakest defense; but no, I couldn’t make a scratch there either. Still exhausted and heartsick from my experience of minutes before, hearing the squirrel’s frantic attempts to escape the cage as the tub water rose over its mouth and nose, I gave up on the clueless still birth of my biology career, there in our filthy dark cellar with its never-sharpened never-used tools on the matching father and son work bench he built for us but was never sober enough or ambitious enough or father enough to use. I took a break. I left the squirrel’s corpse there.
Eventually my mother smelled something. She sent her boss to investigate (just as she’d sent me to murder the squirrel in our attic). The boss was appalled at what he found, and I never heard the end of it.
But there are boys who do bugger dogs with hard objects, and men who mutilate men, women, and children … and dogs, cats, cattle … trees … flowering plants … Whole societies that mutilate, and torture, and detain, and incarcerate, making absurd rituals of words the while. Americans won’t be truly free until every one of us but the President is in jail, making license plates: or growing boo for the CIA.
In junior high a science class assigned us a home experiment. My squirrel dissection was far behind me. I had no plans for the assignment. Lenny offered to be my partner. He did all the work. He ordered fruit flies, bred them, fed them. counted mutations, wrote the report. He then invited me to his house for the great drosophila purge. I attended while Lenny applies cotton soaked in chloroform to the mouth of the bottle Lenny kept the fruit flies in. Within seconds, all were dead. At least they looked dead, lying immobile on the bottom of the plastic bottle.
My army buddy Phil cracked me up when he deflected my attempts to convert him to science and to Batesonian epistemology. We were in our forties. I was writing my novels. He’d written his novels when he was late-twenties, or thirty-odd.
Science: obtaining evidence under torture
Phil dismissed science to me by saying he would not accept testimony obtained under torture. Science used animals in labs; science couldn’t be any damn good.
That’s true, and that’s true; except that Batesonian epistemology is entirely innocent of those charges.
But I do remember visiting my girlfriend’s, then wife’s, sister in her insufferable stinking mouse tenement of a psychology lab at Columbia. God! She didn’t toilet train her dogs either: or her daughters, the best I could tell. I’ll never forget my silence, once Hilary had kidnapped Brian from me, but was then letting me visit our son, while her sister’s filthy nude daughter pulled on the lips of her vulva. The rest of us sat on the couches. Jessica made indelible popping noises. Pull, release: pop, pop. Pussy pops. Could the girl have been two?
I launched this post accompanied by the yowls of the dog next door: quotidian yowls. Every day, all day, the dog yowls. You’d think that some one would have to be home, torturing the dog unceasingly. But no. I think the dog’s torment is merely at the absence of his human family. I must suggest to the landlord that my neighbor tether the animal on the other side of the landlord’s woods before going off to nursing school each day.
2013 08 26 I just read parts of a letter from Ben Franklin to Joseph Priestley I have to cite here. For now I just report that Franklin suggests that Priestley, who regularly experimented with mice, often fatally of course, might have done better to use boys and girls as his lab rats!