/ Journal /

god made me wealthy a long time ago. with a wealth that can’t be taken away.
civ/soci is founded to test the premise that the infinity of irrational numbers can be trimmed and disguised as the finity of rational numbers. a truly irrational supposition. as usual, all the terms are backwards, ironic, etc.
“I’m not a Christian; I’m a Catholic.” Lisa, aged 10, to be 11 in less than two weeks. Fishing with me and her brother, just turned 13, she had first asked, “Paul,” her head cocked to the side, “what religion are you?” (This occurred the afternoon of the evening that I punched in and back out of work within the same hundred or so seconds. 3/21/89) I had answered that the question was important to me, that I took the question very seriously, whether asked or unasked, and that it wasn’t easy to answer because there was no single word for it. It had elements of Christianity, Hinduism, etc. but mostly was basic questions rephrased through cybernetics, information theory, probability, contemporary cosmology, etc.
angels, god’s spies as well as god’s messengers. ie, is the message to? or from? can be either.
i am the universe’s way of noting your behavior in terms and from perspectives related to you (but not identical to you. perspective.) the corollary may also be true, but is not necessarily true.
as one matures, becomes less infantile, less the center of either the universe or even of one’s own universe, one not only doesn’t demand their god to be personal, doesn’t see god as personal, sees him as impersonal or rather that which is both or neither objective or subjective, but rather total, one doesn’t want god to be personal. however, as one is not total, but rather tries the best one can (my hypothetical mature x, not me, but any), the matter is (as the godfather told Michael) altogether personal. my relationship with the universe is extremely personal, it’s what my person is. or has come to be. and continues to strive to be.
can reduction apply here? cancel out equal terms (equivalent)? personal doublearrow impersonal? or could the impersonal seen as at the “center” of a circle or ellipse or polysomething have some one way arrows and some two ways arrows, the arrows never being equal to everyone or thing in the universe? there person is as fictional as it is in the law. and the USA, GM, FBI can also be there.
i call BK. a recording at John Schull’s. sounds like business again. I don’t get it. two days before easter and school is on? the machine is on in any case. i call BK. a recording. but by god, it’s tribute to jack johnson! miles! on the telephone. and an exceedingly exciting passage. well timed. of course well timed. i mean well timed to the recording. and then bk’s voice. leave message at the signal. hope he gets it before mailing my disk and keys. unless he already has.
we have a rug under our consciousness/conscience under which we sweep our dirt.
to Martin: I think it’s wonderful how willingly you provide evidence that judges speak without knowing what they’re talking about.
Beg: elder’s future radiance. I’m just reminded by James Blish of Shelley’s image in his Defense of Poetry: “the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present …” of course, we have to be casting obstacles for that light to cast a shadow. my consciousness in writing came not from remember Shelley, whom I found myself reproducing before reading him for the first time, but from Fred Hoyle. In particular, The Intelligent Unvierse.
e to the pi i + 1 = 0
on the road again. straighten my spices while my mind recovers. last year, counting pennies so i didn’t have to earn any, figuring miles driven times cents difference per gallon in figuring where and when to gas the car, etc. i pass the spice shelf time and again in the market. yes, i’m out of dried parsley. $1.49 for that little thing? finally, i see the store brand, big cylinder, $.99 or $1.09. I buy it. only to discover that i had done the same thing some weeks before. now i had two of them. wasted $1. so, for a year, i use parsley, twice, trice as much as usual, more often than i’d normally want. yesterday, slept, rested, feeling alive again, but not recovered, i reorganize my once again mobile trailer. stuff collects, but not long for the nomad. i wash little containers. scrape off old labels, maximize storage space, relabel. Well. the two parsley things now fit into one and the empty can now house something else. scrape off label and so. thinking about it, i say to myself, i’ve been using tons of parsley. a big pinch instead of a little pinch. sprinkling it three shakes onto the salad when i’ve already pinched some into the dressing. tons of parsley. for a year. i now read the label, the one i didn’t scrape off. Astor dehydrated parsley flakes. 1/2 oz. 14 gms. so, tons/year actually weighs a tad over 1/2 ounce. so, ask someone, how much parsley do you use? oh, lots. tons. I used to buy quarter ounces of spices from Milan Labs on Spring St. 20 cents. 30 cents. i figured i could throw it away every other month, have fresh and save money while being wasteful. of course, i never threw it away. i let my cooking suffer rather than waste. hey, it’s still probably fresher than that shit you buy in the store. who knows what shelf history? never had containers to put it in, never big enough to hold a quarter ounce of fresh oregano. now. construct a micro computer in combination with a scale. how much parsley did i use? .002 oz. for a party of six. how much this week. .002. how much this month? .005. how much last? .001. the month before? .01. much more accurate, right? so, is the computer prepared better to fill our ecological role than we? is it more realistic? not by a long shot. what we have to realize is that people know, cooks do know, very accurately how much parsley they use. just not in commercial weights unless they’re also the buyer and accountant. and then still, they know it in minimally two forms of perception and record keeping. they still don’t weigh a pinch. they couldn’t cook by measure. rather they do cook by measure. by their measure. not by translating into lab tools. kitchens have never used graduated beakers. even measuring cups are for non cooks, beginners, amateurs, people who have no experience, no feel. printed music isn’t music. even after it’s been read through an instrument. that’s not what musicians do. of course, orchestra musicians use printed music sometimes. some all the time. but it’s an adjunct to knowing the group, your role within the group. it’s a coordinating adjunct. if you don’t know the music you’re playing in your body rhythms, even if you’re composing it or improvising it at the time, it isn’t music. Better Git It In Your Soul, All Blues, and Greensleeves are all written in compound time. what idiot would play them as though they were the same? map/territory. model/reality.
now the micro comes programmed with orders of procedure. and other software with other orders. still, the main one, the one they base everything else on, is to calculate the contents of the parentheses before performing whatever operation is required on the parentheses. the general order of operations is … then you can write a particular program to tell it a different order, but to get it to do a different math, you’d have to do your own fundamental programming. or get your program to lie, to pretend it’s doing something it isn’t. or not to lie, but you’ll disguise it’s correct procedure from yourself.
but what are our orders of procedure? we apprehend a few dimly. breathing before drinking, drinking before eating, eating before, mating (except in extreme circumstances), mating before blah, territory claimed or defended before going on vacation, etc. and then our sloppy maps and models, usually less than half said: hit the other guy before he hits you. do unto others … etc. the context never declared. for society to work …, etc. for the species to have a future other than to have been its own demise, etc. there has to be a society first for X’s prescription to have any meaning. and again, i’ve defaulted the understanding “human society.” insect societies may have quite different orders. and the descendant(s ie 0 to n) of human society may as well. but for anything at all recognizably this one, to have a perceived continuity, therefore, roman imperialism won’t wash. we’ve now got that kind of organization, it needs to be tempered with something more liberal. and now we have bush, the kinder and gentler bull dog. by god, he just did something good! can you believe it? one ought to vote for presidents on the basis of least likely to do anything not wrong as most likely to be most liberal in important things. you want détente? vote for the red baiter. he’ll go to china. he’ll get elected threatening nuclear retribution and then say nice things about the antichrist. the republicans aren’t as stupid as they appear. they know enough both to lie, to image polish, to embarrass their enemies, and to cope. a modern catholic church!
yesterday’s tv news. environmental. want to protect a great river? show people killing fish in it for fun. not: the river gives us life whether we know it or not; but: look, we can save it to keep on killing in it.
we are (to accept the use of a bad model) the top of the food chain. our view of history, archeology, anthro-, paleo-, is of tops of food chains. dinosaurs. if it doesn’t have a big predator, or at least a big animal in it, we don’t see anything. but when things are really stressed, it’s both ends (ironically, yes, both) that die. after the Cretaceous, the “bottom” end was reborn indistinguishably to us. more bacteria. more plankton. its the new top that isn’t recognizable. no more big creatures for a while. the biggest was us. shrew size. eating the garbage of the last big death. more animal carnivores and scavengers. more life, more scavengers turn carnivore by preference. the wealth of food is there. the top is what’s expendable. kill the king. not the people. oh, he can kill finite numbers of the people all he wants, but when real stress comes, the people and circumstances will kill him. when there’s luxury for another, he can delude himself by again looking at the top of the food chain. big fish eat little fish, so the little fish must be numerous and fast, said some warrior king. they don’t even have to be fast so much as numerous. sure, king. feed. eat. kill. but kill all? kill this river and that. but all? the mother river? whoops. bush can’t go fishing. not cause there’s no more fish; there’s no more bush.
but the fish we’re talking about are themselves big carnivores. one big fish for bush to fish, must be much big wet lands. many species bush doesn’t know about. bass don’t eat tv commercials. and neither do people, really. in their semantic feeding, yes. predominantly. but the bodies have to sustain for that semantic universe to be current.
neighboring repulsion. topology in action. we create discontinuities (or, i’m not sure which, are helpless in the creation of, discontinuities with what is nearest. the country at our border is not our neighbor; the one on the other side of him is, said Nietzsche. of course perception can be rearranged depending on where the threat is perceived as coming from. continguous enemies can become neighboring allies when the martians, the norsemen, the barbarians come. but we create our own space, time, environment to feature us by dimming the contiguous. the generation gap. we select certain contemporaries to worship: ts eliot, chaplin, john lennon, the romantics; then we turn on them. their fault my be real or imagined. or we just slander them. “if eliot (who had said something critical of conrad) could be chopped up in a grinder and regurgitated as conrad, i’d be for it” i remember one footnote saying. chaplin really was guilty of generosity and of economic political flexibility, so, a communist. ruin his life. lennon really was a fuck-master druggie turned druggie fuckmaster who could no longer fuck. so. do you look at the icon? or at the mug shot? the next age is needed for true ignorance, objectivity, dispassionate respect or disrespect. except insofar as there is no non-contiguous age. it’s merely: “which border are we recognizing?” and it’s not just perception. “which neighbor is now influencing us that we must recognize either with love or with repulsion?” my son knows my work better than anyone, yet he doesn’t know it, and can’t know it, and maybe shouldn’t know it. he needs his own light. how much light can I give him if i’m covering him? a shadow? parent trees kill their own nearby children. but trees don’t live in yearly generations. there just have to be nearby kids to take over at the end of the actual generation. so you kill dozens, maybe hundreds, maybe thousands of offspring every year so there will be one there of your species to take the spot you’ve shadowed when you shrink, fall down, or are knocked down.
anyway, could this discontinuity among space/time neighbors, parents and offspring, enemies and allies, etc be fractal? suddenly, i’m seeing that too that way.
when you recognize something, you identify it. oh, it’s raining. and people look. yes, it’s raining. when you don’t recognize something, ie a pattern yes you do recognize, uh oh, something you don’t control, danger, you call it a name. uh oh, shit is happening. or here comes shithead. and people look, but then look away. maybe it won’t see me and won’t happen to me.
and the moment you’re sure that it’s god that’s entered your life, that your life is being exposed for what it is, you kill him. the bull presented itself to the northern meat eaters to be ritualistically killed. agricultural peoples tend to have more female gods. there too the god dies and is reborn. dies, is eaten, and is reborn. the hook between bull fighting and Easter is that in both cases, we kill him, and in the one case, unequivocally eat him. now, what does civ do to this. it’s not food; it’s being discovered. uh oh bugs, we’re not under the rug anymore.
T: the voluntary nigger.
Fiedler’s european goes west and becomes not the indian but something else. something ‘american’. part indian, even if the indian part is pure horseshit. insult, like the dancers in Peter Pan. we defined the indian as primate human to be exterminated, the slave as non-human, to be exploited. and made something else american. but there are invariances beyond america. human. other myths. buddha cast off his cast. X born blue collar. and we don’t picture him a successful carpenter either, lunch at pilat’s while talking over the new gazebos or the pilings for that new earth buster temple. not even a successful or even official rabbi. a humiliated convicted criminal being executed by torture.
what’s common between buddha and X is that they knew. it was deliberate. not an coincidental accident. arjuna and those guys are also always appearing in disguise. X’s disguise unique in that he really was helpless. still deliberate.
current mythology depicts a WASP. JR on a soap. Donald Trump in the magazines. But the striving YUP on tv is hispanic or black. the non-striving (struggling yes) WASP is Archie Bunker. going down. or country and western. losers join union and have new hot rods, stock. no need to worry about the japs, we’re godfearun amuricans. look at all the shit that the good ol’ boys can buy. so what happened to the sons of JR from last generation? they’re not all on wall street. they didn’t all become lawyers. they didn’t all become archie bunker, whose father wasn’t a lawyer (but may have been a union man, a union man in the wrong decade).
some of us are living in the woods, not trying to see what People Magazine wants but what evolution needs. What Evolution doesn’t need is us. Any of us. What human evolution very much needs is the voluntary nigger. the truly helpless. the one who wants natural authority to speak, not parchment or a badge.
an irony of civ is that we all know it’s crooked. we all know it’s bad for us. the question is: do you want to enslave yourself, join and maintain your membership in an exploiting fraternity? or show what we also all know, that self cannibalism isn’t good in the long run. trimming numbers yes. we do need a grazer, but so far evolution has provided only ourselves. good. then it has to be us. there are still better ways of going about it. unless it’s our role to self destruct, in which case, don’t let me interfere. neither do i want to lead it. we all feed to some extent.
the swordfish slashes its way through the school of fish and then comes back and eats what’s torn up. it isn’t a calvinist. it doesn’t hang around until every last morsel is found and devoured. it couldn’t. not with tides, currents, etc. it has no bag, no net. no, the swordfish is part of a system. its the juggernaut and it feeds. then too do lots of little predators, scavengers, with plenty left over to just join the soup and sustain the littlest stuff.
americans have lived in the wake of the swordfish. now we find that we’re not the only one. and the japs don’t have our expenses.
look at the wasteland which the first industrial communities are. no longer business leaders. north africa with the pride but not the predation of the moors of a millennium ago. writing on the wall. do we really want the quick rush and then the long addiction? i guess we do. the under-overdeveloped nations are clamoring to become junkies of every sort. some are addicted before they ever got the rush. drunk before high. sick before factitiously happy. the brazilians burning the living mantle of the biosphere for a bit more beef.
except not all of us do. some are voluntary niggers.
civ. not a competition to see who can lead, but which few can be the big prick. women joining the struggle. good for them. maybe that too will be our grazer. no more children from them. what children we get are from the junkie drop outs. immature mothers. adoption, not abortion. let the state adopt them. we know what kind of a mother the state is. and we know what kind of a father it is. good. they won’t grow up into anything but little jackals. coked before birth. bureaucracy their norm.
T: Into Their Own Hands. as in taking. as in taking the law …
T: Self-appointed critic.
with each decade and year, of my own life as well as the world’s, I come more and more fond of the English form of imperialism and come to suspect that it may not be closely imitated for some time, if ever. It takes some development to learn the manner of rape which makes you feel superior morally and ethically as well as physically, militaristically, economically, in social organization, etc., not only to your own eyes, but to the victim’s as well.
phychology. the remedial kind, sees with one semi-god eye and one blind. oh, don’t you see, you’re just trying to please soandso. but so and so is dead now. you can be yourself.
What, pray tell, would a “self” be if it weren’t imitating some prior standard? certainly not jesus, nor napoleon, nor some new, neurosis- and fear-free self. or maybe, but not one which could function in a society. it could be a wild child perhaps. no language. no semantic universe not hardwired or of its own recent invention.
god is the prior standard we’ve forgotten (or never known) the names to.
simultaneously, complementarily, god is the future standard we imagine but haven’t achieved.
Ghengis Khan is following some standard of behavior every bit as much as St. Francis. And both finding ways to innovate and to purify that behavior. (not even a clone could “duplicate” without its own flavor being added.) The former is hardly christian, but that’s not what he was trying to be (and succeeding). Though they both do have the property of trying to influence the world in common. two very different algorithms. (maybe i should stop saying algorithm now that i know that to some people that means “long division,” neither to be understood nor improved upon, and start saying “heuristic”) both effective. and both practiced by a host of people in many generations whose names we don’t know.
is DB science fiction? maybe not. reading Blish, I think not, according to him. but then, what’s wrong (one thing, among others) with his history is that it has no awareness of what at least one person has been doing. at least since 1982 if not 1959 or so. suddenly (just before beginning this paragraph) i pictured a bunch of guys looking to build better boats to jersey. they build good one now and are looking for better. they’re pros. intelligent and skillful. at business too. you come along and show them blueprints for the Brooklyn Bridge. Same principle could cover the Hudson, etc. Then you show them pictures of the GW Bridge. Trouble is, they a familiar with crossing rivers, but not with bridges.
Or: there are others there, not boat builders. they’re familiar with land fill, they don’t want rivers, rivers are in the way. they don’t know about the ex use as transport. transport with rather than transport across. you show them fish. they don’t want to know about that. that bridge is no good for land fill. and what the fuck is he talking about fish for?
(and now I remember that radio talk about wanting better lighting. Queen Victoria would put all the money into whale oil and give none to Faraday)
Quote: Bertrand Russell. “Thus mathematics may be defined as the subject where we do not know what we are talking about, neither do we know if what we are saying is true.”
Evolution, the health of species, grazers, logic, law, justice, the truth: and wolves in sheep’s clothing. Last Thursday, the usual crowd standing around the store, under the chickees, etc. I walk up, no big fuss, no more than usual. EHP like NYC in a way. Or a school where you’re all crowded together for certain hours a day, 5 or so days a week. You know the locals, don’t know the strangers, you mix, and keep your eyes at impersonal length. unless you’re looking for somebody. then you enter their vision. (girls are like hawks in spotting what they’re not openly looking at.) Kathy is standing with Lil Bruce and Keith (he was supposed to be fired forever this time and only last week). So I go up to say hi to Kathy. I’m on my way to confront the Bridges. For the third time in two days. “Congratulations,” Bruce smiles. Keith looks directly at me and smiles in a friendly way for the first time ever and I knew him to recognize last year too, as we both lived at Markham Park! I can guess that he’s heard something about my walking out: should I guess that he knows why too? Anyway, I want to be sure. “For standing up for yourself,” he says.
I talk to Kathy for a moment and we go back to my trailer to look at art. As we turn, Keith has disappeared. Bruce has stood back. Hmm. So, they’re not looking at me this time is different from their not looking at me in general. they’ve heard and they’ve been talking. a greek chorus. i remember walking up to the store after Mitch’s last purge was supposed to fell me. he had publicly pilloried Jima and Terri (while silently axing Carolyn), then he had publicly addressed me without saying about what. by the Thursday in question, I had come to realize that i was never going to get an apology nor the community an official explanation. On this occasion, all the locals knew (or believed, this time correctly: that the grim reaper was making another pass through their midst. The wolf was visiting the sheep fold, the sheep pasture. The sheep knew it. They knew who the victim was. No doubt, they were all glad, among other possible reactions, him, not me. not this time.
Here we all were: humans. Mitch too. But not acting like we like to think humans react. Not the stuff of fiction, but of old newsreels. the very stuff however of at least one big time religion. the jew and roman rejoices when X is crucified. his friends stand aside, are silent, prevaricate, or actually lie. Jesus the shepherd, Jesus the sacrificial lamb. (limb)
But here it’s just me. though there are some parallels. Here, I’ve never done anything but good. Not one woman have I fucked. Platonic relationships only. Open love, but platonic. Absolutely spooked the husbands who reacted as though the adultery had been committed anyway.
but I didn’t mean to get personal. i only want to make my point before it recedes from me again that:
sheep are sheep and wolves are wolves. at least from our standpoint. real or schematic we see them as the same. the sheep doesn’t cull the wolf, the wolf culls the sheep. (the sheep does cull the wolf if its own numbers are not healthy) if it’s ever the case that a diseased sheep culls weak wolves from their stomachs, it’s still not part of our standard grazer paradigm. the unsophisticated feels sorry for the sheep. the biologist says, look, their health is dependent on it. nature isn’t sentimental, etc.
but we’re human. we see ourselves from the inside, but get some insights and overviews as well occasionally. and I just had one like a jolt this morning. the day after easter. the above being last thursday. i keep seeing us as suffering as a species because we have no grazer. ok, war, pestilence, etc. are sometimes offered as examples of such. i’ve been impatient recently at how few of us get trimmed that way. drugs, traffic, etc. much better. but those are “accidents” or some such. and wars are more and more directed at spending wealth while destroying the wealth of the enemy, not the enemy himself. oh, a few of him of course. and modern war seems almost especially directed against women and children, rather than avoiding them. napoleon and those guys politely withdrew to a field to shoot their cannons. the city is exactly what they didn’t want to destroy. neither did they want to destroy the people. they wanted to occupy the city and trade advantageously with the people. so kill a few thousand soldiers. then you’ve got-who knew-twenty, thirty million consumers left over. and they’re yours.
but by god! peace time. employee/r relations. judges/citizens. bureaus/people. hostility, the most slovenly logic. by god, it’s us. it can be any of us. any idiot can buy stock. develop a company. become its president. fail as a lawyer and become a judge. fail as a judge and stay there. revolution, and Azdak puts on the robe for a few days. we are both the sheep in wolves’ clothes and the wolves in sheep’s clothes! and the logic is shoddy because that’s not what it’s about! that is to say, what i’m saying is what it’s about, but what ever they are saying isn’t what it’s about. it almost doesn’t matter that not only was what Mitch said untrue, that it was the inverse of the truth. we’ve taken this idiot dropout, given him a jolt of cash and a big house to build, so that he can feed on us! and President Ron and now Bulldog Bush. egregious arguments. for our own health. not of course the health of the individual eaten. well, maybe for his too. euthanasia for health.
geo washington, jesus, and fiction
lad generator
discontinuities of perception, absolute zero, social perception, and entropy. ten years ago, talking with little Ken about physics etc. he said that he had a theory that if absolute zero were ever reached … something big would happen. what, i asked: the universe unzip? matter evaporate? everything blow up? he smiles mysteriously. i tried to probe him. gradually, i suspected with increasing conviction that he though that ENERGY would cease to exist, rather than “thermal energy.” he didn’t know what I was talking about. entropy, not energy is what cuts off at 0 K. the cold matter stops talking to you, that doesn’t mean that it’s stopped talking to itself. ken didn’t know what i was talking about and didn’t make much effort to find out. our next conversation was worse: driving to buy my flute from his friend Jeff, I made a reference to god as my handy metaphor for whatever the truth is, and he went into some kind of young rebel jew paroxysm. he simply wouldn’t let me use the word. when I pointed out that his hero, Einstein, used it all the time, he practically passed out. never spoken to him since.
well, my thinking of years to a life time has occasionally been climaxed by the publication of this or that book. everything i’ve been thinking plus knowledge and insights beyond anything i’d guess to that point. the authors were always ten for forty years older than I. Illich. Fuller. and then the thinker I can’t imagine being duplicated for me in that role, maybe partly because from now on there will typically be fewer and fewer people 10 to 40 years older than I. anyway, ten years after GB’s death, MCB comes out with his Angel’s Fear and he addressed discontinuity.
my young (mid-twentiesish) self believed that we humans were the consciousness of the universe. I now believe that we are even more (and i suppose this goes back a bit to Allan Watts) another form of the unconsciousness of the universe. we may be aware of more than ourselves and may have this and that moment of objectivity, even formalize this and that so that that objectivity can be passed on. but GB’s essay on discontinuity has brought me right back to something more Hindu hideandseeky.
the growing mantle of existence spurts and then turns from itself. yesterday, Sh’s JC was on the tube. what pleasure to hear again Brutus and Cassius quarrel. Antony’s reading of the will. (in this performance, he holds up the open parchment. bad. i had always imagined him producing any blank (or unimportant) parchment he happened to have with him. a petition from some farmer.) then the master politician (it’s Octavius who speaks last, right?) sees his enemy fallen. “this was the noblest roman of them all.”
what the fuck is he talking about? what does noble mean? among these jackals? what the others did, they did “in envy of great caesar.” brutus not envious? not ambitious? not wanting to spoil? really different, not just less able or less lucky than julius himself? less remorseless than the future Augustus?
no, just human speech. what does it mean? does it have any correspondence with reality? any one to one correspondence? this word or these words match this pattern, this organism, this or that attribute of that organism? it is naming? or name calling? or both? sometimes a mix?
the topological folding of reality away from us. we participate. with our niggers and jews, our communists and our paynim, heathen, unkosher unneighbors. Shakespeare also often played about disinheritance. the duke living in the forest. a disinherited court. the barbarian usurper in the castle. or second sons. bastard children. the true prince hidden from his kingdom.
this must not be mistaken for some simple belief in kings or true princes. (though a childhood residue of that is undoubtedly there. and maybe occasional adult belief. but not simple or unmixed.) the bastard in lear is a bastard, but elsewhere the bastard is merely the unrecognized, not the unreal. in fact, it’s funny, it’s in the comedies even more than in the tragedies that the kingdom and the king are removed from each other. But in AYLI, the nth son is noble but broke. he can hang around the castle, it’s known who he is, as long as he’ll wash the dishes.
who are the niggers? they’re our bastards. the ones we got from fucking, not from planning our future (ie the economic pattern of our locale as far into the future as we can project it). they’re Woton’s Siegmund after his wife has changed his mind. actually, we were planning our future in making bastards. many to wash dishes, one to give control of the unreality to.
and what does one true prince do in nature? the one true prince? Alexander. kills all his brothers, of course. Alexander doesn’t have to do it. his extensionally discontinuous arms do it. his soldiers. like worker bees killing the other queen larvae.
in time, we may also bastardize our parents. St Francis turns away from his merchant father. Illich turns from his spiritual and political pope, “causing” the bureau to turn from him, have an inquisition, cast him out. that’s what heaven and hell really are. one particular intensional folding in the intensional cosmos.
camping in Florida SPs again, though not for long. the price about doubled. i love the hammocks. so now i’ll live right down the road for a bit and can still come here and walk the trails. or run. or something. fish, maybe. sebring turns out to have a lake. lake jackson. maybe board sailing?
anyway. i am becoming familiar with the particular ways in which the state keeps us tied to preliteracy, pretechnology, to a way in which we are still primitive. the signs invariably say: “Blah Blah State Park/ Next Right” or left. what they mean by “next,” I now know, is the first available paved public turn. what is the word “next” for? to make some of us think that it’s the turn after the one right before us? to keep driving? never to use the parks? State recreation area: no one allowed. Or perhaps to make the signs cost more. the governor’s brother makes them. The bath rooms here in Highlands Hammock are much newer and cleaner than I’ve seen in many places. but if one of two showers has the hot water on the left, the other will be better than fifty/fifty to be on the right. if the hot turns clockwise; the cold will turn counterclockwise. this is so that campers will never know which way to turn which faucet to get what result. and if juveniles get scalded, try and sue. my advantage, the reason i’ve not been scalded or freeze-shocked, is that i know from experience not to assume anything. not in a government run thing. in mitch’s private kingdom, you know better what to expect. hot water, but no toilet paper. diseases guaranteed in the walls. but no graffiti. filth, litter and empty beer cans. marty keeps it clean. they’ll be sure to get rid of her. they’ve been trying. the only difference between us is that she threatened to walk out; I did. it could have been the opposite had the events come in opposite order. they harassed her first. we had our discussion about going on strike; they harassed me second; I struck. of course i had assumed that quality work was valued. and i suppose it was, so long as it accepted humiliation and went on being quality.
but back to sp’s: even about the same shower that you’ve been using daily. they may come and change them about at random in the night.
this math book goes to some care using ordinary language to establish some specialized uses for odd words in math. it fairly carefully surveys the basis of number and certain relations among them. to some extent there even seems to be some correspondence between the established relations among number and events and things in ordinary life. i don’t doubt that comparing stones to soldiers and then counting the stones will accurately represent the number of soldiers, that both the soldiers and the stones can be represented by number and that the particular number arrived at will correspond. then if we count the soldiers, we will not be surprised to find that that’s how many soldiers we find. if there are not, then the explanation is likely to be not one of miscounting: new recruits arrived. one is out sick. two are in the bathroom. fifty got killed yesterday. their plane blew up. we can’t find their bodies.
but quite suddenly, and without any established basis, he switches to logic. syllogisms and the relations among things, creatures, and events in “real” life. the author hasn’t established any competence in either himself or in the nature of the thing to now be dealing with language. grammar. he just takes it for granted. and does all sorts of improbable things with it. maybe what he does is establishable. maybe not. in any case, he hasn’t done so. and ah ha. upon finishing the book! on the last page he brings up Godel! Godel should be taught first. That’s one thing Mr Bell left out of my intro to math. Nevertheless, it was my glimpse of his vision that made the rest, the standard “teaching” so unstomachable. I had my revenge. I didn’t learn it. They lost someone who might now be making the state roads less lethal, the signs more clear. No doubt they lose tens of thousands. maybe millions. well, they (and we too) have their world as a result.
ss: where the physical laws in a particular universe are the result of the god’s mistaken concept of multiplication of matrices.
model Nth: good and evil a solution to a problem in topology. limited class room space, model has outgrown the building. I AM has to abandon, to trim, or be evicted. finds a way to subdivide wholes into complementary halves and fold each away from each other. like quick sand, attempts to rejoin will only add to force of separation. but the seeming infinity is actually finite, and the pairs will eventually bump each other from behind. by that time, of course altogether unrecognized. hide and seek. in which the game goes on but its point has been forgotten. model now takes just about no space at all. the whole thing is the infinite possibility matrix of gauge theory space. but you haven’t studied matrixes yet, the critic wails. you’ve got the functions all wrong. they’re neither added nor multiplied; they’re … huh? how did you do that. why this is very interesting. we thought he was talented, but he’s an idiot, and idiot savant however I must say.
critic pissed off; he thought he’d demolished solipsism the previous semester.
not judgment, but working algorithm. (correction: heuristic) i don’t have time to be right. no one does.
Turing test: the last man on earth. the aliens have taken over. student learns of turing test and decides to blindfold himself to who he’s with and apply Turing test. discovers that everyone is an impostor. Emile. Jack. discoursing on how only Dixieland is jazz. that modern stuff is too intellectual, abstract. fine, but there’s no feeling in it. cyborgs. cheap, ersatz programs. memories of taking that Lebanese girl with the eagle nose to the Central Plaza, the club upstairs on 2nd Av I think it was. Bill’s sister’s roomie with the snot dripping out of her nose and a biological rhythm somewhat slower than glacial talking about how boring Bach is. finally, applies Turing test to self and fails. didn’t recognize Sonny Rollins’ genius. slept/lived right through it. saw him and was bored with what seemed his phoney showmanship.
(The Central Plaza. it took two or three days for me to remember the name. So maybe I’m sixteen. Already been to Birdland a couple of times. I read the club appearances in the New Yorker regularly. And in Downbeat. Krager can drive at night. Let’s go to Birdland. Naw, we’ve been there. I want to check out this dixie land place. You can buy setups and all there. Huh? What’s that? You bring your own bottle. They just charge you to get in and then sell you a bucket of ice and a couple of bottles of ginger ale with glasses for two and a half. or something like that. we go. Wow. I love it. And at midnight the band goes into the Saints. Second chorus or so and they march around the room. All these older guys are there. college guys and sailors and such. so lucky. they can do this all the time. one guy gets up onto a table and starts drunkenly to dance. man, everyone is really carried away. so a sophomore in college myself, I take this girl there. it’s where she wanted to go. she didn’t like modern jazz. dixieland. it’s what her brother insisted she prefer. Lebanese connoisseur. at midnight they played the Saints. one guy gets up on the table and starts breaking a chair up in his hands. falls off the table. his friends laugh. I hate it. I look at the trombone. Fat guy maybe sixty. shuffling along, waiting for the trumpet ahead of him to move so his doesn’t knock his teeth out bumping his slide into the trumpet’s back. the guy’s is unbelievably bored! jazz is still whore house music and this is a whore house only the whores are the musicians and the fuckers are the kids who don’t want music and sensuality but to air their libidos while becoming drunk and unconscious amid permitted destruction. it’s a playpen where you pay the maid before you puke your pabulum in the middle of the floor. undisciplined shitting permitted in this area only.
i take the girl back home to Washington heights. unbelievable how she’s flirted with me in the Lion’s Den. Now I don’t think I’m gonna get a kiss much less anything else. I stand there trying to interpret the vibes. She sits on a chair. She’s so much taller than me that sitting down she’s still close to my height. but christ how i’d been attracted to that semitic nose. anton (anton!) kept saying boy is she ugly. Levy agreed. no antisemite like a semite. her whole family lives there for chrisake. so i’m standing there talking myself out of even trying anything. what did i spend this money for? i used to love dixie. when i was twelve i would have thought that tonight was a good example of it, not pure numbness. the hell with it. if i put my hand on her haunch, i’ll wind up having to deal with the brother of hers. if she comes plowing into me instead, we still won’t be able to do anything. we’re not alone. what the hell. i do the one uninhibited thing that i decided not to be denied. i smile at her. i put out my hand. with fascination, i run my finger down her nose. christ. you could put it in the museum. nefertiti for the neck. perfect. this girl for the nose. nothing to do with perfection. the girl shudders and looks unhappy. uh oh. i’ve made a mistake. she hates her nose. she thinks i’m mocking her. the one unique and magnetic thing about her and she’s embarrassed, not flattered.
twenty years later i still haven’t learned. i do business with Israelis. you don’t know what middle easterners are going to make of anything. our neuroses and psychoses are in kindergarten compared to theirs.)
funny, reading that math book last night. (addition about Godel out of order) guy insulting algorithms. a concept i didn’t have till 30 something, at least not packaged within a single word, and neither did any one else at that world future society meeting. three days, and if anyone understood a single thing that cyberneticist said (world famous, but his name has slipped me, he was at GB’s Lindesfarne conference reported in In Our Own Metaphor: Gordon Pask) i couldn’t recognize the recognition. but this author was talking about learning them by rote. long division as an algorithm. hmm. sure. but i had never encountered the term except in a context of invention, figuring out ways to solve things. not at all learning someone else’s solution.
$1.25 sausage and pancake late am camp ground get-together. the sign here says adults only. the first guy i meet is 93. now i see the assembly. at 50, i’m at least 10 years junior to anybody here not counting the owner. all these fat guys in shorts and cute aprons are cooking the pancakes. don’t turn them yet: wait till the bubbles burst, all the bubbles, i want to instruct the guys. keep quiet; they’re the cooks here, i tell myself. the pancakes actually are pretty good, the sausage only halfway overdone. nice people. anyway, i’m eating and thinking about their aprons. Sh. & the King’s Men. even in the late renaissance, you weren’t allowed to be yourself. you had to belong to some representative of the medieval world’s estates. so, you were a king, a king’s man, a priest, ie a man of god, ie a man of the pope, or this or that cardinal. or this rebel english bishop. as property, you had rights as well as obligations. you were either soandso’s daughter or his wife or you were a whore and vagabond. whores and vagabonds had no proper existence and no rights. you could rape or murder an unprotected female, no problem. fertilize your field with the stranger. tell you neighbors and you’d all make a ritual out of it. chop the guy up, feast, throw him around, and then all night mass fucking. now i grew up where the labels weren’t supposed to exist. oh, sure you knew you were a christian or a republican. but i wouldn’t wear an Ike button. i’m not a sandwich board. then tv. more advertising than ever. sports on tv. beer boards in the outfield. ski racers bristling with sponsors labels. guy wins a race and trips over himself to get his skis off and hold them up to the camera. manufacturers making the ski and the label co-extensional. their name becoming more and more part of the graphic design.
so here are these guys, older than me, retired and fun time cooks. “I got more time for misbehaving since i started microwaving.” no big deal if this guy’s sterilized himself; but what if his children and their children use them? we don’t know. we sure don’t know. our role to mix more jokers than cards into the deck. other guy a patchwork of Bud cans. Third guy wearing a paisley pattern of ciliated amoebae. that’s the apron for me. but it’s not as though we’ve become medieval again. once your were a peasant you could be peasant for generations, for centuries. the king could come from nearly anywhere in practice (as long as they could lead in fighting or counting or dealing with the next kingdom), but the odds were highest for sons or at least cousins of kings. still only one of him for each group at one time. R III reigned, what? 3 years?
Now, you’re an IBM man for 6 mos. form your own company, get bought out by AMF. moved out by them. now you wear advertising for Budwiser.
good god! just read ss files for first time, looking for Model stuff buried here and there. most entries just a word or an image which i’d hoped would remind me of what i was thinking. lists of things occurring to me at inconvenient times, asleep with my eyes closed, sitting on the john, in the shower. then effort to memorize list, other thoughts interrupting memorization process. by the time I get the Plus loaded up, i’m losing everything. it’s late in the day, i don’t have time even where i remember. notes to a receding future where there would ho ho be time. as i read, very little of it fleshes out for me. what the hell was I thinking? if I pause and try to penetrate, it comes back. maybe. some transform anyway. a cousin to the thing at best. so. in my list from breakfast this morning, an hour and a half from when i’m now sitting on the john with the Plus on my lap, this image too. recall pamela tiffin jumping around on the diving board in Harper. christ, the platonic original nubile behind. a face to match her ass. pure post puritan fuckable. the young valerie bertanelli ditto but for tv. the fuckability was all in her face. a face like a cross between a pussy and a buttocks. mouth the cross hairs where the cock will slip right in. ok. now. look at a skeleton. or start the receding order again. look at masses of females from a distance. it matters not whether they’re nude. ok, now piles of people in Buchenwald. now a skeleton. now a fragment found by Leakey. hard to realize that that was Pamela Tiffin and her bouncy little tush.
next year. time relativity. “see you next year.” what does year mean? naive will “explain” 365 days. don’t bother to get into of astronomical ambiguity of what constitutes a day or year. it’s fine as long as the years don’t pile up or you try to translate chunks into overly equivalent numbers. next thing you know, and the egyptians were planting in the middle of the summer. or was it winter? for here, in late March, it means next Nov early. 6 months. on new years eve it means tomorrow. in school in june it meant in september.
world only just formed. (one world only just forming. no such thing till just a few centuries ago, and the common man is just beginning to discover it) how could it have any law? give evolution time. we don’t have time. true if you limit “we” to earth borne humans, for sure. i don’t doubt that major features of human law evolved before the humans, Mrs Ruth on ruminant mammals, carnivores have different rules. we’re both. but i’ll imagine a cave man scenario anyway. did the individuals or even the individual packs or even tribes of early humans have room for error before they both fell off the cliff bullying each other over the water hole? mixed metaphor. so what? this isn’t real space. stochastic systems with intentional feedback take numbers. if our number is one: then we’re out of luck or had better be very different very fast.
JC: “in his own proper entrails” double wammy. cf. double description. ambiguity the wrong word. it’s double barreled meaning, not double meaning. (and I don’t mean that it stops at two, just that two is what i’m here appreciating.
math. christ! 50 years old and i’m just learning of graph theory and that sets, the way i’ve found myself using them as sorts of metaphors are how they’re actually used! traffic solutions, flow charts, etc. what the govt needs. what a waste that i didn’t turn to it earlier. but then that’s what our schooling is for, to immunize us against what would save us if we knew it.
DB: JD. who should we take first? J can’t wait to judge JR Ewing. opinion voiced that fictional characters should come last. then get me that guy with the blue eyes. he’s just an actor. and he’s still alive. ok, how old are you, GM? 3 months. we reincorporated last year. that doesn’t count. i’ll tell you: you’re 96 or whatever. a zillion objections. ok, we’ll get back to adam.
ss: how can there be law for the one world just forming theme: one worlder lives by avoiding all the permanent computer locations. when the cop on mars stops him and learns that he didn’t pay his taxes on Jupiter, he doesn’t worry. his economic status is so low as to be off their scale. it would cost x to steal his y which would then qualify him for PA or worse (more costly) put him in jail. doesn’t leash his dog either. it’s not my dog he says. the dog has no collar. it merely keeps perfectly at his heel. i can’t help it if it follows me. pretrains dog for sanity in anticipation of the apparent double binds it may face under such circumstances. first, sidekick see him training the dog. doesn’t get it. then we see the scene.
ss. time traveler. I live in the future. my problem is that my society doesn’t. my politics are … my religion is … etc.
math book. raising percentages in response to inflation is either naive or knavish. similar statement in Writer Mag about agents. sign of crookedness or incompetence (as they all do it.) book warns about public persuasion. why is there no ref?. even warns to some extent about the lies that school teachers tell. yet there is no regular math conscious, grammar conscious watchdog. we have magazines competing at each other’s throat. the conservatives are allowed to insult the liberals etc. but how about a tiny little corner of someplace, a committee to maintain the revolution, a little box in the NYT, i don’t care if it’s hidden in the obituaries, which confesses to the lies, fudges, ambiguities, false comparisons, etc. the bill of rights is formally meaningless, etc. this is what pravda does and this is what we do. how we do it is “history.” though we remain blind to the rhetoric of our immediate forebears. that’s why JC is such an incredible play. Sh shows it to us blatantly but a few words that retain some electricity even in a ahem democracy blind us anew. noble, reason, liberty, etc and Julius, Brutus, and Antony are still conning us 2000 yrs later. Antony is the only one Sh shows being a brute in such a bald and animal way that even the audience can see it.
that math book, i think it’s pitiful that advanced maths should confess to the reality of math as though we had learned that a long time ago in full knowledge that it’s still being systematically lied about in the school and journals. that’s like the pope advancing in his theology, talking about how advanced he is, but still keeping the old priesthood. the old muscle. the old income producing organs.
solution: a consumer guide to public communication. list the fallacies of public communicators. expose the past errors of public accounts checkers. movie critics with a long Jacob Marley chain of past decisions around their neck. this is who this is, ladies and gentlemen.
the problem is, all our current standards could be false. the problem is, we don’t know what those faults are. but here before us you also see, faults that we do know what the faults are. i can’t say for sure that 2 will always be seen to equal 4 but we can all see that it never in any system used by us, by Plato or by Bosley Crowther here, made 13, though here in this attack on Charlie Chaplin, that’s exactly the math that Bosley used.
awful Jack Klugman Quincey show with some sentimental vegetable on a horse. equestrian therapy. sponsors are really paying? on the assumption that some squirming and screaming immature cripple will KEEP the suckers TUNED IT? i mean there’s still some free choice involved. maybe everybody has to watch tv and maybe even at this time, but there are other stations to turn to. ok, the others don’t come in well, but here in Sebring there’s one other channel, UHF, I have to admit, that gets equal reception. we could all be switching to a perpetual gold chain commercial instead. but i assume that i’m not the only one watching this cripple. i turn the tube on to eat brunch by. i’ve had two cups of coffee. have already scanned my mind back over yesterday’s writing, a re-beginning of the Model, only this time: the sequel. Week two as a flash back and then straight on to the big bang before we dematerialize the whole thing and structure it by difference and paradox only. am i the only one annoyed by this cripple? it’s certainly not the first such show thrust at me. i watch the olympics i guess four years ago, and here is a real wheel chair event. then i see wheel chair events with real athletes, but limited of course to the stock of amputees. then it occurs to me. women watch this show. something basic is changing in our nature. males traditionally have an impatience with the helpless. we can govern an audience’s emotions just by making something helpless and then seeing what the rest of life will do to it. lug a bear. tie a christian to a stake. take a king’s crown off and send him out in his shift. drive nails through your god. leave a small dog tied outside in Florida. or a small child.
in Forbidden Games, the children bury the girl’s dog. then they find something else dead and they bury it. then they start killing things ’cause otherwise they couldn’t, in conscience, bury them. i think i’m on safe ground if i say that traditionally human mothers have wanted their children to be sound of limb. feed them, but then wean them. let the young child come to your apron, but after a time, you release the child to the field, to the practice arena, to the hunt. eventually, you just release him. (the males, at least) if you don’t, the child will simply run away, preferring danger and the unknown to your restrictions. in civilization we remain perpetually children. children of the corp, however well paid. children of the military, even as generals. real generals are extremely dangerous and we permit few of them. Hirohito, MacArthur, Patton, Hitler. Innocuous ones who know better than to show teeth at the breast, like Ike, can flourish. the schools show us the pace at which growth and semi-independence is allowed. meantime, there is a class of us never released as much as the other. they don’t have even the normal permitted powers. females. they’re long permitted the mother’s apron for psychological protection. when they put their own on, when they see that if it isn’t her apron then it will be the government’s apron, why let any child grow up at all? ideally, there’s should be something strikingly wrong with them. Misery’s solution is to cut off the man’s thumb and foot etc. now you still have your dependent. power. charity as power. nursing as dominance. we can all see clearly the power in the marketplace of the birth theme ad. the woman with her pelvis flat, the male altogether reclined and passive, being born. and hers. can this be healthy? can this new world long endure? or am i wrong? in the age of the novelty part, ie. maybe women have always been that way but the opportunity for removal or escape more real. so, my real concern is: how many men were voluntarily watching this show? do they still have their face in the apron?
(on the road. you can get run over. run at least there is a way to run away. the medieval peasant 12 years old would have to trudge through the mud before he was raped or enslaved by bandits.)
simultaneously, while we’re showing this factitious sympathy, how about sympathy for the whole? are there any who are whole? have there ever been? how whole can napoleon have been? or Darius? all you need for an answer is to watch a little tv. how about someone in the process of having his thumb or foot cut off. the Palestinians, eg. where’s the expensive and time squandering equestrian therapy for them?
i also love the fict-fact that the cripple’s character was hit “on his bicycle” by a truck, or a bulldozer. this veggie lived. not one word on traffic solutions. do we really need trucks? do we really need trucks sharing the same space with boys on bicycles? (best of all are our excuses. i told him to stay out of the road.) (did we tell the deer and the porcupines and the skunks and the squirrels too? how about the birds and the insects and the worms? it’s their fault if they didn’t listen.) addressing our real insanity would cost far more than all this sympathy of doctors and mothers and upper income therapists for one or a few dozen pathetic survivors. best of all, who are helpless without the apron of our lethal system!
oh, but each life is precious. says the priest, the doctor, the mother, all of whom are ready with, and dependent on, their administrations. ok, then why are we clobbering these people on boats? these wetbacks looking for fruit to pick? what are our bombs for? oh, but those people are bad. they don’t like our giving their country away and bombing what’s left. the main difference is that the person who places a retaliatory bomb in the restaurant or who wants to pick fruit is that they are whole at least of limb. they are not dependent on us. they don’t come to our apron to hide their face. if there are any left over after the maiming, then we can take care of them too.
tv commentator for basketball, ex-coach or something. shot in the arm. they’re still high on that etc. what? drugs and athletics? what are you talking about?
like all young people, he imagines that his neuroses are interesting.
in dealing with a discontinuity, it is always best to do the opposite of what you do with yourself. write your judgment before you hear the evidence.
oh, or were you making a prediction?
ok, then now that your prediction is shown to have been egregiously wrong, why are you not apologizing? you’re been shown to be stupid, but your whole attitude reeks of your thinking that we should think that you’re smart. or was that not thinking, but posturing.
so, posture takes precedent over truth?
it does when you’re dealing with a discontinuity.
capitalists bleed, or at least scream and act crazy, before they’re wounded.
it’s said that the one thing sure in a democracy is that the people get what they deserve. there’s wisdom in that, but do the protesters, the resisters, those who are never represented, also get what they deserve? or is it just the composite that gets justice?
in any case, I’m thinking that a similar truth could be said of capitalism. managed survival for the managers, a vicious cartoon of survival of the fittest for the consumers and those paid slaves, the employees. they, the managers, get what they deserve: a world no one can live in comfortably. what do the rest get? would they have done worse, had they managed? might it have done better unmanaged? can there be such a thing as unmanaged? the ambitious pattern slaughters other candidates.
what guarantee is there that the slaughtered pattern might not have been fittest (a relative term, after all). we pushed communism into the ugly forms which we then continued to combat, to give only a familiar example.
soandso was very pleased: a statesman, a humanitarian, a man of justice, a benefactor. a politician. a practical man. his tombstone could read any of the above. typical, quintessential of his abilities, he had just succeeded in getting the Indians … Xf (food stamps, an alcohol rehabilitation program, a years supply of free M&Ms …). not just the Pueblo in Taos or the Seminole relocated in Oklahoma, the Cherokee in etc., but all Indians. the program cost x. the indians would themselves pay for in the long run by y. we took the continent from them. just the USA part of it produced a new trillion $ every year. The capital plant, wealth moved from Europe and the rest of the world over 500 years, M, exported materials, gold etc: N. Figure: this one Van Gogh sells for 50mil. there are 200 of them in c museum. x museums that have at least a few things in some way comparable. hmm. all for exterminating who backward group, enslaving another, and then having a few social programs for the ones we were too chicken or inefficient or lacked resolve to kill. Not bad.
ShSon. background on human sexuality. the courtly trad. the sonnet trad. impossible pretended by the over privileged.
sorting a division of math? all information a kind of sorting? even light and dark, zero and one, on and off? male and female? a basis of theorizing about intelligence?
what sort of grade does the logic of an government public assistance form then get?
how delicious: floating, rather more streaming, into my head as the coffee perks. a line from Hollywood’s Raymond Chandler. It would be fun someday to research how many Hollywood writers spend their lives trying to imitate one paragraph. And how much of a Chandler script is Chandler’s and how much his later imitators, editors, and improvers-upon. Anyway, I figure this line for one production of the later. Without Robert Mitchum at his most wrinkled, hungover, saggy, still upright and snide however battered male, this line could not have been uttered with its henceforth immortal irony. Last night, through the first hours after dawn, I’m reading West of Eden. Harry Harrison for the first time. It’s really very good. I think less of it as it’s winds toward its climax than I did as he was building the universe in which it takes place, but still: pretty good. Like Shogun and Valley of the Horses etc. You pick up his foreign language as you read. As usual, I’m jealous that it’s me noticing that in his book of 1984 than him noticing it in my book of 1983. “Fargi.” The name is in my head as I try to lie still so as not to notice the pain. “Stupid fargi.” The ruler of the reptile city insulting or describing a just maturing reptile. the fargi are at various levels of speech- learning, curiosity, etc. now: is this descriptive? or insulting? or merely redundant? is this ruler talking about an individual fargi? or fargi in general? is she saying that she’s stupid for a fargi? or that fargi’s are stupid?
stupid. how the recurrence of that word recedes as one passes out of adolescence. through ones twenties one worries more about intelligence. in adulthood about money. and power. who can do what to whom. IQ and income are more and more assumed to reflect each other in direct proportion. (of course there’s always the counter truth lying around at more mythic conscious, where the opposite is true. we revere him, his importance must be merely temporal. he’s popular; he can’t be good. he died starving but uncompromised; he must have been a genius.
What do these words mean? Do they mean the same thing depending on your “maturity”? like first cereal is food, then steak, then martinis? They have in common that they’re undefined terms except when talking about our enemies where of course we’re sure we’re right. no, pardon, it’s when we’re talking about our money that we’re sure we’re right. we earned ours, the japs and the germans got theirs by cheating somehow. (of course it’s only the devil who offers wealth, isn’t it?)
Anyway, I’m lying there, come to think of it, I haven’t even put the coffee on or relieved my bladder: that’s it! it’s a full bladder combined with unconsciousness and laziness or inability to solve problems of volition or movement that makes me dream interesting dreams. and remember precious things.
“Stupid fargi.” “I get it: I’m stupid.” Robert Mitchum is sitting in a chair. Standing above him is this fat dyke madam. she’s just had him sapped and then hopped. she stands above, hectoring him while he’s far from being either awake or well. “You’re a stupid man, with a stupid job, on a stupid case.” She says to him. And that’s how he responds. Perfect timing. One-six-teenth-note: “I get it:” two-six(upbeat melody) “I’m stoopid.” More perfect timing. She hauls her fat arm up and slaps down hard on him. Four-six-teenth-note. Kerpow! Up from the chair, starting from below his hip, turning his whiskey sodden flesh behind it, crack in the jaw, Mitchum plants his knuckles under her fat mouth. in her house with her goons around, armed and on duty. the young Sly Stallone.
modern shakesperian. an oxymoron. (of course i don’t mean the musical analogy to acting to be analytical but metaphoric.) of course it’s typically pop art that’s there with the biggest truth first. sh. was pop art in his day. what Ben Jonsons do we have around today who couldn’t write that line if their life depended on it? a question I can’t answer since it may well have been a Ben Jonson who did write it. screen assignment: imitate old Raymond here.
i once was electrified as some tv crap came on. the first words out. holy shit! It’s Chandler! It’s real Chandler! Of course it almost certainly wasn’t. Some screen writer had devoted his career to coming up with this one fabulous paragraph of opening big city cynical narrative. harlem nocturne type sax in the background. I sat up straight. My neck itching. then it was crap again. what would i think of the opening if i heard it a second time. glass. paste. pure fake. but who knows?
like the opening measure of some rock. huh. by god, that’s the blues. down good and dirty. but of course by the second measure they’re off into their tickytacky nervous ticks. the exceptions i’m aware of I can count on three fingers, one by (that scots guy with his electrical banana), two by the stones, and three by the beegees. would they still sound at all good if i heard them a hundredth or thousandth time? muddy waters gets better not weaker that way. and i don’t of course mean sound like the blues. they’re not the blues. i don’t ask them to be the blues. i ask them to be good, and if they can’t be good at least don’t irritate me.
and now we’re of course swimming or drowning amid more undefined terms. good. ahem. “if you can’t please me, at least don’t irritate me.” my standards are now supposed to be objective? everybody else biased and me not? me, seventy or a hundred years ago: chopin is real, this russian isn’t. seventy or so before that: Beethoven is real; this chopin isn’t. before: if you have to go with new art, pop art, Mozart is good, but this Ludwig misses the point.
what’s missing there is the hundreds and thousands of names of musicians who tried to be romantic or to avoid it but aren’t any longer heard of my any of us. except that once, in soandso’s court, his was the name most heard.
big bureaucrat gets student radical leader alone after the strike has penetrated to x. most verbal warfare exchanges salvoes of insults. there’s no need to respond to any particular one as though it were a criticism, whether it wounded you or not, whether it’s true or not. just keep screaming the insults. firepower. sticks and stones. desensitize yourself and stand steadfast that your group is right. after all, they’re not treating your insults like criticism either. however much you may have meant them that way. but now they’re just the two of them alone. radical says blah blah.
NOW the bigB says: yes. you want us to think you’re so smart with your penetrating analysis. you have to have an IQ of at least ninety to see that contradiction in our society. but i’m not insulting you. i’m commending you. where you are unusual is in your courage, your gumption to dare speak your perception aloud. i don’t doubt that all of us see that contradiction in our selves. most of us. but we don’t dare admit that we see it, not until the group is hollering that it’s there. not the other group hollering, our group itself. so, are you the beginning of our group hollering? i doubt it. see, we don’t trust our individual perception of contradiction. we don’t believe we’re intelligent enough, not without the support of the group. and you’re pointing it out in the face of the group. but then you’re young.
then bB lists a dozen other contradictions that the young radical had never noticed.
getting at all comfortable playing music as distinct from listening to it. in some ways the playing is easier than the listening. if you’re really listening. once the relationships on your instrument (in relation to your experience of listening) become familiar to you. friends with recognizable characters, traits, faces, and gaits. different abilities and clumsinesses. Brazil is going through my head at breakfast. never seen it. never tried to play it. always a nice SA thing, but now, after the movie, wow, i’ve got to be able to play it. So I sit down and guess. bra-Zill … probably an odd inversion of a chord, fifth to third or sixth to third. it doesn’t matter yet what chord, just put your hand down somewhere. Pinky is on A, ok if A is the sixth in D try F#, the third. by god, that’s it. wait a minute. A is the fifth you idiot. it didn’t matter. the math was wrong. the interval is right. now back down along the chord from the octave. I’m playing Brazil. ok here, now some nice chromatic steps. pre-bossa.
second morning 4pm in a row my head is filled with some example of the genius of pop art. the line from Guys and Dolls, not that either Hollywood or Broadway are a bunch of hicks. The song: Marry the Man Today. Give him the girlish laughter. “Slowly introduce him to the finer things in life:
Voice one: Reader’s Digest
Two: Guy Lombardo
Rogers Peet
How I loved that sequence when I was young. I’m a freshman or sophomore at Columbia, so Reader’s Digest speaks for itself. So too must Guy Lombardo or Broadway wouldn’t have had it. But I doubt to the extent that it spoke to me and my friends. In the middle of a dance, Levy would always, at some moments in a slow ballad toward the end of the dance when the requests for danceable music, slow tunes, were becoming more insistent, blow enough vibrato to shiver the hall and play Auld Lange Syne. Right in the middle of Tea for Two or whatever it was. The first time I ever heard him do it, I laughed and laughed. When he was still doing it as a senior, the joke had worn for me. Not the joke; his doing it every time.
Now, how did the dancers respond? Did they know they were being mocked? And keep it to themselves? Could that be why the band was hired less and less? That as much as the up tunes? The bop? Myron’s attempts at Bud Powell solos? (not that i remember Myron and Levy in the same band by that time. The Band here is a synthesis.) How come nobody ever came up and punched Levy out? They too would have laughed at those lines in Guys and Dolls. Even Guy Lombardo fans knew how square he was. Maybe they were a little uncomfortable in this light, but not nearly so uncomfortable in the light as they were comfortable in the music. I remember my Aunt Isa making the same point. She liked it. (Besides, they could comfort themselves: square was their term, not ours. square was white, republican, wasp, owned property, ran things, ordered the killing. Hip was young, and where it wasn’t young, it was nigger. hard core nigger. not like these nice young blacks who would straighten their hair and soon listen to the Beetles.)
Maybe “seeing through” the resonant pablum of Guy L, was common to youth at the time. But not to the extent of a jihad, as it was with the jazz nuts, the niggers and the voluntary niggers. More than voluntary; we insisted. i’ll never forget the shock i felt at seeing Satchmo defend the Guy in Downbeat; just before he attacked Duke! “Duke always sounds a little out of tune to me.”
Alternate joke: also from Levy. Old black washer woman on her way home from late night mopping passes the Plaza (any big hotel) and hears melodious strains waft from within. “What’s that?” she asks the door man whose bosom bows out higher than hers. “That, ma’dam, is the great Meyer Davis.” “Man, Miles is off tonight.”
and tucked in somewhere above is my point. the young find their own slang and are proud of the factitious contrast it creates with the adult world where they know they have no power or understanding. but what about those who bear the standard beyond youth? it was ok to drop out in the sixties as long as you plunged back in in the seventies and listened with your mouth shut to proposals and denials about amnesty.
but what about those who love the Afro element in art beyond its contrast to the square, beyond its relatively open sensuality, unapologetic animalism. (Trane could caress with the best howevermuch of his time he spent mauling. In fact, in contrast, when the caress came, it was overwhelming.)
tv has shown at least three examples of a genius particular to it. the long format: Cosmos, Life on Earth, etc.
comedy ensemble: Monty Python, Saturday Night Live
& Bill Cosby: The Bill Cosby Show.
I guess the second would be good on stage too. And the third?
What a thrill to be playing Dizzy’s Be-Bop on the keyboard. To have the lines begin to make sense, to have my fingers start to go there with recognition of the structure as well as familiarity with the result. I do have further to fathom the relationship between F- and G-, however.
Lewis! talking about “it’s a scientific fact that niggers are stupid.” reading W of Eden, the Yilane are always making similar statements about the Istouzu. maybe niggers, whatever they are, are stupid. or would be, if they existed. maybe too the Istouzu. but what makes Lewis think that he improves by contrast? ditto the Yilane? only the social convention of conspiracy. i confide my prejudice to you, you implicitly agree to share with me whatever horseshit nonsense we’re about to think we’re duping the world with. i draft you as my ally against any possibility of objectivity. the second you agree with me, you’ve taken the pledge. now capitalists have to stand together, defending their factitious universe. ditto whites, black power, communists, etc.
so and so is stupid has nothing to do with so and so. it’s meaning is: “you and i are smart. now that we agree, we needn’t ever test ourselves. we can spend all our time burning the tents of the unkosher ones.”
the way we pray to god is the same. hey, i’m on your side. you’re still listening to me, at least you haven’t struck me down dead, so it’s proved. now you’re on my side. whew. i’m in the union. now i never have to do another fucking thing. as long as i maintain the conspiracy, that is.
the moment you disagree or contradict or fail to look dazed when someone opens by saying: “you’re a man of the world: …” you’re the enemy. you’ll soon find out what civilization means. it means what it meant to the Algonquin following 1492.
try these responses: I am?
sure i am; are you suggesting that you are too? could have fooled me.
uh oh, you want me to stand still while you tell me something obscene, immoral, or illegal.
you want business advice? i charge a fee. oh, extramarital advice? i still charge a fee.
when we say “Our Father,” are we describing a real relationship?
one that we wish were true? or one that we think will flatter him, draw him into our conspiracy?
no one still point in the universe. no one still anything intensional either. not if it corresponds to real patterns in the extensional. language. person. is the cake done yet. what precisely does done mean. only a range of points, not a point. ok, what is it? the uncertainty proportional to the range? how about a calculus to measure what it would be if it really existed. like pretending that a curve is a straight line at some point so we can talk about it in straight line terms. why can’t we talk about it in curved terms?
cause our tautologies aren’t sophisticated enough for curved terms.
Masters Tournament rain delayed. Prior champions gather and are asked questions that I know the newscasters know perfectly well and that any caddy could probably answer just as well. But we ask the stars, the stars particular to that tournament. I don’t mean to suggest that these stars aren’t experts (and more and more athletes seem to be given acting lessons, voice training, etc. some maybe have their own writers); but, just to point out the ephemeral and specialized nature of supervised expertise in getting the public’s attention or keeping them entertained.
so: put the norm under stress. ask nixon about security. we need to negotiate from strength etc. interrupt with an earthquake or something. nixon etc run for their lives. then the janitor or somebody sees the red light still on and speaks calmly.
?a. Aa. ?b. Ab. Interviewer then says but that contradicts … Answerer answers. But ?a was in the political realm, where reality is whatever you mean (though we do test that realm occasionally with elections, questions like are we still here, etc.) But ?b was objective. if you ask are niggers stupid, and i want my check to clear, i’ll agree with you. it’s meaningless since neither niggers nor stupid have any objective meaning. but now you asked a specific verifiable questions. the standards are altogether different. so. there’s no contradiction; they’re not in the same universe.
selfishness test: try some transform of:
would you rather have an easy time of pleasure with no longevity, no progeny;
or so so with maybe progeny;
or hard and deprived but increasing the chance for progeny
trouble with most psychologists disguises is that they’re full of holes. or plain horseshit
sorting: information & entropy. haji babba retains his razors,
money & skill redistributed, also suppressed. i love how his captors then expect him to be their ally. loyalty expected by the rapist.



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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