/ Social Survival / Semantics /
I’m gonna sketch an idea real fast, then hope to develop more than a fragment of it. We’ll have to discuss a bunch of ideas, “copy”, “unique”, “original” …
Guttenberg, Colt, Ford … gave us the idea of “copy”. Now we think it’s a natural idea, comes with the universe, not human beings mucking things over in their headlong ineptitude.
The tax office just demanded from me my birth certificate (or a certified copy of same). I’d brought a photocopy. No good. It has to be a document from a bureaucracy, or a copy made by a bureaucrat: the testimony of their eyes that I am standing there is no good, my testimony that I am me is not good: no, it has to come from a bureaucrat.
When I was a kid my Sunday School teacher presented me with a King James bible, soft leather bound, very nice. falling apart now, but I still have it, used it to get used to the new to me essential ideas of concordance, cross-reference … meta-data (Jesus in red, for example). But of course it was a “copy.” What I have on my shelf, ever handy, is not God’s word in God’s hand; it’s a copy.
Now I know that it’s not a very good copy. I know further that there’s no “original in God’s hand to copy, not in the possession of any church with the power to speak up about it: what’s possessed by saints hanging in the dark from dungeon walls I can’t say: the whole of civilization is aligned against such potential testimony.
Yeah, but what about at Judgment. If today the bureaucrat in Highlands County Florida says I need the certificate made about your birth in Brooklyn NY of September x, 193x, and God says That’s OK, I’ll identify him, will the bureaucrat say that’s no good, I need an origianal document from the country of his birth …
What’s if God then says, Never mind that, that’s not the Original; I have the original? What if God says I have an infinity of Originals?
I would like to be present when Valerie, the beautiful clerk in the Sebring tax office goes to her supervisor, comes back, says, trying for a straight face, My supervisor wants God’s birth certificate too: the original, no copies. …
Once again, we’re good at growing wheat, we’re good at forging iron, we’re good at taxing people, throwing people into jail, but we’re not very good at Semantics: what does “original” mean?
I wasted the 1950s in school, I wasted the 1960s in graduate school, the early 1970s were wasted for me by the kleptocracy ignoring my offer of a non-kleptocratic unsupervised anti-licensing internet, then caught myself before breaking quite every bond in my body by going into the “multiple-original pencil signed limited edition graphics” business. I loved to say it! I loved to say it fast, with a straight face:
People didn’t even know what a graphic was!
We’ll come back to that. First, let me fill you in on some of the stuff I learned in those wasted 1960s:
People have had writing since not too long after the invention of agruculture: the pharaoah needed a barn for wheat, and a bureaucraccy to supervise it …
always understand: I’m for nature, against hoarding, against stealing general territory for limited application: this wheat is for the Egyptians, not for the rats, not for the birds …. The bureaucrat needed to store the wheat, and know how much wheat was stored: so he also needed counting, and writing …
Fine. Writing spills over, so does counting. Next thing you know little pk is in school and the teacher is saying count, One, two, three, and back home my sister is saying “Four, five, six …” And the neighbors have learned to put $5,000 into their pocket and tell the IRS it was $1,000 …
Meantime, in the Temple the rabbi says, God said, Don’t kill, and the little rabbi copies, in writing, on parchment, Don’t kill.
Except he spelled it wrong! And the misspelling gets copied by the next little rabbi. …
So then there’s printing too. Caxton publishes Chaucer, the printer guys assemble letters into the line, Whanne that Aprille … They print ten pages, then they decide to spell it Whane that Aprille … They print ten more … And in 1700-something, 1800-something, 1900-something, in Cambridge, somebody decides the the “copy” of Chaucer with the Whanne is older than the copy of the “same” Chaucer that said Whane; though when they print it they change it to When.
Caxton shows the king.
Deciding what’s original, what’s copy, what’s real, true … good, great … is a full time business.
Meanwhile my moron illiterate Baptist landlord, Harry, carries an non-James bible and thinks it’s in God’s handwriting!
2014 12 10 Whoops, somehow this “Post” got posted as a “Page”, now I’ve redeclared it’s nature, fixed it’s menu link.
Extra relevant today. This September I was flirting with the cute bureaucrat in the tax office, failing to renew my drivers license. The bureau wanted my birth certificate, from Brooklyn NY Sept 0x, 193x. I’d brought a photocopy. No, she wanted the original. I quipped that the “original” had my name wrong, that no matter how many times I “corrected” it the incompetent state switched it back, dismissing corrections. She told me that I could go to a court and have it changed. I have no authority over myself, God has no authority, the Church has no authority, the state has authority: an authority that’s perpetually wrong. My birth certificate says “August Paul Knatz, Jr.” This bureaucrate told me I could drop the “junior without seeing a judge: the state acknowledges it as “obvious” that my father is dead: so now I’m August Paul Knatz. But I’m not: I’m Paul Knatz, first name August, real name Paul. Paul is what I’ve always been called, at least politely.
In the hospital that Sept 0x 193x I was August Paul Knatz, II. Once home, I was Paul. I’ve been Paul ever since. But the state keeps reverting my name to August: motor vehicle bureaus, the library … Having allowed the state to develop, to take over, we all deserve to die.
I’m here today next intending to update my “will”: a related issue.