/ Journal /
previous save: 8/22/89
binary boy. all of history, cosmology, evolution, culture, religion, stack and weave into this one-half bit. so, like a Fuller square. you have one square 1 ft X 1 ft & necessarily another the whole surface of the world (and that’s now just the world we’re talking about) E-1 X E-1 square.
PK on BK quote difference. significant enough.
Brooks thinking the scientists heard the BB on the radio.
Maddox. cf Heller. “the war ends”? the war never ends for war makers, they may pause for a victory celebration, the may pause to rediscover or redefine or simply to change the object of the war: the nature and identity of the enemy, but the war never ends. they may pause to lick their wounds, to grow more soldiers …
argument with Martha about pain, her anger that the privileges, religious awe, and exemptions for childbirth, automatically accorded her as a female and mother were about to be taken from her.
telepathy story of pop software laughing at outmoded pains, fear of the devil, of complexes hiding under the bed, … tapes of soldiers maimed in war are definitely off limits to even the pop taste, but are of course available to special collectors. Senators may of course monitor these pornographies at public expense.
cannot be coherently asked OR answered most damaging is medicine. eg. H. but also, very damaging is where someone’s “objective” experience is denied. I tell Brooks what happens in universities and she dismisses me and it as a subjective delusion (because it doesn’t reinforce her dropout world). the proof that the African tribes were innocent relative to the English missionaries, it didn’t even occur to them to combat this influence by denying the existence of Queen V, attributing to it the same epistemology as the missionaries attributed to their forest spirits.
p 7 l 40 patience/patient’s sp
Flipping channels through the fuzz a couple of nights ago. One thing more awful than the other. So I stay with the science fiction, grumbling at how common sci-fi has become, how generally awful, and how ungenuinely sci-fi. I can hardly see the image. It’s of a female. Some machine, maybe the whole ship is giving a warning that there’s only one minute left to return automatic destruction to manual, ie with a chance to abort. She gets into some pod and exits just as the ship “blows up,” ie, as it would in an atmosphere, with the pod being shaken by the concussion. So I’m thinking two things: a) what ignorant horseshit. even the idea of a star ship with a prewritten self-destruct command strikes me as highly unlikely. Dear passengers on the Titanic, Dear Admiral Soandso, Dear President: Please don’t press the red button provided in each of your rooms. And b) one area where even garbage sci-fi is precious is that it provides the best medium for showing women to be high tech competent or warriors or in charge or something without everything else looking like stunt men or stunt props to deny the pretense. In other words, however silly this out of context film seemed to me, I was genuinely admiring the believability of the female’s behavior.
Then she strips to a tank top and to very brief bikini briefs. By God! It’s got to be Alien! That’s Sigourney Weaver! I wish I’d known it was to be on from the start. You know I’d never seen anything but your great comic of it. How wonderful. And now, I’m about to see the Alien and to see her blow him out the door, and him or her or it grab hold and be blasted by her again, the comic’s drawn alien looking incredibly anthropomorphic at that moment at least. A man with a tail. The devil, gone a bit reptilian.
It’s storming out and I probably wouldn’t have been able to tune it in much had I tried. Here come the electrical clouds; there goes the UHF.
So now I’ve seen a bit of Alien as well. Once I identified her, Sigourney Weave was unmistakable. How can she be so beautiful and so funny looking at the same time? Like … Bonny in Bonny & Clyde? The vamp on top of William Holden in Network? The woman Bob Vickrey and I ran into in Studio 53 one afternoon, looking at Rockwells. Faye Dunaway. Another actress who can turn it on or off, acting beauty and femininity, more than being beautiful or feminine. A female Brando or Mifune. Yet when Sigourney Weaver is dancing with Mel Gibson and her little strap falls off her shoulder just a bit, wow, she eclipses all the ones with even features, blow dried hair, capped teeth, and big tits.
M&G discuss oral world within creatura, and print world within oral. more and more dependent on it, then on mass media, explosion of self-generating information within artifact world but that world still gets smaller and smaller with respect to even the actual creatura of the one species. everyone has it backwards, as it seems (to them) to be larger. and larger. It is: relative to itself; it isn’t: relative to how it mismatches more and more, the more it grows. evidence: the more educated, the less they see, hear, read, or answer anything specific.
Senator, how come you’re an ass hole?
We must combat communism in the third world.
Maybe, but that wasn’t my question.
the physical disguise they wear is permanent
any disguise can become permanent. if you die in it, the disguise will be regarded as what you were, if anyone’s watching. (anyone here being those so programmed to deceive themselves. and each other.)
David danced before the Lord. Richard Gere? tired and sore, I marinate my pork. make it with carrot sizzled in ginger, scallion, garlic and several wallops of chili pepper. Haven’t made ferocious Szetchuan in a while. The mushrooms I’ll just toss in some ordinary oil and red wine. Can’t let butter get next to the Chinese main dish. King David, the tube says. I leave it on. Maybe it was the cooking, maybe it was not having slept better than one decent night out of seven since May. Or was it April? Working days and still can’t fall asleep at night. Not even trying to work then either. But the brain goes on buzzing. Buzz buzz. In any case I had the blessing of not recognizing Michael Woodward as Saul even after seeing him several times. It’s as the Equalizer than he’s always numbingly the same.
I don’t know how much time Samuel spent in the desert. Here it looks like about as much as Henry Kissinger. Of course they’re all in the desert: that’s where they live. And pursue empire.
But wow, to come back to Biblical civilization after Beginning, after Calder, etc, and especially after Picture This … GB’s explanation as mapping experience onto a tautology. Here the “experience” is a particular human record of history, myth, religion, theology, politics, self-flagellation, jingoism, self-justification, etc. The Bible. Hollywood filtered. But Hollywood really does know what to look for. For us.
David and Absalom. Just coming from Heller’s precis of the Alexandrian Ptolmeys and Cleopatras. So? So what else is new?
Richard Gere looking wonderfully Jewish in his hair. Of course he didn’t fill in till a third of the way through. First we have the genealogy, the St Luke type stories. David and Goliath. Like some kid with an Uzi against a drugged moose. We’ve got bronze. And a lot of beef. So? I got artillery. Where were the Las Vegas odds makers on that one? It’s great. And then the jews go slaughtering the fleeing Phills.
The chosen people. Chosen for what? as the old joke asks. Permanent punishment for two kings’ worth of empire? What if they had tried their land grabbing in the new world? The jews go through the Cherokee like a hot knife through butter. Sorry, you’re living on our land.
How ridiculous as I glance at the screen. Early id file don’t capitalize except where the fingers forget their instruction not to bother. Then more and more. But here, words much used remain lower case, words just thought of get caps. jew/Cherokee. So what? It’s my file. Except that my i has become I. Ah, but that was, had been, automatic. My discipline of no discipline didn’t last. Neither has it become SWEng.
This KD had surprising sophistications. David talking about love, Saul’s daughter talking about that “love” as a political plum. The Lord wants this and that. The Lord has promised me a future. I needn’t worry. So I’ll go run and hide.
I would like to see a version of the Bible predicting David’s genealogy and destiny etc written before his victories.
After a bout of cooking, my gaze drifts to the screen. There’s Gere all bent over and crabbing about in a diaper. Huh? My god! And David danced before the Lord. One of Duke Ellington’s serious oevres. Unlistenable. So everybody gathers in Carnegie Hall to listen to the Duke at his worst. What would these people have thought if they could have been close up in a small room in 1955 and had Rockin in Rhythm blared at them? What if Cat Anderson’s horn had been within fifteen feet of their face? What would they have thought had Paul Gonzolves stood at the mike, a battery of speakers, and them with no place to hide? The Mooch. Or Ray Nance put on an act? Or felt the low frequency shock wave of Carney’s bary slamming their balls against their thighs? The women in their diamonds would have aborted.
Showing yourself to every whore, David’s wife says.
What would I have thought in 1955 could I have pictured myself in 1959 listening now to the Pro Musica? The pathos of David’s victory over his son now permanently etched in my mind by the voice of Auden. Oh, Absalom, my son, my son; would God I had died for thee. now I’ve got to watch Gere try the lines. Uhh.
switch signs. just before chaos is reached, order will ascend and chaos decline, and chaos too will reascend before any one order can become total.
the library will go from Dewey Decimal to Library of Congress, Library of Congress to computer, then switch label instructions to abbreviations. No one order will ever be absolute in your ordinary library. Even in a big library? Won’t there always be some long lost book or new donation that will never quite catch up?
the library is just eg. Any eg would do. This is frustrating to us. Might it not also be a salvation? Before Roosevelt can completely stack the courts, he dies, the world changes, prosperity puts everyone back on the take. Everyone’s on the take, things become regimented, fundamental reality reasserts itself, the economy collapses, the market center moves to japan. The empire of Pakistan. Or Korea. Then they fall on their nose. The Guatemalan hegemony.
ss: future in which Americans are like Moslems in Africa. Never figuring out what happened to them, still assuming a superiority. Black moslems hating blacks. The nurse spilled milk on me, everyone knows that darkens the skin. Where’d you get those lips or that can? Oh, my mother was frightened by a movie on tv. I’m not African.
The Empire strikes back. London today. People think their time in the sun is permanent. Discipline, old chap. If we beat more boys at school, we’ll be right back on top.
reenlistment blues. I wrote what I was going to say here to BK instead. From Here to Eternity. hell, I’ll keep my SK jots anyway.
Pruit: Montgomery (sunken chest, no possible chops) Clift
I loved the scene where the officer sees the bully Sgt fighting Pruitt, who we’re also supposed to believe could really be a ferocious boxer? Pruitt’s fault, sir. officer all ready to do something. Uh uh. Sgt’s fault. Oh, then let’s forget it, officer says.
I believe it. Only then, it wasn’t true. Suddenly there’s a house cleaning. The Duke returns to Measure for Measure? Oh well, Hollywood never was consistent. Bless it.
But the fight w Gallovitch, bare fisted jaw shots. No broken hands?
Why do people (ie does Hollywood) think that the old bare fisted boxers just about never hit to the skull? No man, the kidneys, the balls, the gut. Wear him down. You didn’t “knock him out”; you made him fall down and not want to get back up again.
Maggio, Frank Sinatra
Fatso, James R Judson, Ernest Bourgnine
1st Sgt W, Burt Lancaster
the blond though: how fashions age, what’s Burt doing going out with an old lady?
“I gotta obey my orders.” Sarcastic “I’ll see you get a medal.” as the officer ignores policy. Whatever “laws” they pretend they rule by, “core” people know to take them with a grain of salt. outsiders? not a chance.
Mad Comics pre-pop pop saturation, Rambo holding the automatic cannon. I had completely forgotten Burt at Pearl Harmor. check dates. was K thinking of Burt as he coached Takashi Shimura to draw his bow in the rain?
Funny, the Michelob commercials were the most artfully obscene ads ever. They’re still of the same ilk, but quite toned down. Someone must have said something. The laurel has passed to some other beer. You never see the guy, just the bottle shaking and rattling and foaming, the moment after it’s drained. He enters, the juke starts up “You put a spell on me,” everybody looks wasted, on the surface, from the heat, ie weather type heat and humidity, you see the waitress, she’s wasted from all kinds of humidity. The most fucked out face I’ve ever seen on the tube. Until the bottle shakes and rattles. Then! Really. She doesn’t just look fucked out. Her eyes had been sort of drab light blue. I swear, they go flat gray. She looks like Chuck Norris has just reached inside and snatched her liver.
i would love to look closer into the “minds” of madison av and witness a discussion comparing the selling virtues of horny vs fucked out.
What would the statistics be on appearances of erect cigarettes compared to down slanted cigarettes?
God. Tampa tv is having a Star Trek binge. There Leonard Nemoy’s Vulcan peace sign. These idiot disk jockeys are holding it up. Does the guy have his fingers taped? Did Nemoy have his fingers taped? How much practice would it take. I try it myself for the first time in decades. Waver. Effort. There. Try again. No better the second time. Taped, I think. This after decades of typing, recorder, flute, synth. I had never used my fingers for much when I taught myself touch typing at 21. So now I’m quite dexterous. Since golf, a bit ambidextrous. Still, the pinkie is willing enough to separate from the ring finger, but the ring finger doesn’t want to separate from the middle. the hell with it. I thought I had given up. Then what was my left hand doing trying it? Surprise. It did it much more easily. Lefty, I’m Vulcan. Now I’ve got to check which hand Nemoy uses. Is that a lefty salute? Is he right handed? Why should the strong right be less agile in this way than the stupid left?
the zircon chip setting being impatient at the ill fit and perversity of the 30 carat stone.
measures in music and perspective screens in art. does real music have measures? however it’s “written”? a bowl of fruit doesn’t have a grid in front of it. or does it? James Galway being interviewed by the guy after Letterman. Play the melody, he says. He plays Annie’s Song the way a student would play it. Then he plays a line of it again his way. Measures; no measures. Lines, yes. Like speech. We “teach” it as words. But spoken, it isn’t. Are the words an illusion? There are roots there and order and grammatical signals, but it’s a string. Ja’eatyet?
After Eternity, I play Reenlistment Blues on the synth looking at the sheet music for the first time in I don’t know how long. Huh? Not at all the way I would have transcribed it back down. I’m not a musician. Don’t claim it. Certainly don’t claim any official accuracy or orthodoxy. Don’t claim to be a music scribe. Playing this blues I always beat my foot. Or am beating something. In my mind a pulse. But both my playing and my pulse had drifted from how it had first been presented to me symbolically in this fake book. the relationship between the line and the pulse had not drifted. what hadn’t drifted is the music. I had upbeats and downbeats reversed. It didn’t matter one bit. The syncopation was the same! Still, I went back and reversed what I had written to BK.
of course the soldiers guarding the hive aren’t expected or desired to “fight fair.”
fairly binary: the universe is divided into hive and not hive, belonging and not belonging. outside can belong if its a resource. the soldier bee doesn’t kill a flower if he sees one. so not everything not-hive is enemy. worker bees don’t take their soldiers to a flower patch in which they’ve found pollen. there the competition is to out hustle not to kill.
T: good and evil
not recognizing your own ass the circumference of space away. we perk back through ourselves all the time, differently brewed. selfT1, selfT2, selfTn, selfTn+1 …
understanding would take a computer with more components than the whole thing has physical being.
T3’s old neighbors don’t recognize him at first. masks and growths have to be removed, fall off, wear away. The soldier kills the alien colonizer. dump the body off a few feet from hive entrance. T3 and T3’s body are not synonymous. T3 is gone, at least physically. T3 begins to become recognizable as T2. The bacteria say, christ how you fooled me. i thought you were about as sociable as a rock. Let’s party. and T3, now T2, becoming T1 becomes a festival of unpeelings, reacquaintancing, decays.
anthropomorphizing burdens its truth, but without the distortion, the lie, we will not permit ourselves to see it at all. So why should we see it? If we’re hiding from ourselves, the truth masquerading, we should we tear off or take off our own masks before midnight? is that another mask? I’m here disguised as the party poop?
anyway. soldier kills soldier. hideous giant insect head falls off. there, just expiring and able to look accusingly at his slayer, is baby Tprevious, crib mate of slayer-babyT-other-previous, who, of course, has no idea that he too is wearing a hideous giant insect head. No he sees himself all pink and innocent. But Bupsy, what are you doing here? Dying, Pupsy, you killed me.
But Bupsy, I thought you were invading the … the (looks around, sees hive) what the hell is all this? I thought I was protecting the cradle. I though I was defending you.
I was invading, Pupsy. I didn’t know it was you. I thought … we thought you were a competitor, easy forage, a nice nest we deserved more than you did.
I write babyTprevious. Of course, there is no essential difference here between baby Tprevious and baby Tfuture. Try the same story all Tf instead of Tp. Ah ha! Try mixing. Babypast sees baby trying to become. Visa versa. Which kills which? both both ways?
of course another way we misunderstand: we think it was wrong to kill, very wrong once we see the old crib mate. what? the universe one solid mass of giant insect? not one flower left to recycle into insect? no hive possible, no earth, no world, no universe, just 20 billion light year radius of all insect? or all man? nonsense. not only impossible, but disgusting. no, life’s natural imperialism is stopped way short of that.
but the barbarians killed the god? so what? what was the god walking among them for? to be safe?
we’re under the illusion that our society, 20th-cen US, with its school conscription, and multi-national corporations, the sophistication of its imperialism, its “foreign” “aid” “handouts,” its consultants and professors and prizes, is interested in progress, knowledge, even wisdom. Sure it is, defined narrowly and destructively enough. All Victorian definitions. Our physicists physics isn’t Victorian, our biology researchers biology isn’t Victorian, but the epistemology of Wall Street and Washington is. It can see it’s “advance” (and so can I) over that of Louis XIV. But there’s a catch. Not show us understanding, but show us that you came up through the ranks. In other words, prove first that you’re on the side of our errors, our “national interests,” or at least the interest of our party or class or race or company, and we’ll maybe find a way to listen, if not, we’ll get you some kind of a grant and let you grow respectably moldy.
how many of us have ever tried to imagine trying to sell the wheel to a culture than has none WITHOUT RECOURSE to demonstration of other cultures and what they have done with it? It might be hard enough even with the latter. Here chief (how did he get to talk to the chief in the first place?), we have commerce that spans continents, families can have a house in the country. And in the role of ball bearings …
police brutality is when they behave properly to the improper party.
Jesus’s double binds. he’s a jew. obviously not, in hitler’s immortal phrase. he’s a rabbi. how come the Sanhedron didn’t recognize him? oh, they could have found ways, probably started off, recognizing him as a rabbi way below them, grass roots stuff, but not on your life that he’s above them.
break kosher laws? can Jesus really have said that or anything like that? written in by later gentile converts? maybe. maybe not. maybe “genuine.” if so, then not so much a jew. the new jew? no such thing. but he was. he was what he was.
genealogy: descended from god by way of the holy ghost. by way of mary. virginity, etc. by way of Abraham and David by way of Joseph? but Joseph isn’t the father. but joseph is the father.
today we put Jesus up and put the Sanhedron nowhere. some jews might insist on the original relationship. insist with reactionary strength. But most jews: wouldn’t the average jew himself today put Jesus above the Sanhedron of the time of his crucifixion?
we don’t occupy the same “universe”, perhaps no two of us do, though all in the “universe” must have some overlap or we will not know/ perceive/ believe that the other exists. Consistency is what a tautology may strive for WITHIN its own perceptual limits. We’re told that “we” are a we, then there’s great cultural emphasis through the growth period, the mind setting school, on what isn’t we. Indians weren’t we. Plants and animals weren’t we. We are vastly superior to those who thought they were. Difference of opinion is proof of our superiority. The niggers aren’t we, or at least they weren’t, and they still aren’t, not really, except some … uh … and we see areas of change. Communists aren’t we, atheists aren’t we, etc, etc. People we are afraid of aren’t we. People who have injured us, or who we think have, will, or might injure us. Unless we perceive the other as above us, having what we want, a gate we hope to cross, a boss, an owner, someone “rich,” then their injuries aren’t injuries; they’re discipline, lessons, seeing more of the picture than we can, eminent domain, national security, privilege …
Some guy on kids’ Sat am tv, just advertising what school can do for you. Says he’s an electrician. It’s just like building big models like he used to do as a kid. It’s mystical, mysterious, electricity is, but he helps “control” it. He’s proud to be an electrician, looks like he means it, self-confident, not too bright, a role model. He says study math and science. And English. You have to be able to communicate with your fellow workers.
Where was the warning about control of communication beyond the control of your fellows, that it will make you look (to them, of course) like you can’t communicate? Hey, where do you get off expecting us to be able to think with more than the four hundred words that got me through high school till I was 16 or a bit longer? Don’t you know you intellectuals work for us? If you want our permission to survive, you’ll have to limit what you mean to what we want to hear.
And from a sub-group “practical” standpoint, they’re right. By definition. The stone age man telling Einstein to tell it simply. He did. In math. I do. In English which isn’t and can’t be English.
But the group not only feels justified, feels compelled, may base another’s security or promotion on going along, joining in, adding a prod, in deciding what you mean as a way of preventing you from saying it, quarreling which their mask for you, insisting that what they fear you mean, and preventing you from saying is what you did say. And getting very mad at you. Good. You wanted to be a different species. You’ve succeeded.
May was the first of the Sebring amateur faculty to interrupt me mid-first sentence, blather non sequiturs at me for five or ten minutes and then say that I took too long to say things. You forget, Alberta clarifies, you’re an employee. Which means that she, the employee with more time in rank has a right to “correct” my superior performance, to show me how to do it worse, inefficient, her way, the way they don’t want to know better than. The county somebody explains to me that it took them all, the whole gang over two week just to be able to turn their computer on, and much longer to get it to work at all. Now they should listen politely to someone who tailors his own data base?
I wake up late this am remembering the tenth grade. Again. I’ll never be rid of it. Though now it’s been more years than I can count since the last haunting. And suddenly I see it. Teachers! The Sebring librarians are an uneducated species of public school veterans. I can picture her. That’s more than bad enough: it’s fine that her name doesn’t come. Geometry class. It’s three years since Mr. Bell had told us that Euclid’s definitions had been improved, refined, still didn’t match “reality,” and here was Miss Soandso passing on axioms that weren’t even Euclid but where edited down for some inscrutable and not at all intellectual or mathematical purpose. We can’t you give us the best known definitions? I ask. Does she even know what I’m asking? My question isn’t answered except with an assertion of the power of convention. The sub convention. We don’t go along with the convention in our group, you’re in our group, you’re an inchling in our group, I’m the teacher in our group, I go along with our group, right or wrong, and so by god will you. I don’t think I came any where near back to even semi-consciousness for months and months. Not that semi-consciousness had been anything but the exception by the time I asked my early September 10th grade question. Of course the teacher was right. It wasn’t really a question. It was an indictment.
So last night I’m reading Desmond Morris’ The Human Zoo. Dominant male displays, rules for leaders of the supertribes. Human disinclination for anything other than super-primate organization. The bureaucracy runs things, but we follow the leader. He doesn’t have to be right, however nice that might be; he has to be decisive. It’s been a long time since I read his Naked Ape. Then, I didn’t know who he was. Wondered. Why no footnotes? Does this guy know what he’s talking about? Sounds good to me, but is there any scholarship behind it? Here he explains. Or did I just miss it last time? If the book was pushed as Cambridge informally dressed, I missed it. The first pages show he doesn’t know the latest anthrop and archeology. Still treating Sumer as unique. I check the publication date. Oh, that’s ok. I’d almost put the book down. Very glad I didn’t. This book is great.
Explaining lots of me to me. I was brought up by females. Didn’t want any male displays, not from me. They were trying their own version. When very young, I wanted my father to be privileged. So did he. He was. I wanted his privilege over any possible for me. Not, that I’m aware, because then I would someday get them too. No, that was just my father. Then I read all this stuff about xian sharing, democracy. No dominant male. I believed it. The dominant male passed on into the untestable abstract. Very sensible. So. I’ve always tried to “pass” on male displays. I’ve likewise taken a pass on submissive behavior. My life has been the result. We don’t want them passed or rejected. We’ve just reversed some gibberish about, in DM’s image, dominant behavior serving us/ serving us dominant. These fucking school teachers put on pathetic and awkward dominant displays to children and fawn and subserve the higher pyramid. The pyramid they’re aware of. It isn’t Xity. It isn’t the Constitution. It isn’t philosophy or logic. It isn’t human survival. Except insofar as they believe their group has a chance. We’re here, aren’t we? Not a bad point, actually.
I made a decision early to refuse initiations. Cowardice? Superior wisdom? Non-primate, for sure. DM says few monkeys leave the group. The surplus is too tempting. I live on the surplus. I have no intention not to.
But the group insists on initiations, endlessly. Unless you’ve perceived as having already passed some. Taking a pass, isn’t recognized as one of the options. But it is. It just doesn’t get you dominance. I don’t want dominance. That is, I do. I want the abstract kind. Not the untestable, infinitely receding kind. Precisely, the testable kind. Here folks, try this. Hey, how about taking our already decided decisions seriously? How about his as a way? How about that as an improvement. But no displays.
Except that I learned to sell. But when I’m not selling, I don’t want to have to keep it up. So, I’m good at the role? So what? It’s still not me.
Almost blew it Friday. Told Mary Anne I couldn’t stand her zoo any more. Monday ends pay period: Monday my last day. Am I going to plan any punishment for these people? Mistreatment by majority conspiracy isn’t wrong? They assume I’m without weapons because I only showed them competence and dignity. No, I’m not over you (except in this little matter of competence), but I’ll be damned if I’ll be beneath you. Are they right? Remains to be seen.
But immediately, I have to find some income. There go my plans for paying the warehouse, Brian, and getting teeth. I had told the county guy my situation. I report to him. He tries to show some wisdom at first. I volunteer that I can appreciate what the library has actually accomplished since turning “pro” a year and a half ago. Hadn’t known it at first. Staffed by ex-volunteers. Only one real librarian, how real I’m not sure, but on a good track. except where I was concerned. Then suddenly, the guy decides to misquote me, misinterpret it, and join the tarring. Well, that became clear fast enough. The county is uniformly imbecile.
So I drive down to the least awful gallery in the area. They’d been on vacation when I’d spent a few hours looking a couple of months ago. Peeked in their window. I start to introduce myself, and right away, up front, the guy tries to save both our time. Turns out some of the paintings are his. The awful flowers next to them are his wives. She comes in. I’d been on my way out minutes before. Jim had gone to his bench to accomplish something, but we’re still just talking. He hasn’t done a thing. I fill Anne in on what I had started to say to Jim. Say a bit further. They send me to a private collector. Invite me to dinner. Midnight that night, Jim agrees to buy one each of the Vickreys under my special. So, it’s a birthday party for the restaurant owner where they show some paintings. Diner wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t really Shanghai either. So, the restaurant family, the gallery couple, and me. Uh oh. I’ve been selling (without seeming to try to sell) for a solid ten hours now. I’m starting to relax. Be myself. Watch out. You’ll blow what you’ve accomplished. It’s as a salesman who isn’t selling that I’m welcome. I start to let them see me, they’ll run and hide. Call the FBI.
Winter in the swamp with the redneck losers, fascists, racists, was a lark. Summer in loserville Sebring is fine as long as no one talks to me and I can hold what I say to a few words. Going to the library changed that. Now I can’t stand it here. Now I’m going to have to be friends with Jim? Actually I like him and Anne quite well, but he’s country music and fundamentalism. Sooner or later, I’ll say something. In an unguarded moment.
But what choice do I have? Dick gives me “free” rent. I must try to finish my work. I didn’t expect it to be easy.
Atlantic City is on. I’d forgotten that it was Louis Malle. Interesting figure. Les Aimants. Pornography is ok if it passes for intellectual as in boring. Then kidie porn. Brooke Shields. Then six or twelve hours of Indians from which we’re all supposed to go communist?
Now here’s Burt Lancaster. He believes in dominance displays. But he’s old. He’s always been a coward? He’s not too bright? But in essence, it’s the problem for all of us. Where do we fit in to this super non-community?
What? Turn our backs on it? Form a more personal impersonal super community? One with avowed cooperation dominant. The Free Learning Exchange got a few pennies. That’s interesting. Yes. Good idea. But I need a degree. I don’t want even, I want ahead. As they fall further and further behind the pit bulls. But the pit bulls have less and less that anyone could possibly want except this meaningless power. Four billion people respect me. Well, maybe two actually. What you mean half the world has never heard of the president? How dare they?
Last shot: wrecking the building! I’d forgotten that too. Susan Sarandon wonderful.
is our propagation of misinformation, misperception, group delusion for the sake of solidarity, etc systematic? Are we stupider than formerly? Is this real protection? Illusory protection? I see that it works, but for how long?
evolution of knowledge
heaven’s dept of genetic evolution
sub dept of memetic evolution. sub becomes equal? dominant? for humans?
praxis of narrow focus
levels of law and evolution
rhetoric to deceive ourselves. freedom of expression, eg. no censorship. the optimistic hope, uttered as a promise, a guarantee, usually just after an exhausting conflict both (1) that the utterer will thereafter be and remain tolerant and (2) that his universe will be filled with other exhausted tolerants like himself, and that no fool will tempt him. Another denial of the nature of life, evolution, humanity, even the material universe. How can the US have both free speech and treason. (They both have to be in quotes.) Ezra Pound. “Literal” freedom of speech would be ultimate turn the other cheekism to one’s own abandonment of competition for reality. Many forms of existence could exist. But the existential tolerance is not infinite or indiscriminate in any particular physical or semantic universe. You’re matter or your antimatter. You’re dextero-chiral or levro-chiral. Both aren’t likely to mix chemically, absolutely not in biochemistry. The dextros lose. Try another universe, pal. Is that why we bilateral symmetricals are generally righties? A little get even? The verbal bandying of freedom betrays a pathetic parochialism. Freedom of religion only means that you haven’t really conceived any possibility of conception other than your own god. He doesn’t mind whether you’re baptized at 8 days circumcision time or at 13 years bar mitzvah time. Or at least you decide so after a lot of puritans and baptists have killed each other. But how about Allah and his covenant with the Arabs: go forth and multiply. Conquer for you and for me. I give you everything you can take. Kill the Christians and then preach how tolerant you actually are.
So. We then need other laws under which to deprive Muslims of their freedom to spread the word that it’s a good and divine thing to kill you. No, they still have freedom of speech; we’re … um … we’re just … how about we don’t let them in? Don’t allow them status, means, or weapons if they get in. But you have a law that all must be allowed weapons? No, you misunderstand, you’re confused. I mean we do, but er that’s for um …
why we wear clothes even in the tropics and subtropics. I would have guessed along with most people for most of my life something along the lines: to aid pair maintenance, to prevent orgies from being the only thing we ever accomplish. Ie, to cover the female. Now I think more: to prevent actual male dominance displays? Shoving the penis in the face? The neck tie instead? False penises instead? New Guinea?
Lt Scheisskopf’s Please tell me. How can we attract good teachers? they ask with the castration knife held high aloft so we can’t mistake it. They’ll come up with a solution which will perpetuate the same, ameliorate in detail while accelerating in general. And cost more money. Are you kidding? There are more good teachers hiding in the bushes than there are in your schools and universities.
I really don’t want to see Gunfight at OK Coral again, but everything else as I eat dinner is worse. So I read more Morris, but the tube stayed on. I know those blue eyes. I have to think. This guy from Rebel without a Cause, used self, Peter Fonda & Jack Nicholson in the druggie biker thing, and Colors which I haven’t seen. Of all the name confusions I’m guilty of, his is the worse. I’ve got to think it out so I’ll never mix his name up with McCloud, the gofer in Gunsmoke. Ok. Dennis Weaver, Dennis Hopper. You mean it was just their having the same first name that has kept me from keeping them straight all these years?
Joseph Wambaugh’s Echoes in the Darkness. Another good new journalist I finally get around to joining the discovery of. Main line gothic which I’d never heard of on the main line. What is it about places that makes them most pleasingly recognizable where crime is concerned? New York after a youth of movies. LA after a young adulthood of Hammet and Chandler. Now lots of places. But still, if I hadn’t lived on the main line, would I have recognized all this business about Wayne and West Chester and King of Prussia and Merion this and that?
Throughout it I’m thinking of evolution, conceptual reality, etc. If enough people weave it, it’s appears real, if only one or two weave it, it appears delusory.
How arbitrary (?) reality is (or is arbitrary going to turn out to be another undefined(able) term?). The atom weaves thus. We didn’t do that part (except in our modeling; it really does seem that there are atoms and that they’re structured something like we think. But they’re structured out of structure.) What if they wove differently? They do. There are close to 100 stable and almost stable ones. Stable for how long?
The molecules: shorter term, but that too preceded us (or did it?). DNA. Now we’re getting closer. Closer to us and what we weave, and closer to maybe our reweaving them? Disaster? Salvation? How can it be anything but both?
Weave them and weave them and weave them again, the whole biosphere and maybe the whole area of the galaxy and maybe the whole galaxy and maybe whole families of galaxies and maybe the whole universe, all weaving similar/the same, and it’s as though they have a spine, as though they have to be that way, as though a spine were something solid, as though anything were solid. Well, they are; compared to something which isn’t. But that narrow misperception is all we’ve allowed ourselves for most if not all of history (and who knows what before?). Is the misperception a necessary part of the formula for weaving? Do I do damage (beyond to myself) by noticing the convention? If we’re wrong enough, will it be as though we were right? For a little while longer at least? Could all of reality be woven thus? Out of fictions, white lies, power play lies? Then wouldn’t there have to be a less arbitrary reality behind it? A physics for the physics?
The two faces of god. God is what’s beyond our sense, our patterning, our conventions, even our creative epistemology. ; God is us, we’re made in his image, no, it’s this, our pattern, that he’s on the side of. That it. He takes sides. He favors us. Outsiders may have their god too, but we’ll show them. God favored our not recognizing black Africans as our species, our cousins, highly civilized too, until we destroyed it, concealed the evidence. We did it for our families, our status, their protection, security. That’s why we all live in a bunker. It’s the devil that made it go all wrong. We don’t want to live in a bunker. We want to take their land and then live in peace. What do you mean, stay in our own land. We ruined that a long time ago. Anyway, what land? We move around. Except when we’re staying put. Then we own it. Peace so long as there’s somebody else to lord it over. Hell, that’s why we call him lord.
Super monkey. Wow, did I ever get it right when in Judgment Day I had J turn into a spasming baboon. Except that wasn’t J; that was S. Disguised. Fooling us. So how should we know? That difference isn’t in our ken.
Desmond Morris now joins Nigel Calder (& GB) in my pantheon of synthesists who go beyond what we get from Asimov and Sagan. All English. Could they have an advantage in coming from an ex-Empire that nevertheless has all the archiving and educational and research structure still in place? Could Americans next century be that clear? And have an audience?
How about Darwin? Smack in the middle of Victoria. He didn’t want to publish. Probably couldn’t have if he hadn’t been known for this and that and had the right family. What if he’d come up with it and wanted to publish before he’d gathered all that data that already had people coming to him? Wallace. Could he have stepped right in and found a publisher? Intention to publish, having something to publish, and getting published aren’t the same thing.
Print man wants a linear genealogy. Not only linear, but selected. And then we BELIEVE it! Ford invented the automobile. ? Ok, so then he invented mass production. No? then … er … How about: he made a lot of cars? Sold a lot. How about COMBINED cars and mass production? Knew who and what to in- and exclude.
Jews are descended from Abraham. Maybe they are. But by parthenogenesis? No body else? We all have 22 n-times parents. Or it’s like the bridge hand. Oh wow, all spades. Deuce of clubs, 8 of diamonds, five of hearts … any precise 13 will be just as likely/unlikely. Fact is, we come from everything. If it’s old enough. Including the excluded dextro-molecules.
Midnightish before I get to the rec hall and rack them. One drops on hard break. But otherwise a truly terrible spread, instead of seven or eight of them spread around the foot of the table, most of the 15 are clumped toward the middle. Not even a shot at a side pocket. Oh well. One possible angle back toward the head. Cue hits 1 mm right instead of 1 mm left. I surprised it even came close by the time it got to the corner. And this on the side of the table generally more true than the other. I didn’t ram it, but still had enough on it that the ball comes back toward the center. A hard stoke, a bad stoke, one down, and piss poor prospects. But then next falls. And the next. Hmm. This bank shot is the closest to where I’m standing. My rhythm quickens. Next thing I know, I notice that I’m still stringing and there are only three balls on the table. That breaks my rhythm. Hmm. Break, miss, then eleven in a row: total twelve. The remaining three are no harder than the others had been: all hard. But now I can’t make them to save myself. Didn’t count, but it was too many. Finally, only the cue ball left on the table and that’s it. One rack. Probably my best and highest string ever. Go home.
The two faces of god again.
The many faces of public opinion, the local appearance of solidarity. You hit somebody with your car. If he dies, it’s manslaughter, the cop says. You worry. This accident is now tied to your life. You pull for the guy. Maybe you start to send a card to his family; then you don’t. Your friends all say it wasn’t your fault. Good. You be the jury right now. But they’re not. You know they’re not. They know they’re not. Tribal grooming. But this is insane: nobody gets called for manslaughter in something like this.?! Oddly, there is a trial. You don’t know whether you’re guilty or innocent until twelve people and a judge tell you. Innocent. Whew! Of course. What else? It’s over.
But is it? You insurance rates go up. Everyone’s rates went up, but yours skyrocketed.
And how about judgment day? But god, how can I be tried twice?
Sorry pal, different jurisdiction.
dominant male. retaliation for insubordination must be immediate and overwhelming. Opportunity to defeat dominant male and take over. But a pass at that time from the subordinate does not mean no future battle. The subordinate male’s challenge time may be bided. And humans aren’t the only social species where the male can be female. Hyenas with erect clitoris/pseudo penis.
human society has multiple dominant male slots.
Caesar, Pilat, the Sanhedron can X X.
But X is not subordinate in other respects. Xity has him biding his time.
There are minimally two evolutions: the one that took place and the one(s) that didn’t. The later are of two kinds: thank goodness and what a pity.
The group insists on the perdition path? Fuck em. That’s your revenge. You’re not the dominant male? Did you want to be? Did you try and fail? In the old status terms? Or in some other, maybe also status terms, but status they’re not aware of, not competing for? Terms that perhaps history may judge by, or an infinity of higher abstractions and perspectives? Evolution (genetic/memetic); survival. You survived? Yeah, but look how.
Survival is the only guide for trad biological evolution. But for social evolution? Meme conflict doesn’t have to win the first battle or the second or the hundredth. It doesn’t have to win any. In fact, losing is the most ferocious revenge on the stupid, the reactionary.
Reactionary. Of course I’m more reactionary than those called reactionary. They want to cast back to a poisonous innovation. I want to cast back to before the innovation. Which takes great innovation. I don’t even want to stop being a primate. The AIs can stop being primates, but not me. It’s the dumb Xians who want to/ think they have/ stopped being primates. Or never were. As they exhibit nothing else.
Not winning here and now (and maybe never) doesn’t bother me because I never misassessed the odds. But the ubiquitous in/out status jump all over the weak (the perceived/misperceived weak) does. Temporarily. Unless, I decide to treat them as an outgroup. No rights, no more than they gave me. And others. Surprise. No, it’s only your own group that must signal an attack. Show mercy. But if it came to an offered throat? Would I accept that? Accepting it would mean joining the group? Remains to be seen. Maybe. Maybe not.
And at our level, the offered throat could be another weapon. Disarm the attacker, get him back into the range of your own weapons.
Just reading about a number of odd and not so odd status manipulators. Is this Wambaugh story true. Some Merion school teacher? Two wives. Multiple fiancees, a female roomie, an exroomie fag, and no evidence that the guy fucked much. Huggy huggy. Hitler has only got one ball, the troops sang, and autopsy found it to be true. Napoleon short and just about dickless.
Xity in a total absence of evidence or inheriting a total repression of or silence on evidence, decides that X was lifelong chaste. What chaste? Old meaning, or new? Same difference, if he was a bachelor. god or no god (as though that distinction where meaningful), what about the man? (as though that distinction were meaningful.) “Compensation”? I’ll dominate these crowds?
Freudians’ crap, as though we were nothing but dick. That’s not even true of baboons. The double speak of Xity. depravity/angelic, with the nature of the angelic dichotomy none too clear. not consistently, not usefully. Oh, sure somebody will improvise, plagiarize some rhapsody. heaven is that, angels are that, god is a to z plus. No, I didn’t mean that. God is a to z plus minus a to z plus, which is the devil. nothing usable in court. a different convenient definition the next time there’s an opportunity to show off or to push some outsider around.
I wouldn’t feel that there would be no significant difference whether such people lived or died if I weren’t convinced that we’re dangerously overcrowded. Not just to each other. I’m not a species chauvinist. Maybe I would be if we weren’t dangerously overcrowded and overcrowding all else. 10 million people left. Meaning, there might appear to be a few hundred. I’d probably favor us over all. Any of us. As it is, I’d just as soon decimate. That’s only 10%. So, decimate again. And again. But your own family might have been in that group. So? I favor myself, but not especially genetically. Not in these conditions. I like my brain, I like my dick, I like my blue eyes, my coordination, but there’s just as much where I’m nothing much. Plain defects. Anyway, I don’t think my brain is really any different. It’s what I’ve done with it. (I necessarily being I/them, my brain in their milieu. But others too were in their milieu, and they’re not me.)
Ten of us in the same Sunday school. How come only I took it seriously? Thirty of us being assigned the same poem? How come when the society’s double binds where being presented to some other or the same thirty of us, on me it didn’t take? Was my literalness, my sometimes deliberate tunnel vision, an intelligence? a perversity? a weapon to get “even” (at whatever cost to myself? A self already perceived to have no future?)
Tunnel Vision. BK, I played Ladder Tuesday afternoon for the first time in years. Miscoordinated. The KayPro’s owner standing there as my lad finally found his way to the top of Easy Street. “Oh, it’s got you,” he said, as I leaped der rock and snatched the &. “You made it.” He was surprised.
Still, I crapped out at 16,000 something. Then 34,000, then 65,000. A bit of regression. My timing to land on the first vertical in Long Island was off. If you’ve got it, you get there and beyond before the first der rocks arrive. Just under the first of them to your second perch. Only once did I go back and get the second to last & in Long Island. Only once did I succeed in snatching it on my way in.
Then my ghost town was rusty. Pleased at how quickly I got back the jump over the wall, snatch, reverse and land running back onto the second tier. Several times I missed the final ampersand and had to climb back up from the bottom. Once my lad’s time ran out. I never got more than 7 lads to work with.
Finally, I got to Tunnel Vision. Der rocks were falling all over before I could even find where my lad started from. Oddly though, in another second I was less rusty there. Lost a lad through sheer inattention and then through. By which time I was frazzled. Lost lads in Easy Street. Didn’t reachieve Tunnel Vision. A most refreshing reacquaintance, though I would have liked to have gotten back into six figures. Still, as I had business to discuss with the computer’s owner, and as the business went well, I’m glad I didn’t spend more than a hour or so with it.
Also oddly pleasant the pace at which different memories came. Had you asked me what the mazes were and their order as I sat down, I couldn’t have said. Maybe Easy Street would have come to me. Now I try to remember: Bug town. Gangland. Is that the last one? The one and only one I never got through? Never even got a good start in?
Ali a guest on Arsenio Hall. Surprise from the wings: Sugar Ray and Mike Tyson. What a great show. And what a kick to see the other two champions in totally subservient roles. Three kids fawning on the big jock. Ali did grace Tyson with awe and fear at his puissance. Finally showed him something from his pocket. Was that really a sap? Ali, you would have … and he feigns sleep. No, no, I couldn’t have caught you, Tyson protests. You went against all the heavies. Liston, Forman. I think Sugar Ray is every bit as great a champion as Tyson, though clearly he was the lightweight in the group. And Arsenio was hardly there. What a privilege to be that audience. I wish Desmond Morris could have seen it. Maybe he did. Talk about correspondence between baboons and people. The dominant male.
Best, was everyone’s patience at Ali’s slowness of speech. The brain still seems to be cooking, his disease just won’t let it flow. Funny thing was, his present cumbersomeness seemed to go with his status.
tv guy solemnly utters that “we’re a nation of laws; not of men.” Each time I hear that it becomes more transparent to me, the intention, probably largely unconscious of the speaker. I’m not saying that there’s no truth in it: just that it isn’t true. But not true or not very true or partly true, the intent is clearly to deceive, to gloss over, an appeal, the solemnity masking the desperation, for solidarity. We must pretend to believe our rhetoric.
Somebody declares an intention. Maybe they mean it, or think they do. An ideal, a change of ideals. Ill thought out, half thought out. Thought out in the nevernever land of semantic illusion/delusion without cross reference to zoology or to biology. Or to history, including our own.
I’ll never forget my first real jolt of that phrase. c. Nixon’s resignation. The law bypassed, the cliché redolent. Melcher’s comment: We are a nation, not of men, but of lawyers.
“the final inspiration” for the model recedes as I give it more time to coalesce. Fuck me. Maybe it’s time to make a little money. Writing plenty, but not the “fiction.” Notebook time. Itch, itch. I even broke down and talked about myself in a similar time Juneish. Wrote about early sex. It isn’t just that memories come the more when my sex life exists only mentally (a good place for it). Memories come plenty no matter how active I am sexually. Only once, but once I was intimate with three different females in one day. At least one of them I only met after leaving the second. Maybe all three were strangers to me. I only remember the third and that she was the third, remember how awful she was. I was attracted to neurotics. Easy prey? In tune with me somehow? But this girl was on a different level. Just out of Strockbridge Hospital. Flattest girl I’ve ever seen. Fascinated by the ring of hair around her nipples. She had far more hair there and darker, than I did. Skinny me had almost as much tit as she did. But the nipple was definitely female. Almost female, anyway. Except when it came to response. She wasn’t shy about her body, just rigid of response. What was she letting play with her for? Being nice to me? Cause I was being nice to her? Why did I bother after the first minute? I didn’t bother for long. I certainly didn’t another bang, though I was straining to feel the lust return. Pretending it was there. Anyway, my point is, when with three, I remembered two. No doubt with two, I had remembered one. Who did I think of with the first one? How often have I ever actually been with whoever I was with? Martha about the only one where I regularly thought Martha, and not screened a medley of girls fucked and not fucked. The not fucked always persisting the most vividly.
Also funny. Last bio time, I’d left out a confession I’d meant to make even earlier than that that would have segued right in. Forgot? Yes, I’d have put it in had I thought of it. Too chicken to remember? Not exactly something I’ve been plagued with guilt about. Must be my comments to BK’s Pain that even puts the word in my head. But I’ve though of it uncomfortably several times in my life. The only time, child or adult, I’ve ever used the seemingly usual methods to strip a girl. Also the only time I didn’t act alone. Though I was clearly “the leader.”
Pete Longworth lived at the T of North Forest Ave into Cedar Street (I think that was the name), Locust Street, just a couple of houses up, and Cedar the next short block after that. But, except for my paper route, I seldom went that way. Pete and I weren’t friends. I was hardly aware that he lived so close. My friends were all from within the one block: Rudy and Babs, Betsy, Nancy, Ann, Cathy, Gene, … I’m forgetting some who were their friends or who moved away, Arlene & Grace (older very little my friends, the only two I never stripped or tried to). All girls, except for Rudy, and when he was old enough to cross Lakeview Ave, then only girls. I knew Pete more at school than at home. Felt sorry for him since hearing of his parents’ death being hit by the LIRR before the terrible crash that made them install the elevated. One day I run across Pete. So we’re hanging around, talking of this and that. Was I showing off? Somehow sticking things into girls cracks came up. Must have been brought up be me. Pete didn’t know what I was talking about. What? You’ve never played cops and robbers? Apparently not. It’s easy, I tell him. I look around. Within seconds some little girl comes walking by. Not one of my friends. She lived in the next block toward Pete. Next to Scott, the kid who tied me in his garage and set it on fire. The kid who was always mixing chemicals from his set to try to blow up the school. Or maybe she was his kid sister. I don’t remember. I guess it was that much scorned family that kept chickens and didn’t cut their grass. Even less than I did. I wasn’t much of a suburbanite. But I had no peers that were. I should cut the grass at age 8 just because mother didn’t? And she’d mention it? There are kids in Brooklyn who’d give their right arm to have a lawn to mow. Good, Mom. You send me to Brooklyn in exchange for one. I’ll hang out and wear zoot suits.
I don’t even remember if I knew this girl’s name. But I walk up to her. I asked her if she wanted to earn a nickel. Shame, shame. Somehow an ice cream cone was mentioned. Maybe I had to invent for her how she might spend it. Sure, she says. Come with me. Us. This is Pete. We’re medical students, and we’re studying anatomy. Into the garage. Into the back seat of the car. She pulls off her drawers, lays back, and Pete and I look our fill. Pete is giggling like crazy. I explain to her that giggling is a code we medical students use. I’d started giggling by that time too. We didn’t probe, we just looked. After a while, we’d had enough. She got dressed and continued home. I don’t remember whether or not I had a nickel. Or if Pete did. The girl didn’t mention it. And neither did I. That’s the terrible thing. I’m sure, or feel sure, that I remembered. Remembered and didn’t pay! Could I be imagining that I remembered? Maybe. But I am sure that we didn’t pay. And I’m the one who contracted it. Never spoke to the girl again.
Pete didn’t bring it up either. Couple of creeps.
Hardly ever spoke to Pete again either.
I remember freshly her smell of urine. And Babs had smelled of shit as she struggled to receive me. Only once as an adult have I had the odor of urine assault me with a woman. Shit only rarely. Not always even a little tang on the finger I’ve probed her ass with. The adult atmosphere of piss was from that girl I lent money to pay her phone bill. I’m getting ready to drive to NY to take BK to Tannersville. Gotta shower first. Packing will be quick. The ski rack’s already on the car. The door bell rings. I’m just on my way out. She still stands there. Well, come in. I’ve got to move around. She follows me. I’ve got to shower. She sits on the bed. I come out in a towel. I don’t want to be late for my son. Why don’t we get together next week? She smiles. What the fuck. A quickie. She was a bum lay. Maybe I was too that time. If she came, I couldn’t tell. Loyalty to her boyfriend? She was plenty cute standing up and moving about, but lying down with her legs open, she was a lump. I’d been in her house one when she changed her daughter’s diaper. The whole place stank of piss. I’d thought it was just the baby. She’d already half repaid the loan by then. She moved out and I never got the last $40 or so. Maybe that’s what the persistence was for. Considering the boyfriend, maybe that’s what being a lump was also for.
Now I’m remembering how I first met her. The doorbell rings. I’m just out of bed in the middle of the afternoon. Unshaved. Mouth unrinsed. In my terry cloth robe that I gave BK. Cute blond. Selling Electrolux. Thanks, I’ve got one. It’s ancient, but it works. No repairs since new around 1946. Can I see it? A permanent bag. She couldn’t even sell me replacement bags. It’s ok, she says. This will help me sell the new ones. I see she probably hasn’t made a single sale yet. In her life. Nice apartment. I show her the terrace. Afternoon sky over the ocean. Off season. Quiet. I stand behind her. Where unseen I can conceal my erection by tucking it up under the robe’s belt. Should I give her a prod? If she likes it, it’s right in position to fall out the front of the robe and be right in place for her denim demi-spheres. Maybe if I had brushed my teeth even. I resist. When I show her to the door, I’ve just got to give her a fondle. I don’t. Next thing I know, she moves in downstairs. She visits me, I visit her. Now I’ll put my arms around her. She just goes unresponsive. My boyfriend will be back next week. Very jealous. Her ass doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. Then it was easy to leave her alone. But so sorry for her. The phone company wouldn’t install a phone because of her old bill. Hampered her trying to follow up contacts. She doesn’t even have any way to get the Electrolux around except by carrying it. Has to walk to the company a few times a day. What have these people been doing all their lives? They’re not all writing novels.
reading Morris makes me think, quite startlingly revising maybe, my lifelong impatience to live in one world, consciously united. But now I’m recognizing how true his point is that peace within a system creates internal divisiveness. Which is better, international war, prejudice, misunderstanding, chronic economic and intellectual inequalities (among genetic equals), occasional slavery even, where nevertheless some liberty can sometimes be the norm for lots of places, or one world of perpetual civil war? May the disjunctures are actually saving us. Sometimes hell? Sure, but only sometimes. Even for the slaves.
if you look at history, there’s something oddly fair about civilization. Culture after culture gets a turn. Some never? Hey, history isn’t over yet.
somehow there’s justice in the pride of waned empires.
in evolution: set it back to zero. except it isn’t the same zero. it’s the new zero, the zero that remembers earlier decisions, at least their results. there is no zero. Where can zero ever be except merely where you set it (or where it’s set for you)?
Now is there ever, could there be, could there even be a theory of, a singularity of real zero? A BB? No continuity between before and after? Would that not itself be information?
Son of God? If one is aware of evolution, then the evolution one is participating in isn’t the same evolution as that which your regular subject matter is participating in. Being aware of the next logical level or the next couple, where that awareness is not part of the normal awareness of others of your form. Now, if Jesus was aware of evolution, had some sense of the cybernetic path, 2,000 years ago, certainly, he was a man and not a man, was from higher logical levels, more profound circuits of cause and effect, … What’s all that but god? Easy to confuse new god with old god. Ah, next time, he’ll be the bronze age super tyrant. Sorry, once again we’ve got things backwards. He envisioned effects the bronze age jews and romans didn’t want even to try to follow. Not that we have any choice in what effects we participate in. Whoops, sloppily said. Of course we do, unprecedentedly so. The degree to which we participate in effects and causes over and above your next mammal over has to be at least similar to the effects that some of us are beginning to see that we also participate in but didn’t intend.
evolution powered by? assumption of group that belonging to it is the best anyone could want. Of course I’m thinking of human social evolution, but pattern could apply more generally. Whether or not that last part is true, I’ll still bet it’s an important pattern in just the human social evolution. Morris’s traumatic learning inflicted by the elders of the culture at time of initiation. Torture is ok, confident that the tortured aspires to be an elder. But what if the pre-imprinting hasn’t taken? Now you’re creating a traitor (from your standpoint; a libertarian from his). Most will have been so imprinted, the system will work, or appear to in the generalization wired awareness of the elder. Torture outsiders who have no chance of becoming an elder? Why not? What harm could they do? You have the power. Sure there are things to criticize, the elder will concede, oozing benevolence, reasonableness. Sure, and we know about them. We might even get around to correcting them one of these millennia. Trust us. We’re as good as it gets. We’re better than ever before. Do you think you’re perfect? You don’t even have your own air force.
Star Trek is a great show to monitor shifting styles of status. One thing in particular has been standing out like a wart to me the last several viewings. The captain controls the machine, the star ship, not by pushing buttons, which seems to be all that’s involved, but by instruction that they be pushed and timing them like a conductor. You can’t play ball until the umpire says so. It’s perfectly clear at the end that all they need to do, now that the emergency is over, the bad guys and events and dangers thwarted, is take off. Now we can take off, everyone says. Good lets take off, the captain says. Pause, the baton raised in the pose, I don’t push no buttons, Lt. Sulu, … He stands, posed, the center of composition, no other distracting details, the dominant male, the executive, King Arthur who doesn’t have to wield his own sword. “Now.” And the button gets pushed. The show is over. Primate hierarchy lives. He never says I can push my own fuckin button. The subordinate never says, whatsamatter, ya finga’s sprained?
The Victorian aristocracy didn’t even have to do its own fucking, let alone its own nursing.
God. How devastating. Last night, not feeling up to mod4, what surfaced of my many frustrations was not having Comet accessible to the Plus. How long would it take to copy 145 pp? Could I resist rewriting? Rewriting is what I want to do, but not just yet. Still, I’d like to access it without dog-earing my one hard copy. Compromise. I decided to copy, just copy!, the synopsis. See how I feel after a couple/few years. Ok, it was the synopsis, not the text, but still. I hated it. I can think of lots of explanations, reasons to forgive myself, but still. All those revisions, sure each one better, problems solved, but still, the whole not smooth, not really well conceived. Basic theme? Sure, I still think that’s great. I wish I’d been capable of doing it right. But even that: great from my perverse, misanthropic standpoint. But who’s going to want to read it? Voluntary reading is to seek advantage, pleasure, reinforcement, not bad news. Fiction is where we flatter our ass off. Now I knew that. I wanted to try this anyway. So I hadn’t read any science fiction in decades beyond a little Arthur C Clarke. What had I read between Circus of Dr. Lao in 1961 or 62 maybe 63 and Rendezvous with Rama, 1970 something? Even I couldn’t remember that I had invented half of the stuff I did in Comet, it seemed so clichéd. Or, oh the evil influence of Star Trek. I was trying to be popular. Colonels. Military hierarchies. Position. News shows. But even the language. The invention isn’t nearly dense enough. The diction self-satisfied. A fucking drag. Even LonFyt YeMip didn’t seem so well conceived. Over familiar with the problems? That, surprisingly, was the part I wanted to rewrite the most.
So. I start from scratch. Tomorrow? Next year? Will I ever have the energy to give it a real shot? I never claimed to be a novelist. Until I started to think of novels. So how about one good one, finished? How about Dark Beacon? Months, and it’s going nowhere. Can’t finish a short story? What the fuck is my understanding for? Just to divorce me from how things actually happen in human society? Things that I think I’ve expressed well: do they generally sound as crummy as Comet?
It feels weird to find myself agreeing with Bluejay: it’s not good enough. With Carr: who needs another disaster novel? What I can’t forgive is their leaving it at that. Carr had completely forgotten the overall synopsis, which he had been excited by. My fault for not knowing to send it written after I had told him? I sent him what he asked for. Now I know better. You need to be a professional to deal with professionals. Every bureaucrat expects you to understand their system, to correct their errors. Why should they have to explain anything to a beginner? What business does a fifty year old have being a beginner? It’s good, but it’s not for us? What would make it for them? No feedback? Is there a law? I hold them accountable for their lack of helpfulness. I was guessing at what they wanted. No help in guessing better? Why should I have to guess, once they’ve agreed the idea is great?
stories: how we make sense of experience.
attitude of the state. You may have children. For their protection, we’ll make them ours. We’re the good guys, wise and strong. So it’s right, right? Everyone has a right to reproduce. Do with your offspring what you will. So long as it’s what we would do.
story much in the Tampa area news. Some social workers turned a kid over to its parents. Parents drowned kid in toilet bowl. Media agitating to have more social workers keep more children from more parents. (“story” in this sense: how we try to impose an order. Any culture’s bible.)
ss: gov’t prosecutes parents’ negligence. Kid tried to run away and parents really scorched him. Huck Finn, hah! Govt takes custody. Kid runs away. Caught. Sixteen. Runs again. Cops sees him running. Stop. Shoots kid. It’s ok, he thought he was a criminal. Right too, kid always giving trouble. His own fault.
Does it occur to anybody to take the kids away from the government? To check which direction has more or fewer disasters? Have parents ever caused anything like the disasters governments cause? Onuothuhan, would there really be 4 or 5 billion of us watching tv and terrorizing lakes on weekends if it weren’t for the super organizers? Ah, but which will foster more numbers over more time? Is the biosphere richer? What will it be? Will there always be 4 or 5 billion? or 10 or 15? Or ten or a thousand times that? Will there long be even 1 billion? Evolution has had only 10,000 years to monitor such stuff. Hardly long enough for it to notice we’re here.
original pattern manipulation is conspicuously absent in almost all argument. Argument isn’t generally “thinking” in that sense, but species (a pattern of sorts) recognition. Ah ha, the enemy … and you go right into a catechism. Ah ha, an inferior … and you parade you’re imagined social status. Gulp, a superior … and you fawn. That might be fine if our identifications were correct. Or if species were immutable.
Civilization: Let’s eat out.
On the savanna, that was the only choice.
With early agriculture, eating in became the main choice.
great excess wealth (meaning the destruction of multiple habitat) offered a choice. restaurants developed, offering variety, easy, and redistributing wealth toward the restaurant.
Now. We’ve cut down most of the forest, paved everything, so each despoiler has his own kitchen, heated and air-conditioned, and a plumbing system to plumb right down into the aquifer as well as the oceans. Everything has been killed to that more cattle can be penned, more goose livers diseased, and only hybrid grasses allowed to grow without war being declared on them. Thousands of millennia of fossil residues are burned so that one generation of one species can freeze things, taking more and more energy as the greenhouse effect goes apace. There. Modern man and modern woman in their modern house. Let’s eat out. They get into the car and drive to MacDonalds where their diet is the purest civilization has yet produced. Including a laxative to wash it out quick, before it can do too much damage. Damage to the first consumer, that is. AT least not immediately.
Then, Let’s eat out. Only choice again. There’s been no bomb, no ordinarily political revolution: only unchecked success. The starving victors pick through the aluminum and rust.
food preparation labor, status, $ correlation. Chinese. Much labor, much variety, much refinement. History. A nice correlation between Gathering Economy care and Hunting’s modest bonanzas.
French, a much later development. Also a feudal kitchen. Labor intensive. But much more into fat and sugar. And a thousand uses of grains, rather than a hundred. Has to be expensive when the scullery and assistant to the assistant chef is no longer a wageless slave. What, we other wage slaves have to pay those slaves wages too? No thanks, I’ll have a hamburger.
But who’s imperial had moved again. The English ships and the Indust Rev. Status and labor go in opposite directions, compensating fight & die instead of labor wanes. Now you’ve got a duke who neither dies nor labors. But eats. Doesn’t even command his own troops anymore. How can he command his own kitchen when its slaves have to be paid? Like fucking, like food: the rich give up everything for a poorer and poorer power.
Similarly, BK just tells me about Crick on REM sleep. Then I hear these fools on a talk show showing a correspondence between amount of sleep and economic status. My time’s worth too much to sleep. Then they concede that that doesn’t apply so much where creative effort is involved. By creative they seem to mean not getting your hand cut off in a machine. Economic psychology. Please.
Sleep is many different things to me. Sometimes an escape. A cowardice. Always a resifting. The Arabs said don’t make any important decision until you’ve considered it carefully sober. and considered it carefully drunk. (Can that have been Arab? Maybe before Mohammed.) I try to maximize digestion. Tune in to the dreams. Leave them alone even if you can’t overhear. Trust them without thinking about them sober? Not at all. But still, I trust them more than your civilized average. Far more. Still, it was most refreshing to find myself waking up dawnish a couple of days in a row. So yesterday was nine. Still ten hours of sleep. Still ready to try again by ten last night. Wake at seven. Enough sleep? Sure. Did I feel altogether whole and ready to write OMNI? Back to bed. Shit. It’s eleven when I next awake. Thirteen hours solid sleep? Hardly. I woke up many times. Should I go to the john. Never quite bad enough. So the bowels took their own energy out of that. So I feel great. But when will I sleep next? When will I wake tomorrow? The day light was nice while it lasted.
I love to watch the language change. MonPM football. Rookie is accused of still thinking he’s in college as one foot doesn’t quite touch down in bounds. A bit later a veteran gets credit for a completion at the sidelines. Gifford says that a veteran just does that “instinctively.” All that training gives them all that instinct.
Commercials are getting almost as bad as soap with their doctors. Just saw one woman selling anti-baldness. Don’t believe all those miracle cures; believe this miracle cure. “People trust me: I’m a doctor.” And she actually looks at the camera with a straight face. First word of sound track of next commercial. Ergometrics in car design or something: “Doctor, …” Inevitable right? Don’t miss new Sept. show: teenage doctor, from the people who brought you … something else I have no intention of becoming introduced to. (Unless, like Taxi, it’s 15 years later and I finally learn I’ve missed something great, whatever its appearance. Consumerism is one thing in which objectivity is simply impossible. See every movie? You wouldn’t have any judgment left if you only saw those released in English. How about if your assignment were Bengali? Read every new novel published? What, a couple of thousand just in the US? And how many more thousand not published? How many not submitted? Like the sixties’ yo-yos saying don’t knock it if you ain’t tried it. You mean like heroin addiction? How about death? Or amputation?
Amazing. Last Sept I buy and start practicing from Bastien’s Older Beginner Book I. Do the whole thing in a day or two. One or two pieces I really like gradually became part of my daily repertoire. Little Rock in G. Eight O’Clock Rock in E. The Mozart fragment I go back and try a few more times. But mostly, once I’d played something anything close to passable after one of two tries, I’m on to Book II and back to the REAL books. No claim to have mastered the portfolio of “real” repertoire toward the end, Tchaikovsky, Grieg, Brahms. I glance at Book II as I’m about to begin it last Sept or Oct and think, oh wow, it’s all practice pieces. There are hardly any real “lesson” points at all. I flip through, looking in particular for something on hand positions from chords other than root position. What the hell, and I begin to race through it. In one or two days I’m 50 or so pages into it. I don’t play from that book quite every day, but 9, 10 months later I’m maybe 60 pages into the book. No lessons? Am I kidding. Every single piece is a terrific lesson. And the odd hand positions are there. They’re there in the piece if not in the prose. Last week I say this is ridiculous: finish the darn book. Then you can take all the time you want practicing it. Just play all the pieces at least once. Hmm. First I’ll see how well I can play the ones I’ve practiced so far. I don’t get 60 pages. Then I decide to go back and see how easy Book I is. Every day now, yesterday almost all day, I play the repertoire just at the end: Over the Waves, Sonata in A, March Slav, The Entertainer, Rubinstein’s Melody in F, Danube Waves, Swan Lake, the Gounod Marionettes, and Hungarian Dance 5, and Russian Dance from the Nutcracker. Holy mackerel. This is all from a first book? You mean I played this stuff straight off? Not like I’m playing it now. How long would I have to play to play it well? Now I notice some of the inverted finger positions were in Book I all along. Now I “improve” on the written bass lines: I stay in the inverted positions: go to inverted C from inverted G, even though the C written is the root position. Bit by bit, it’s coming. Even my improvisations are more chordal. Just what I wanted the synth for. What would it be like to play the flute again now? Apart from necessarily being back to zero tone without any tolerance for the cacophony. Well, maybe I could get some lip back in a week or two.
But now it may be another 10 months before I get back to page one of Book II. The Hungarian Dance!! Wow!! And all this A minor. Just when I’m trying for a good 4 bars of A- impro for Gettin It Togetha. Suddenly Bobby Timmons’ piece finds bits of Tchaikovsky and Brahms mixed in. I started playing that within days after BK left this past new years. How many days have passed since that I haven’t played it at least once? How about maybe a dozen times just yesterday?
But an aspect of how funny it is to still be in the same 50 or 60 pages of Book II, is that the second of third time I encounter the piece I’m likely to play it less well than the first time. Less concentration? Purely a false perception? Mostly I think it’s that now I realize a bit better what’s being introduced/practiced. I’m distracted by recognition. A very subtle teacher, this Bastien.
Bad teaching I’ve been thinking of recently. Esp since reading Morris. Golf. Guitar. First lesson is in English. Slow, like to an idiot. Second lesson. the jargon starts to slip in. Third lesson. It doesn’t just slip it: the pro is just showing off, not teaching. The lesson is that you’re in, rather at the border of, a serious inner world here, that he’s in and you’re not. Hey, I knew that. I’m paying you $15 to hear you talk about “getting the hips out of the way,” or “cutting,” or “pinching” the ball? Hook and slice is bad enough, if you haven’t first defined them. Did Leo ever spend 5 minutes trying to remember what he had or hadn’t told you? Leo had two classes of lessons: the first and the equivalent of the thirtieth.
Happy Traum’s first cassette spends 10 minutes just tuning the strings. The second cassette he’s playing fancy blues full blast. And you’re supposed to be following him? Playing along? Or rather isn’t is to show you that you’re not him. Had you thought you were?
That guy I met who “studied” under Rev Gary Davis. Hey. Davis never claimed to be a teacher or to talk ie play down to you. No, man, you catch up and keep up with me. I have no quarrel with him.
TV sports casters. The explain, but in the jargon. Then the network has a special intro. 30 minutes of keep eye on ball. No jargon. No terms. No nothing. Yet it was still addressed to people who knew the game, just were very stupid in how to watch it.
Korzybski and sports casters. Football too, but especially baseball. Especially with Tom Terrific as caster. The whole spiel is about fine points of how statistics can misrepresent your performance. Are baseball people stupid? Why don’t they redefine their statistics if they’re so bad? Tom quotes Lasorda. It all depends on how it comes out. Walking in a lead run in the ninth rather than pitch to Ted Williams. If you win, you’re a genius; if you lose, you’re an idiot. Christ. I should manage baseball. I should be able to beat every one of them if they believe that a particular result proves or disproves the validity of a particular probability. In backgammon, you make your estimate and you make your play. If you win, take it humbly, if you lose, so what? There are some decisions that are too close to call even in probability. So you just decide. Next time you’d try a different call. Whatever the previous result had been. If it seems roughly six of one half dozen of the other, you should call them half and half. You should also expect to win/lose only half and half from such decisions. But games aren’t a decision; they’re series of decisions. And all good decisions can still lose. Make the same decisions next time. If you’re decisions are mostly good, and you’re still mostly losing, look at the other guy’s dice, not at your decisions. If the other guy’s dice aren’t crooked, then you’d better look again at your decisions. The math won’t be wrong. If it’s still wrong, then it is the math that’s wrong. A very important discovery. But one that hasn’t been made, except here pseudo hypothetically.
I bought the synth cause I’d gone to the famous music barn in Bryn Mawr to see what books I could pick up that might help me learn to improvise. I’d play the sixteen or thirty two bars from the REAL Book and then it would be my chorus. Freeze. On to the next written piece. That’s not how it would happen in the clubs or on my records. The “composed” part would be over and it would be like an unbroken train into the blowing. Dizzy would blow on up over the top and out of sight, but chug chug here comes Getz, up from the basement. And then every once in a while, some guy, Lucky Thompson, say, on Walkin, just had to be having a heart attack after wailing, I mean really wailing, for x dozen bars, and /dop! badabadopbop! badadop, badadop/ or some kind of riff, the other guys you’d thought were on their fifth cigarette while Lucky played are now whispering together behind his back, smoke drifting out of the horns. I used to go out of my mind when those riffs would come in. It was beyond me how those guys knew just what to play and when to do it, I mean in unison. But this was improvised, right? How did Lucky know what to play either.
My how history misleads us about everything. Improvised as distinct from straight-jacketed, not as distinct from having no form (which no mean only no existence, right?).
Anyway, I’ve been fooling with the flute for a couple of years, I can play everything from the REAL Book more or less and I want to begin to understand what happens next. Now, I have to admit, it’s beginning to come to me a little. First thing I’d done on getting the flute, reason I’d gotten the flute, was I’d found a written line for Zawinul’s In a Silent Way in Miles’ bio. Tried it on the recorder and I was stymied. Not only was it near impossible for me to play a lot of flats and such on the recorder, or, as here, a bunch of sharps, even on the alto where I was comfortable: but this piece was wider than my poor two octave range. Now I know that you can get another couple of notes off the top of a recorder, flute too, but you can’t lengthen the bottom except literally, with a B-Foot. And transposing the written E up to F# or G, just F would have done, was more than I could conceive of myself doing. My then self. So Ken tells me he’s got a flute. I break his arm and he yields lending it to me to 1 day. This was the year, I’d been playing golf all day every day. And the season was changing. Winter was coming. I put the same crazy energy into brushing up on the recorder, but now I’d run out of musical capacity on the instrument’s part. Wow. I had to have one. And I buy the open hole offset G silver job. All through the winter I play the flute all day every day. At first I still can’t play In a Silent Way. Very well. I learn the bottom register first, then up one, not any too steady from F down or from E up, and the octave above that, forget about it. I’d told the jerk who’d sold it to me what I wanted it for, he says sure, as though he understands, and then sells me a C instrument! B is the bottom note of Silent. So? From his standpoint, had he considered it, play it up an octave. That piece? Wrong, wrong. This player? Wrong again. Then he tells me about a B foot. It’s like eating out from old Alexandria to MacDonald’s today. Just keep chopping up the world to spend more and more, because nobody can listen to how modest your intended expansion had been in the first place. You want to get over there? Swim. Walk. Jump. No, we’ve got to invent airplanes and war so they’ll let us land. I glower at this ruinous bastard. Then he tells me that a B foot distorts the tone. Harder to play. So I didn’t really want a B foot in the first place. The real truth is I hadn’t wanted a flute, just a simple instrument with more than two octave range, not too loud, not too expensive, and about to play the B just below middle C. A wooden alto flute. $35. No, this guy was selling Western orchestral stuff. What the fuck, it got me further along anyway.
So now I have to work out in the upper ranges all the sooner. It’s ok, you just need a little lip muscle. I comes. It came, and I’m playing Silent along with Miles. Whoops, end of written part. I know Miles has the first solo, I know it’s lines and its pulse, I know them in my blood. Of course the whole thing has been a miracle all along and still is, except now I too can fumble along through the opening. But my god, here’s the end of the map, here’s uncharted water, here’s where Miles just keeps right on going, and the others with him. So I’ve done this a dozen times. This one time, suddenly, I know. I know when Miles first solo note is coming, and suddenly I know what it is too. B! Whoops. Just realized. It was B all right, but it was All Blues I was playing along with, not Silent that time. All my life I’d listened to Levy and Myron talking about learning the chords. Knowing the changes. Not knowing what they were talking about. Knowing the result, the spirit, but not the method of building it. And suddenly I know Miles is going to play a B. Ie, strongly believe, and then also turn out to be right. I play a B. For one moment longer than ever before, I’m still with him. I don’t say that any one at Columbia should then have wanted to recut the record with my amateur B cut in now too. It wasn’t for a audience. It was just that my training wheels had taken me one moment further in the company of genius.
I need to go further. I buy of book on improvisation and can’t make heads of tails of its jargon. Then I’m in Bryn Mawr and here’s this nice music store. Oh, it’s not New York, but I’m not in New York. Actually it’s better. You can wander around in this one. It’s got plenty. Music publisher too. I find another book on Improvisation. Can’t read this one either. But I buy it. I’ll force a study. I take it home. Hours, not penetrating the first page. Play these chords? First together, then broken? One piece of advice was clear: “Get a chord instrument.” My guitar was in storage. I got it out. Still, I wanted to be able to look and see what I was doing. I wasn’t going to try to become an accomplished guitarist, not even a passable amateur. The flute was enough. For the time being.
But when I’d made a couple of Marcel sales, there was this synth luring me. Hardly played the flute since. Ah, chords. Absolutely right, you’ve got to feel something of the harmonic structure of the piece to know what would fit. B? D? Might well imply G. Guy’s playing E? He’s playing C. A flutist has got to be able to play the top of the chord and to hear the bottom and middle in his mind. Instinct, Frank Gifford? No, familiarity.
So, I’ve been listening all my life. Yeah, but not to what ought to be there, the way the player has to. But it comes. It’s coming. I’ve got a little bit of it now. Not bad for solo.
And right away I think of how lazy and whorish our historical imagination is and have a perception why. We pick up a book on music. It’s written for trained musicians. People who’ve had the course, who speak the language. Understanding music is written to people who understand it. Like baseball commentary. It’s never a blue print for someone from another universe. Which would show true understanding and teaching ability. In our own society, we understand our status. I’ve earned this, I haven’t earned that. Earning being tied in with birth, provenance, etc.
But if we read Pericles talking to fellow Athenian imperialists in the codes of their brotherhood’s democracy, we imagine ourselves as fellow Athenian brother aristocrats. We imagine that we’d get a chance to talk, that we’d be listened to, not thrown off the cliff or sent for more wine. We hear it that way even though we’re not Greek, even if we’re women, don’t have a vote even in our own “democratic” senate.
Dyan said that women like to read: this is me falling in love, this is me shopping, …
This is me, swaying the full senate of Rome. ???
Don’t we hear the brothers plotting against each other?