Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: & / Teaching / Society / Survival /

Forgiveness is necessary, never mind what’s deserved.

I am driven to resurrect my ugly K. modules as well as my beauties. The following came in the wake of a friction with my patron. It ain’t easy being pk, it ain’t easy being a pk patron either: or friend, lover …

Forgiveness is necessary, not deserved. The universe has no right to continue existing another second, but continue to exist it does.
I say something outrageous: unforgivable. I say it ready for all to be over: for me to die, for the society to collapse, for man to go extinct, for the universe to shrivel …
Catherine, in her aged blindness, does something dangerous: to herself, to me, to our household, our partnership, our chances of survival … I’m ready to pull the linch pin from the cosmos: if only I had hold of such.
[Catherine died in 2004, somehow I’m still here.]
The neighbors cringe, the landlord is agitated, the police come. But of course it’s impossible to communicate with them. If they truly wanted to help, where were they before things went ballistic? All the warning signs had been there. Where were they when I was trying to explain theological Monism to my Sunday School teacher? When I was trying to explain science-fiction thought-experiments to my junior high English teacher? Conservation of totality at Columbia? Nominalism in relation to Shakespeare at NYU’s Graduate Arts & Science? Free networking to the world? Macroinformation to the internet? All of those things at
But those with zero record of ability to receive and process signals have the gavel, the guns, the monopoly on coerced tax dollars, on media, on the hearts and minds of the nitwit public.
Somehow, my Sunday School teacher and I are still alive the next day: or seem to be. Ditto Hilary and I. The professors and I … Catherine and I … And the tone-deaf stone-deaf still rule. Take everything, and stuff it into the maw of the mercantile state. Kleptocracy cannot be discussed, it can only destroy our souls.
Somehow I didn’t kill her, didn’t kill myself, drop the couch off a bridge onto traffic, start learning how to make fissionable material from the gorp of my intestines …
God didn’t help Jesus on the cross. Why should any other message-carrier (or signal originator) expect more help than Jesus got?

The other day I said to Catherine:

I forgive you. I’d rather not forgive you; but I must forgive you: I have no choice. And you must forgive me.
Deserving has no bearing: only the fact that we are somehow still here: and utterly dependent on each other. Neither of us can get out of this trap by ourselves. The trap isn’t big enough for two individuals. We can endure it only by joining together back into our dance position. Pair up. Cooperate. …


Catherine died in 2004, autumn, aged 96. She’d been getting sick of things, including me, for a year or two before that. This may have been scratched around 2002, the year Ivan Illich died, bk got married … or 2003. A better version will follow this 2013, or later, if I live.

Make Fissionable Material

That’s a joke from my satires, my Nixon letters: where I pretended to be a CIA project, a human nuke, working secretly under the president.

I must also tie in some conventional considerations about forgiveness, what Jesus is supposed to have said, what makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint …

Social Survival

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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