/ Journal /
previous save: 10/3/89
I feel fabulous. Mailed off Model Monday. Immediately noticed ELA’s novel contest deadline on Aug 31. One week to put the schmuting of May, June back together and hope it reads smoother and more impellingly than the not too bad draft of last Sept, Oct. I have no faith in ELA and no expectations of their contest. Still. It’s a deadline. Seize it. Put something together. Get a leg up. Wed, delusorily or not, I feel ahead of schedule and take a break to kill more vine roots and clear more swamp. More DB after showering, hungry by 8ish. Great clam pasta. Snyth exercises spastic, but so what? Pool better than yesterday. I neither get back to work nor sleep when I lie down. Read more Aztec. Not great, but what the hell, at least the language is unfamiliar. All those p,c,t,ls. The language really so unvoiced? Who can tell from somebody’s letter transcription? Some German writes Chinese into abc and everyone remains confused for centuries. The heat wakes me up at 10. Oh god. Could I function? Maybe. Next thing I know, it’s 2pm. Coffee. Nice museli, the banana about to mush. Good synth session. Shower, 5pm and out comes the Plus. Ready to work except for the phrase that came in the shower. Feeling rich. No audience? So, fuckem. Is that my problem? Seems to me I’ve done my part. For a very long time. Yeah, but wouldn’t I like to have at least had an occasional class? I suppose, but remember all that head butting with the guardians of mediocrity. No audience, but no ass holes either.
Nothing could be better than just being able to work. Doesn’t always come, just because the time, leisure has been insisted upon. But something happens. It’s always bubbling somewhere. But when you can see the bubbles, seem to be summoning them, feel them come at what seems to be your call … Sooner or latter it happens. Varoomsh.
Yesterday, in the middle of getting DrR about to meet Sam, more Model. Quick switch of files. Quick addition. Save and right back. Fit right in. Don’t even have to read it. Oh, I’ll check it someday. A real addition. Easy enough to take out or move or revise. God, it’s good. It is so good. I know it. What a feeling.
first time I saw the Equalizer, I thought, hey, not bad. somebody else has been watching Kurosawa. 2nd time, oh god, why does tv so regularly just duplicate a formula until it’s despicable. I mean I saw the formula the first time, that’s what was welcome about it. I wanted to see it again after years. I didn’t need it again the next week. Looked awful cheap and I thereafter avoided it. But a show comes on, not bad I think, and it turns out to be the Equalizer. Gives me several ideas. Thanks S Lem. Situation set up: dumb “scholarship” jock, bad knee, cut, can’t do that, thinks the scam was owed him. Dealer recruits. Visits family. Pressure dad, sister track, little kid little fantasist. How was practice, son? Bet you made first squad. Uh, yeah. Good presentation of nice double bind.
(oh no. great ad just came on. toilet paper is sold in terms of softness. mouthwash, toothpaste in terms of the mouth as the seat of social and sexual failure. big push on underarms. ok, they have douche ads, but in terms of “feeling” fresh. soap, “feeling” clean. But where’s the scene, christ, can’t you wipe your ass? Jesus, douche your pussy will you? Lady speed stick shows gal jumping up into the air in a split. Dissolve toward speed stick. Comes up like Gibraltar bottle in a beer ad. Moment of ghost application direct to crotch!)
I never see tv question the imperative to “succeed.” Americans want to succeed, not just survive. None of the terms ever defined. We make the carrot ourselves, carry the stick ourselves, we make it as “real”, as unquestionable as the stain glass windows to a medieval peasant. There’s no question that the university was a fraud before the jock ever had his sister write his papers for him, yet the coach’s shit about victories increasing the student body, expanding the scam, is accepted. Guy’s cut and feels compelled then to lie. Keep the parental pressure coming. A familiar whip. Can’t live without it. So. We show venality and foolishness and the easiest path all the time in low level abstractions. Individual. low level bureaucracy. Cop sgts bullying cops. And it’s always ok to show some distant big shot on the take. The guy in Waterfront who tells his butler not to answer to John Friendly.
But how about a story: same situation, but it’s the US. Been supporting some two bit shit country’s two bit shit govt. Now it’s got a bad knee. Sorry, we’re now supporting the opposition.
Or diplomat is told to get lost by not quite so puppet a puppet. Does he tell Washington? What and stop the checks from coming? Lies for years. Sends false reports. Gets salary increases. Bills further for new dam project.
conseil engineering ad for car. tell BK. every other word is “feeling”; the ones in between are “human.” so what do the images show? automobile cockpit interior, helmets, gauges, and a driver all wired up, output to banks of computers, radio communication, a team of white coated ?s, looking at the monitors, “how do you feel, buddy?” A feudal hierarchy of supporting witness to one wired individual’s “feeling.” How does the king feel this morning? You’d have to ask a dozen doctors who’d asked 4 dozen chamber maids. How do I feel? I’m not sure, I haven’t conferred with my ministers yet today. I don’t know, what do the gauges say? You tell me, you’ve got the earphones and the oscilloscopes.
Is life a zero sum game? I can’t conceive of that question being answered (I don’t mean guesses insisted on, even lethally) in our species’ lifetime. Are we truly insane in our sports insistence on violating mathematics? 110% (Yogi’s “baseball is 90% pitching and the other 20% …” is perfectly in accord with sports meaning.) Everyone should be a winner, especially paraplegics. San Diego’s coach commenting on McMannis’s first performance. He did good. He threw one interception, which wasn’t his fault, the wind got it up and it floated. But other than that he did ok.
George Steinbrenner. Hitler. Wants to win so much. No championship in the 80s for the Yanks. Gotta be somebody’s fault. Everyone betrays me. Of course you see how well I treat everyone. Jews don’t count. Neither do all the soldiers I execute in the waning weeks. And of course the German people don’t count either. And Eva? Stupid C- (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 30).
Is zoology sufficiently advanced to have a good theory, collaborate, psychologists, on whether there isn’t an automatic thanatos governor on all win mavens? Has there every been a people aware enough of the historical records to say, uh oh, watch out: this guy is undefeated: he’ll lead us to disaster for sure? And he’ll blame us!
Maybe the mechanism is in the people, not in the ahem leader. Nah, it’s got to be in both. Especially in the leader. Uh oh, time to self-destruct. I won at a cost of a stinking few hundred million. By god, the fall is going to cost everything.
Keep thinking about what disasters would follow utopia. One world, abandons instantly to slavery to its institutions. It would believe its own structure. I’m the general. I must be superior. Our best institutions rejected you. What better proof could there be that you’re defective? Whale oil is what we want, what’s this stupid stuff about electricity?
Morris says that we’re stuck in the dominant male syndrome. I certainly do see the evidence everywhere. But is it necessarily so? Would the premammals watching themselves kill each other in mating battles have been aware of the emerging ritual battlers? They would have thought they were going to hell in a hand basket.
Shouldn’t Margaret Thatcher be able to kick the shit out of some uppity Labor Party somebody? But corporate leaders are puff balls. Can you image Hubert Humphrey actually kicking ass in physical dominance? Richie Greenberg pushing past me in his office. Chee, I’ve been marshmallowed! Maybe something interesting is happening. The interesting will always be invisible to its contemporaries. And then even more invisible to its inheritors. Except for moments of science. Maybe I’m sterile. Maybe there’s no room in life for any of the things I’m passionate about. Sorry kid, our wiring is right the way it is. If it isn’t right, you can’t improve it. Prove it? I don’t have to; the momentum is on my side. So? Maybe paternity isn’t the only thing. Maybe just moments of understanding. Pattern recognition. What’s the point of life? Sorry, it’s already gone. I’ve already had it. The point of all of 20 billions years of the existence of the universe is what I experienced last week. No body knows about it? So what? How could they? But it’s gone. Over. Irretrievable.
I doubt it. If it can be, it can be repeated. If it can be repeated, it can be repeated regularly. And better, more efficiently.
What the point of life? Why to be able to digest milk, of course.
But it’s just sherbet I now go to the fridge for.
The one academic reference I have more than once been unhappy to have forgotten and not even know how to look up quickly was some Dickensian read by Gordon Ray on Mrs. Gamp. Some guy had “translated” some of Mrs. Gamp’s utterances into complete, rational standard English. Fantastic piece of work. I mean any reader will have some idea of her “thoughts” behind her maundering, but bothering to do it in full detail was like Leonard Bernstein’s completing the “logic” to a statement by Mozart or Beethoven. Perfectly whole and dull as dish water. It’s the syncope that’s thrilling. Which was of course Bernstein whole great Harvard point. But I was haunted throughout my useless last 24 hours at how Mrs Gamplike my own entries often are, especially those last above. Had I implied that I though I was or ought to be in control of evolution? Well, cybernetic control, sure. Backing my horse, trying to nudge the ball toward a different goal, trying even if I miss it and fall on my face. There are many kicks in a soccer game and few goals scored. The goal may or may not be the game. The game may or may not be championship. But what kind of game would it be if one only bothered to try on championship points? You’d never be near a championship. I don’t like this situation, I’m going to kick the ball out of bounds, I’m going to foul, I don’t like my team mates, I’m going to let this opponent get past me. I’m going to quit and go home. I’m going to say bad things about the game, prefer tennis. All these things are ways to play. The game is always more than the game stated. Even soccer isn’t just soccer. Soccer may be the least part of it.
I get wrapped up in my image and go blah blah. I mean that the evolution understood by the group doesn’t have to be the only evolution that I’m conscious of. It doesn’t have to be one that I’m for. They don’t have to be for what I’m for. They don’t have to be aware of what it is. It may be best if they’re not. And I certainly don’t have to “succeed.” I’m in a game the outcome of which can’t be known by the players. It’s the best game there is. And of course we’re all in that same game. Am I a superior player at it? Can’t tell. I certainly believe I’m good at it.
Then why haven’t I been able to work these last couple of days? Sure, I’d think I’d be entitled to some rest after Mod. Just like me to take some whether I “want” to or not. Actually, that’s a quality I try not to argue with myself about. I did it: generally I’ll trust the reason without knowing it. I was so impressed. I couldn’t believe how I just switched over. Boom. Suddenly Mod came together, and bang, DB fell right into place along with it. Only now I’m stuck again. Don’t feel rested. Not inflamed by the book I’m reading. Aztec is good, but still. [February 13, 1995: Aztec is great: by the end.]
Last night. So, I’d been up six hours and not done a thing. I eat anyway. Clean out the fridge. Uh oh, that ham has been there for two weeks. I eat it anyway. Uh oh, it doesn’t taste right. Doesn’t taste good. Eat it, it’s all you’ll get from me tonight. I go to play a rack. I can’t shoot. I can hardly stand up. I go to the john and shit something awful. Tonight I’m still weak. No coordination. No confidence. How can I write? I’ve never wanted to produce just to have produced something. Merely professional. Or can I just not stand it’s having gone so well? Got to interrupt it. Get back to the familiar fucking up? I was sleeping well enough, but then the storms woke me up. Raining in through the screens on me. Couldn’t rest again. If I lie down now, I’ll just be miserable. More Aztec? Another stupid game of chess? I’m not up to a real game: if I play the queen & bishop on the B1-H7 diagonal again, so what? The Chessmaster will make the same mistakes. Big thrill.
It’s not even that I care about DB’s chances with this agency and its contest. It’s to reach a plateau. A stage of the novel from which I could really work. Make it great. “Finished” to them would be just begun to me. But I’d be playing with a whole thing, not a half thing.
One nice thing happened as I lay in bed toward dawn. I try to be very careful about my guest lizard that hunts the bed’s rear screen. I smack a mosquito with the swatter. Uh oh. My little friend could have been right behind it. Oh well. Too late to worry now. Everything drying off a bit and day coming, I go to open the flaps up half way. Or I’ll be roasted by 10. Must sleep when I can and stay asleep till I’m rested and ready to work. I wish. But there’s my guest. On the screen at my feet. Doesn’t look too worried. However a lizard looks. So I lying there reading and I feel something on my foot. I look before I reach to swat or scratch. Sure didn’t feel like a mosquito. Not even like a big spider. It’s my little lizard. Perched on my ankle and looking at me. Could he be thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking? Are we friends? Or not? Any possibility of friendship between a human and a tiny insect hunter? I decide not to move but just to let him do what he wants. Fifteen or so minutes later he returns to his screen. Was my passive message received? Hey, mister: do you know I’m here? Or what? Were you trying to squash me before? Mind if I hunt on your ankle here? Seems to be the favorite spot for mosquitoes too. I look at the calendar. Uh oh. Three days. It’s going to take half of that just to print it out on the slow printer. It’ll be smoother than what I sent to Donadio even if no more complete. Still, it’ll be something. Still no ideas on Mrs. Raleigh. Maybe that’s what’s holding me up. And that no fabulous new scene with Sam has come to me. The Saint section I’ll still not even attempt. Had me bollixed for a year. Too chicken to just sit down and see what comes out. No to many other workable problems to worry about. I honestly do declare the first series of them acceptably solved. If this first 40 pages isn’t good, then I just can’t write a good beginning.
Ermazing: I discover that the calendar I invented for Comet largely duplicates the Aztec calendar! Right down to the left over 5ish days. So they had no quarter day. Not that normal math really works there either. I emphasized thirty and ten; they twenty.
Still not rested, feel really lousy, but got a fair amount of work done last night anyway. Mostly by having to care a lot less. So what happens as I lie down at dawn to read a little Aztec and try to sleep? Name pops into my head. Been trying to remember it off and on for many moons. Gordon Pask. When I’d started the Free Learning Exchange, I’d posted announcements, gotten publicity, etc. Always included my subtle request for support. What came in abundance wasn’t money or even use of the bulletin so much as invitations to this and that. Suddenly I was on everybody’s mailing list. They were all asking me for money. Or interest. Or support. They never noticed that their efforts were invariably subsumed by mine. Never occurred to them to join forces. That’s why we can’t have one world; everybody wants to run his own little part. That’s what FLEX would best have fostered, but first you need the new brain. I went to fewer and fewer as I discovered that it was costing time and money and not bringing in more than satisfaction. One such was my one weekend with the World Future Society. Three days with Gordon Pask. I wasn’t the only one there who had no idea who our guest was. And as I looked around the room as Gordon Pask used words like algorithm and heuristic I saw the greatest universal incomprehension I had participant-witnessed since that German class where the prof handed out a mimeographed sheet, asked for a volunteer translator, beamed out at the class, as we all tried to become invisible. It was toward the end of our six weeks, and we should have been getting somewhere in our crash study of German. I was breezing along in the graded readers as the German became more normal and less nursery. After a second’s retrospect I could see we were all flabbergasted. Not one recognizable word! “How about one word?” the teacher prompted. “Just even from the first sentence?” Zero response. “Ok then,” amazingly, he didn’t look contemptuous or even greatly upset, “who can tell me what the subject of the sentence is?” All hands shot up in overwhelming relief. At least we weren’t totally stupid. 100% agreement. “Ok, and the predicate?” 100%. He went on, leading us in diagramming the most complex German sentence we had yet seen, and maybe the most complex sentence that I’ve still ever seen (not being a great reader of Cicero). Joyce, Faulker, Twain, and even I on occasion, have gone on and on, but I don’t think with the same grammatical intricacy as this example of a more inflectional language. By the time we had gotten through the whole paragraph, Prof Sherlock had deduced or at least whittled down the logical possibilities for meaning in the sentence. We still didn’t know what the fuck it said, but we had become quite intimate with its structure. Then this greatest of language professors of my experience handed out another mimeographed sheet. “Volunteers?” By god, what a didactic experience. It was the same freaking sentence, only this time we did recognize some of the words. He had taken a highly technical piece of writing, on museum conservation, and substituted jabberwocky for all the word roots. The first paragraph had been nonsense, but had had the identical structure as the second. In another minute we were rapidly reading professional technical German. Foxing and acid stains in old paper or something. Lesson: the soul of the language is in its grammar, don’t kid yourself thinking that you know what’s been said because you can guess at some of the vocabulary. The words are mere flesh. And divergent etymologies and usages can mislead.
Anyway, that was a world class moment of how a school can make a group of intelligent people feel like idiots. And the one case I still don’t object to. The prof wasn’t just a sadist, he really was a teacher.
Pask never had a clue that no one knew even what species he belonged to until we gradually began to confess. So he simplified. We still didn’t follow 5%. 20 years later I sure wish I could reattend the same lectures. Pask was showing us automatic typewriters he had built in 193?. His latest project was a algorithm for traffic control in high traffic airports. I think we all wanted time travel or mythical aliens or something faster than light and he was giving us gibberish but about the real mundane world.
Yet this had been on of the weirdest groups of crazies I have ever been in. One guy had a newsletter called Synergy. I did FLEX. Two guys were into Alpha wave machines. And still none of us knew dick about cybernetics. And Pask turned out to be on his way to see Illich.
And of all the weird people I’ve ever met, Pask had to be the weirdest. What did they make of him at Cambridge? Looked like he had crawled out from under a rock. Tiny guy. Steinmetz was probably handsome compared to him. He was paler than Marcus or Quentin Reynolds put together. Bateson gangling around with no socks on would have looked conservative. So how come I suddenly include two people I’ve never met? Pask worked at night. So do I. But I catch some rays. It’s not like I’ve never seen the sun.
I now recall asking MCB something about Pask via the C64. As she had written of his participation in GB’s conference reported in Metaphor.
Amazing: it’s my birthday, I’m aware of it, and for the first time of my awareness, there’s a chance I’ll be conscious at the hour, since I am at this moment, and it hasn’t come yet. Writing is like soldiering. feast or famine. nothing to do but laze around, or you haven’t slept in 70 hours, are hallucinating, haven’t eaten, but you can’t stop soldiering now. It’s a matter of life or death. far beyond yourself, your family, or your group. getting into bigger and bigger selfs and groups. or is it smaller and smaller? more and more ancient. or future.
10 days ago I zipped up Mod and sent it. all I’ve got to do before I relax for a couple of days or work and make some money for a couple of days is organize my Mod files while I remember which draft is which. there’s ELAs contest announcement. I thought I’d already missed the deadline. thought of it a couple of times but Mod had me. couldn’t worry. what difference did it make that five months had passed and there have been people who have written five novels or at least stories in that time. but the same time hasn’t been too shabby for me. especially considering how much more it is that I ever did in the same time before.
anyway, there in a file is the announcement. I have 10 days. To do what I’d thought these 5 months were to be for. Bang, off I go. Friday, I slow way down. Sat. I do nothing. I mean I worked in the stream and did laundry, but not one word. not in DB that is. Sunday, not much. Then Monday really goes. Tuesday. Suddenly, it’s wed, I realize that by the time I’ve woken up it’s half way, more than half way to thurs and that’s the deadline. somehow i’d imagined printing it in several hours. didn’t i remember how long Beg took and that was only 20,000 words. this was 40,000. better print first and worry about editing second. good thing I did. whole time i’m thinking. but this is crazy. ELA isn’t going to care one way or the other. they’re ass holes. or maybe they’re not, but they’re not suicidal. actually take a creative view of heaven and earth? in publishing? in this life? As I find myself taking a day off last Sat I realize I’m not going to break any world records. where i came up halting last Sept, i’m going to be halting again. if i can get that far.
it doesn’t matter. gotta get as far as i can. ELA doesn’t matter. if I can send them something, actually at their deadline for my sake, then I’ll have something to send Betsy Mitchell, Knopf, etc.
unfinished? can’t help that. how can I have even done what I’ve done.? horseshit. chickenshit. complete it.
one year ago I was saying the same thing. slowed down late Aug. called Neal. then couldn’t do a thing. But prepare it for mailing. so ashworth etc didn’t back Neal, or neal backed off, or something. xsake. I had a bound copy to send others. but I wasn’t satisfied. it wasn’t finished. a year goes by and i’ve not been able to get back to work on it. plenty of other stuff, but how about DB, and i’ve not started Aur. so? maybe it’s lousy. no, there are really good parts. maybe the whole thing is really good. no business of mine. mine is to do it, and do it as well as i can. so. ela doesn’t count. there’s no rule against my possibly winning or getting their attention. i got CDA’s attention. i guess they decided i was incorrigible. they’re right, of course. they knew it 20 yrs ago. no change.
ah, the ending of the movie makes me notice that it’s 6 am. and what it is that i started to say. i was saying it. there’s just a lot to it. i haven’t been able to babble much here recently.
the point is: there’s a difference between being talented and despised.
and maybe having gotten around to one maybe great story and being despised.
or maybe even a few very good things but nothing really DONE.
Spenser never got paid for the Faery Queen. But he got it done. Brother is it long. And it’s altogether a masterpiece. in its way as good as anything ever has been. like piers. ok, so it’s still not Lear. but it’s closer than many would think. what it is is a whole system. complete. we don’t recognize that system. neither did late 14th- or 16th-cen Englishmen really. agrarian Xity was rejected. allegory lost fashion as we devoted ourselves to idiocy.
But my unfinished things get longer and longer and maybe more and more complete. But really, have they every been any more complete than my very first thing? doesn’t their incompleteness have something to do with unconsummated marriage. if i’m sterile, isn’t it because there’s a missing female? or i’m the female and there’s a missing male. it doesn’t make any difference. the point is, that literature is sexual, requires minimally a pair, a family, it’s not just budding or grafting. not that any of these metaphors can be exact. even a molecule repeating itself takes a universe. but literature is more advanced (or more degenerate) than that (depending on whether you regard evolu as positive or neg in gradient, thank you lem.) Lem writes that. I read it. He doesn’t have to know that I, PK, read it. It’s been published. If it’s gathering dust. If all but one copy have been burned or lost. if it’s been buried for 2,000 yrs, there’s still the possibility that i or someone of something (literate, of course) can find it.
as i fist thought “first thing” a second or half second ahead of my fingers (sometimes it’s my fingers that are ahead) I thought Mod. But then I thought Rudy and I and the haunted house. That fragment too is complete. 6th grade. and a teacher there said she was trying to get it published. never heard another word about it. never saw that teacher again and can’t remember who she was. should be figurable. 6th grade. All I remember by name (or by any other feature is Miss Tilly. The name said over and over by Beth before I had her. maybe I never had her. but it became allegorical to me. teacher = Miss Tilly. 2nd grade? who knows. there must be records. which we should erase. burn. earthquake swallow. no, just miss tilly. all else too much baggage.
anyway, i work my ass off. and the work comes. if not one day, then another. boom. no more time. but i’m really swinging.
finally, even printing doesn’t keep me stopped.
printing 150 pages through the typewriter in one session wouldn’t have been easy even if I had had a new ribbon. a case of new ribbons. I was getting about 12 decent pages from each reinking. by the times I’d reinked the ribbon twice, it had saturated the paper blanket I make and soaked my left hand fingers as well as my right, so i couldn’t even get the pages into or out of the roller without smudging them something awful. so 150 had to be 165. 3 minutes a page. ought to take 8 hours to print. I begin at 5. ok, a little editing. then a little rewriting after all. 2 pm. 21 hours straight. reinked the ribbons 9 times at least. Then $10 to package and mail it.
Not 5:00 and a frantic phone call, please, I’ll drive it over tomorrow. the stamp window is closed. if I drop it in a box it won’t be postmarked. probably could have gotten away with it. again. whatever getting away with something means. we’re all getting away with everything, as long as we’re alive. as long as our kind are alive.
6:25. my mother said 7 am or something. as though our calendar actually meant something. was it daylight saving time in 193x? even 51 years ago, did people think the sun was in the same position? most probably do now. more probably think the earth is in the same position. what does same mean? no difference to me. to us. no difference that makes any difference. to us. science thinks different? so? does that make a difference to us? to me. yes. i try. and that makes me different. taking xity seriously made me different. no Paul, you don’t understand. beating up the wogs with a bible doesn’t mean we take it literally. our artillery doesn’t mean we take Newton literally. what we take literally is our own advantage. all you have to do to succeed in society is figure out what lie we’re all 89% pretending to believe this decade and wink subtly. agree that i’m king, that my shit doesn’t smell, and you can have the salt monopoly. agree that it’s right that we should be americans but not anybody else in n or s america. this or that nigger, ok, there’s always room for one more, but never room for everybody of everything. in which of course they’re perfectly right. so i have no room for americans. for people. no, just life.
sometimes I write with the tube on. if it’s swinging, i don’t know it’s there. if i become aware of it and it’s slowing me, it’s easy to turn it off. as a habit, of course nothing can ever swing. being programmed by the group shit is always a more than full time job.
anyway. clocks. all week, I’m exhausted. if only i could rest, i could work. ah, but the best work comes exhausted. so? you can’t work and be exhausted all the time. not for long. not my kind of work anyway. or not me. no. like a soldier. feast and famine. rape here, order there. but oh god, when it swings. and i’ve never swung better than when madly wiping ink, printing, going into the file, quick, fix that section. suddenly it’s another 100 words, more ink, more print. and it 2 and it’s mailed, and it’s a beautiful day and it was 3 hours before total panic. 3 am yesterday. better eat something. I boil the water. i scrape the scum of bacteria off my $1.25/qt red sauce, open the clams, and change the page in the machine. been smelling propane or butane or something last few days. when first igniting the stove. flame seems ok. got to run dry on of these days. haven’t filled since maybe it was late Feb. 5 months not bad on one tank. 6 too much to expect. but i’m not going to fill it till it’s empty. i turn down the propane under the boiling pasta. light the red sauce. chee, there’s that smell again. how come my water isn’t boiling? i turn it back up. so slow to return to the boil. whoops. no flame anywhere. so. cold tuna. just as well. hate to waste the half cooked pasta. i didn’t. just ate it. sat in the sun all day. living with a tiny fridge, bless BK, is ok. so, I’m still alive after years of letting 6 mo unfridged mayo last 6 mos. the sauce is half rot? so cook it. the bread moldy. they’ve got to live too. one day of shitting my brains out this week. first such since I can remember. healthy as i’ve ever been. crotch rot, athletes foot all new to me but this is FL.
anyway, mailed, and still on my feet, not feeling i’m about to crash off the highway, though better watch that truck, you should have seen it seconds ago, and i go and refill the tank, shop for new sauce and linguine, and home, too tired to eat. .5 lb grapes and i’m too tired to play the synth. it’s so freaking hot. if i weren’t so pooped i’d go cut weeds. finally, 3:30. lie down with the sun cooking the bed end? what else can i do if i can’t even play? i could sit at the cooler side and read Aztec. no, try it in bed. suffer an hour and i’m asleep. wake up. head ache. really tired. shoot, i’ll bet it’s only 10 pm and i’ve really fucked up again. should sleep 8 if not 10 hours. but it’s almost 3:30 and I may as well make coffee. aspirin, recook the pasta, this time it makes its own scum, but it’s delicious. red sauce and a can of clams. i prefer my white sauce but got no parsley and i can’t go scrounging the stream in the dark. ah, Dick said there’s a little gator in the pond now. didn’t see him, but i believe it. who knows how long he’s been in there. when i would muck around there first cutting the vines i’d thought of the possibility. nudge one on the side and good-bye leg. a little one might get a toe off. but they hide from you. crashing around with the machete, he’d have hidden on the far side.
so i sometimes work with the tube on. the other night i was writing ah so so. it was going ok. and i put the tube on. yich, but that one’s ending. the next is some english thing. Melody. hmm, half recognize the something on the sound track. competent imitators of something. oh, its the Bee Gees. kiddie porn. a nymphette. a limey lisa. awful skinny but such a face. the boys were great. what actors. nothing like the english for training actors. and the adults all good characters, but the sound was annoying me, the whole thing would have annoyed me had it not been for the faces. i let it distract me. ordinarily i shouldn’t have even known what the movie was. anyway, there’s one scene they’re all dancing at a social. cathedral type school. the kids looked like brian and pals though i don’t remember St John’s girls wearing the same blazers as the boys. so the kids are dancing. no sound so i don’t know what the bee gees are doing. but the kids are dancing american. which is to say afro. one token black, but still. here’s the english and there’s the empire strikes back. isn’t life and history wonderful?
I look at the clock. digital 7:00, it says. really. what timing. exactly what I was thinking about and trying for. like looking at the Aries odometer toward Daytona several years ago, a week after thinking of Comet, and it said 07,777.7. 1983. Six and a fraction years. My life as a novelist. That odometer has been silent since 78,000. Also near Daytona. Four? years ago? Three? What ought it to read now?
Anyway. Dancing. Exactly the same subject as calendars. Melody, the Bee Gees and then a movie I just half watched: It Happened on Fifth Avenue. What could be more revealing that our cheap art? Or the ad that come on for the station. There’s a tv piece of shit imitating Orson Wells and Mercury’s … i don’t care about the title, but how could i forget it? Invasion from Mars, no. War of the Worlds. after the Wells title. anyway. the station is saying watch our station all the time. and the aliens are rock and rollers practicing music mind control. what could be truer. ho ho. tush tush, we’re supposed to think. but what could be truer? listen to Beethoven. celebrate Napoleon? In Beethoven’s Austria? so the little cathedral limeys are dancing like limp niggers. to limy american afro something. what would Victoria have thought?
Eliz’s court would have danced like Beethoven’s court. Like the ancient Babylonians, trying to imitate (synchronize with, harmonize with, embody, imitate, be mistaken for, allegorize) the motions of the solar system. king center. was he the sun? or the earth? very Ptolomeic anyway. jungle bunnies don’t have that system. they do self spinning bodies. now so do we all. but that’s quantum physics. physicists have found that they can communicate (or find pre-communicated) certain mysteries of the quanta more easily to “primitive” peoples than to their own. why not? what’s a culture but a set of chosen perspectives. or non-perspectives. to think that everything has a perspective is a limitation, a mistake of a perspective culture, the west from the Ren. on. the science of perspective makes some things invisible while setting others into relief. in the jungle you don’t try to see things. you have to sense them. very different.
5th Av. Oh Hollywood. this was the late 40s? army vets. homeless but oh so middleclass yearning. so american respectable. all white and no lice. we gawk at the rich 5th homes. in the 40s? who still lived like that in the 40s? Where the Vanderbilts still in a separate building then? What buildings are separate on 5th Av anymore except the Frick? how separate could they be even when they were separate, taking up a whole block? Did Frick ever have any land around his place? Beyond what still there in that one example? City living. Anyway we’re supposed to believe that a Connor or O’Conner (he didn’t seem northern Irish to me) was supposed to be one of the richest, most ruthless, etc. Shanty Morgan.
The shtick is, some respectable vet handcuffs self to bedpost while being evicted by Connor. Who is in Palm Beach or somewhere. So then vet is residing in rain on Central Park Bench. Slick fat dude walks prissy dog and invites vet to stay with him. In Connor’s house. Whole block separate. Boarded up. When spring comes, he goes and squats in Palm Beach. Two squatters catch Connor’s cute 18 year old stealing her minks. Now three squatters. She thinks they’re so cute. Other vets are gypsying in car. Cute Viridiana. Next thing of course, Connor’s mansion is hung with laundry and filled with squalling babies. Daughter convinces Connor to met her intended in disguise. he watches these bums smoking his cigars. But they do wash up after themselves. So his mansion is a tenement. Then Mrs C. joins them and cooks Irish mulligan. They have a Christmas. And we’re all supposed to have homes. Some saint of the movement was on the tube. Then even Morton Downey jr was cursing the govt. Landlords. Rent control.
Just like I said to BK about Lord Greystoke. When the Irish 2 million starving became 8 million starving and really starved or fled or both, Ireland itself returned to 2 million not quite starving. Very sane. Very unusual. Why didn’t Connor say, ok, you can all live here, don’t smoke all my cigars, but strangle the babies. Won’t strangle the baby? Then strangle your wife instead. Or yourself. I don’t care. I’ll have 60 guests, but not 61. Or why don’t we raze my house. Crack the sidewalk and strangle all but 4 of us?
Deforest SA? Ok, reforest NA. Not that it would be the same. It’s the equator you’re got to leave forested. It’s not a choice to deforest everything but leave Antarctica to get forested.
These bums were all so clean and well behaved. Sure. That’s what happens to any group that gets rich enough. In one house or civ. Then there’s the waif taken in. Delouse it. Or make one exception. The king comes back from battle covered with shit and blood, it’s ok. He gives you syph? That’s ok too. How do you think we have the house in the first place. But the waif has syph? that’s much more iffy. These next gypsies smoke your cigars and don’t wash up after? Right. There’s more than one group, one family, one set of experiences.
So what are we going to do with the world? Just go on letting nature decide? While we think we’re deciding? That might just be best. Just might be.
Our choices are vanity? What else should they be? What if they’re not? May as well behave as though they’re not. The truth will take care of itself. Can’t help it. By definition.
So my choice is keep the house and strangle 80% of us. Then we can admit waifs again. Uh oh. Which 80% do we strangle? Not me. Not mine. So, we have no choice but vanity. So truth will decide.
I think my favorite fact about modern history is how routinely the US eg has lied, broken vows, cheated. Not just the Indian wars and treaties and reservations, but the armistice of WWI, every single thing about Vietnam, how many examples do I need? And still expects to be trusted.
And the whole world goes along. As much as it always does while you’re still holding the gun. But what if we slipped? We’d still expect the trust. What, you? Are you kidding me?
What happened to the world? Chaos and disintegration. All truth and beauty gone. The rabble taken over.
The people with the guns act as though they trust each other. And hold onto the guns. As long as they can. And the people without the guns had freaking well better act as though they trust them.
Until it’s time to kick Mussolini’s body through the street. There you can have all the lice you want and still maybe be lucky enough to get a kick in.
Still, the world, the human world, I would prefer, would be one so disperse, so not just human, that the change of your kicking Mussolini’s dead body, or there even being a Mussolini, or your even knowing about it if there one, were extremely remote. Impossible. No, there are 18 of us, and we are the world. Or 200. Or 2 million. No, that’s too much. If you can count more than 200, it’s already gone sick. Let god count 2 million. You count 200.
a Finney movie, just awful. credits just come on. Michael Crighton? of The Andromeda Strain? he’d seemed promising then.
anyway tv mind control. commercials done by robots after Digital has got some flesh and blood robot’s coordinates. they all creep around with : light gun (light gun hypnotizes: smoke keeps it from working.
light = order; smoke = disorder
ie the conflict is black and white between the order that we have some idea of the order of and order that we don’t.)
or explosive gun. And we’re supposed to care about which robot has the red liquid inside it?
Coburn supposedly being free all the time; and Finney supposedly being a robot half the time. They all looked like robots all the time to me.
Actually not so. All of us strike me as being robots normally (100% of the time when being filmed), but there’s also the abnormal. One day the fire doesn’t light. One day the organ pipes freeze and powder. One day Haken writes Synergistics. Or Shakespeare comes up with “salad days.” or is it just his position in the kaleidoscope to do so? a 20 billion year old 11 dimensional kaleidoscope, just falling into this sudden new pattern. one day the tobacco stops making smoke and the smoke starts making tobacco.
transform! suddenly, for the fist time in I don’t know how long, the word existential comes to mind, never a commoner with me. not, sure, us Faustian men, let’s transform (verb) such and such.
No, here. we cybernetic men see that such and such is a transform (noun) of … existential symbolism. but not “stands for.” “is a transform of.”
great dreams yesterday last night and this morning about transforms. unfortunately, what they where hasn’t come to my wakened mind yet.
started to come toward consciousness in the middle of a New Yorker cartoon, the limp lined corporate nebbish exec clones. a full page one, 9 or twelve sketches. I’m reading the dialogue. Oh, it’s so funny, I can just see it coming. these two nebbishes are trailing their fingers out the winder or over the ledge or something from some sky scraper, side by side, but on opposite symmetry from each other, oh here comes the punch line … and I start to wake up. oh christ bladder, why didn’t you call me sooner? but wait, i’ve lost my place. i try to go back to reread the last couple of captions. clouds and mist. nothing there. or no longer talking.
sermons in trees. doesn’t mean to have to talk to you.
doesn’t mean that the world isn’t full of crazy people.
But whatever the cartoon was or wasn’t, the revelation about transforms, ie a new, startling to me, example, I mean core, Mod4, was there. Really. It’ll come. If it teases me that close, it’ll come.
we look at the macro structure and mislead ourselves about the micro. we make generalizations countered at the next level(s) down (or up?). ^ (I wish the Plus had a triangle symbol if not the triangulated three dots to mean therefore) ^ also: yin and yang. But as you discover surprises closer up or further away, or through a multiple perspective such as science or god can slowly or suddenly seem to grant, hmm, surprise, are yin and yang not submicroscopically made up of each other? across the next threshold, they reverse (reversing the general and the specific at the same time). ie, the character of the part and of the landscape aren’t the same.
semdic: maybe part, maybe all, should be organized as double perspective. eg, progress: the down side of evolution: get more refined? maybe. more liberal? maybe. more enlightened, just, informed? maybe. but much is oh, we don’t do that anymore. maybe in some specific, like legal slavery, overt apartheid, raping, robbing, slaughtering every stranger, instead of some, but all too much in general, we do. mortals can lie. oh, that was the last administration. you can’t sue us, we went bankrupt. i put the business in the wife’s name. first I said I hadn’t harmed you; now I say tough shit. oh no, that was the Nixon administration that did that. history can always point the finger (necessarily away from us) at the past. oh, but they were barbarians, that was the class system, we read People now.
Wow. Sun night. Sept 10. Ouch. But I feel myself coming back to myself. Not that I’m not familiar enough with what I’ve been these last ten days. Too familiar. I had a few simple goals, only one of which may have been achieved: a little time to recover. The others? total failure. (T: An Apology for Failure) Get myself into a 24 hour day in which I’d be awake for at least six hours of others’ working days. Today I wake at 4 pm. In bed since 1 am, trying hard without success to sleep till maybe toward five. Following several days of two hours sleep here, four there, feeling rested only once in those ten days in which I didn’t even try to work. (Not counting physical labor.) music music music. finally, last night, I did finish Bastien Book Two. Nice. Bach, Mozart, Hyden. But at least I actually feel well slept. Just in time for the US Open final. Two, I wanted to get over to Sarasota to see Linda. Figure an hour or so for the drive, but I’d really like to arrive in time to take her to lunch. If not that, then at least be able to visit for an hour or two before closing time and I have to turn around and drive back here. Unless, of course, she invites me home. Her letter had said that she and Chuck would come here. I said I’d go there. When I called her, it seemed to be to her work that she was inviting me. Keeping me away from her husband? Checking me out again first? Anyway, step one has to be to see her in the library. Ten days, and not one of them allows me both time and energy and a projected wakefulness to make the drive and still have time left over. Fri I give it a shot even though I wake at 2. Even have my coffee as I drive. I’d promised I’d call as I was coming to make sure she’d be there (also hoping that would give her a chance to say, sure, but I’ll be busy afterward. some kind of signal. that I could then say, na, I’ll come tomorrow.) I pass phones to call from, all right on the highway and Friday PM’s Rt 27 is covered with big trucks. I pull off at 27 & 92 and some gigantic diesel is idling right on top of the phones. So maybe the funny little road westward will have something. At worst, I’ll have gone for a drive. My first since … Since before April. Driving up here wasn’t “a drive.” Neither was driving down to Fl last Oct, Nov. Maybe it’s been years. Finally, a pair of phones and no traffic. No dial tone. I put in a quarter, thinking it’s got to be one of those. Then will I get my quarter back after calling an 800 number? I don’t get my quarter back, I don’t get a dial tone. Inside a little store, can I use your phone for a credit call? Well, make it quick. The public phones had all been destroyed by thieves throughout the area they tell me. Now their phone is a dial phone. I don’t remember how to use Sprint on one. Then I remember, but they seem to be reluctant about the whole thing. It’s 3 pm. How far to Sarasota? An hour. So I abort. Return to Sebring and phone Linda from there. “When I last called you …” I begin. “Aug. 20.” she says. Hmm. So my visit means something to her. What the fuck am I doing with 30 year old married women? Especially beautiful blond ones. I don’t expect to make love to her. Copulate, that is. Maybe put my mouth on her pussy. While she’s fully dressed. Squeeze some flesh. No, I want to see her because she’s intelligent. Get a reaction to Mod. She’s interested in things. Even though she’s not all that informed, at least in depth, on anything that I can tell. No big intellectual. Are there any anymore? Except me? And my son? Where there ever?
Last night I had and enjoyed a fantasy unusual for me. All the good looking 29 to 33 year old women I could remember doing everything with, or 17 or 21 year old ones, but no, I only think about what I didn’t do with 15 year old Shiela or 12 year old Heidi or 10 year old Lisa. Sometimes, to my surprise, but not unwelcome, I recall my first lust for Brooks, unbelievable for being more toward 60 than 50. I don’t remember her blowing me or rimming me, but my first seduction of her (fully aware of how it was her seduction that had me in position to try in the first place) and its delayed reaction. First time in bed with her, me naked, her gowned, and it really does seem after a time that she meant it that she didn’t want to fuck. Or even be eaten. So finally I sleep. So much simpler to sleep alone. Must have slept for four hours when I feel her hand steal under my balls. Then a quick feel up the penis, erect by the time she got to it. A brief check of the important things very much like Dyan’s of last year. She also only felt each one time and in the same order. Not counting all the time it spent in her pussy. Never put it in her mouth that one semi-active night. Active enough. More than active enough. So Brooks gives me a tickle and then cooperates as I climb into position to hike up her nightgown and wet my whiskers. Nice, but she was no Martha. When they keep a secret of whether they’re enjoying being kissed (shit, is this one gonna keep it secret whether she’s come or not too?) then especially if I’m tired I’ll impale them all the sooner. I must have fucked her six or seven times before she opened up enough for all her trying to get most of me and finally (by 8 or 10) all of me inside her. So, a widow, but no virgin.
Anyway, it’s that first tickle and that first dive that I remember 9 times for every one say of her first truly devoted and eager blow job. Anyway, an old woman. The US’s oldest still employed model, but still old. Beautiful, yes, but old. Actually part of the fascination I suppose. What was she doing with legs like that? Wearing a bathing suit and flirting with it?
The next-door neighbor who would come in and offer to put me to bed was old too, close to 50 if not past it, or 40 looking 50. Anyway, old. But I never lusted for or sought her. Just accepted her a couple of times. Even wound up being the active one after her start.
Anyway, last night, I had a fantasy about a truly old woman.
I was visiting my mother in her Stonybrook retirement village. I’m wandering around outside, always trying to spend as much of my visits to my mother as possible away from her. Some woman walks up to me. Gray haired sweater girl. She walks right up, sticks her tits as close as they can get without actually touching, and tells me she’s just had one of them removed. She steps back an inch and indicates the right one. She adds a few details, but not the godawful itemization of so many lonely people who believe that their operation finally justifies their boring you. “And I had such beautiful breasts,” she tells me. So I go ahead and stare at them. Actually, it wasn’t much of a burden. If you just looked at her tits she looked nubile. A 16 year old’s bosom. So one was false and one was her. The first time Hilary walked up within 60 seconds of first meeting me and stuck her tits in my face, she too turned out to be wearing falsies, a pair of course, but she looked most fetching just the same. I sympathized with this old woman, agreed with her own assessment, and eventually wriggled away. Not before noticing how erect her spine was. Was she holding it unnaturally to put herself on display for me? I suspect it was a good spine anyway. Her face was old but not sagging. She must have been very pretty once. Still was pretty I suppose. The rest of her body was fine. Just old. I might now be able to guess whether a woman is 60 or 70 or 55, but that day I was only maybe 36 or 38 myself, maybe only 35. I still had the Yamaha. But then I had that until I gave it to Don in 1978. Anyway, I don’t know how old she was. She could have been 70.
And last night I remembered her. So one of the pair was her. If it was all her and if she really lifted like that at her age, at any age, then she was entirely right, that was one very nice tit. So imagined saying to her, why don’t you invite me to your place for coffee. There’s something I want to tell you.
The great thing about sex, more blatantly than most activities and interrelationships, the symbolism is fairly straightforward. Selfishness and generosity blur. If it’s good for her, it’s good for you. And v-v. How many women were ever actually talked into not enjoying sex by the standard male lust/female duty horseshit? I don’t question how many pretended. You take your power where you can get it. I mean talked into truly having no part in their half.
So, had I done so, I would have been being charitable. Have your tit admired and fondled and stroked and kissed. Here, look how nice your nipple and my glans look together. Not by a tit man, I’m certainly not, but still, a connoisseur. Maybe I should have. Give her the dick too if she wants it. Why not?
Cause I was 35 and wouldn’t have dreamed of it. I was 46 before saying what the hell and indulging my curiosity about Brooks. Was it after that only that I finally let my next-door neighbor have some of the cock she so ardently desired? I’m not sure. It was around the same time. Those are still the only two old women I’ve ever fucked, none since then, only two or three women since Brooks anyway. Wait a minute. Debbie was 40. I was about to say that they were also the only women past 35 I ever fucked.
One thing I learned from my neighbor. The pussy is the same, even on an ugly woman. One thing I learned say from Martha: the pussy isn’t the same. Some have genius. And from the breathtaking Rochelle: even a cover girl can have a fairly ordinary, not altogether wonderful cuny. Overall she was fantastic, just as skillful at 17 as was at 21, the next time I saw her. (And still 21 the last time I saw her. She was supposed to cover for me while I went to Canada. Ed Sokol called my office (305) and either he gave her some kind of shit or she was pissed at something and gave some to him. Maybe her boyfriend was angry that she was doing things for me again.) Anyway, there was something odd about her musk. Diet? Living in Cony Island? Youth? It was a bit better when she was a bit older. And of course I never got too too close to pussies when I myself was 17. No, wait. I can remember Shiela’s aroma as clearly now as when I first smelled it in 1955 or 4. Her pussy juice could have been bottled and sold.
But most pussies are the same. And that might be true right on up to 70 and beyond. Don’t know. Brooks’s was more toward Martha’s than anything. Once she cast off her widowhood. Or maybe she had never really opened it up before. Maybe that tightness and shortness wasn’t a reclosing, but a never fully opened. Ah, but her husband gave her yachts. And she probably didn’t give him too much shit. Nothing, I’m sure, like she wound up giving me. Ah simply don’t know.
Anyway, ten days, and I’ll be up all night again tonight and still haven’t seen Linda. I haven’t printed or mailed a letter, not even my tiny check to the warehouse all this time. I’ve thought of it and almost collapsed from exhaustion, just at the thought. But now I feel fine. So I’ll catch up on things tonight. Even added a sentence to two to Mod before loading id24. And changed a sentence in DB yesterday or the day before. So, the other me has been starting to come back.
Oh, three, I didn’t spend five minutes trying to make one penny. I’m sure Jim and Anne will understand. So, tomorrow, I hope to still have enough energy to drive to Sarasota. If I don’t start to make some money by Tuesday or at least Wed, I’m in big trouble.
Course I’ve been in big trouble all along. I mean bigger. I must not let Jim get pissed off at me. Been almost six weeks since I first said I’d do something for him.
So, 4 pm and Lendel and Becker start to warm up. Who should I be for? I’m a fan of both. Lendel is impossible to love and impossible not to be awed by. Becker is both. But hell, ought not the king of NY to reign there a bit longer? He lost it last year. Becker will have plenty of chances. Lendel got knocked out of the French. Off day, great Chang, but he’s not slipping, right? I don’t know, I’ll be for the guy who seems to dig up the most guts. To start at least I’ll hope it’s Lendel. If it turns out to be Becker I’ll be overjoyed.
I noticed a funny thing yesterday listening to the marathon coverage. At 11 am they introduce Pat Summerall, Tony Trabert, and Mary Carillo for their announcers. Pat Summerall is ok. He’s never annoyed me. He was an announcer before I ever noticed him as anything else. He had been a football kicker or something. He’s not great, like Bud Collins, neither is he awful, like Howard Cosell. Trabert is the big genuine expert, ex-multichamp. Terrific, but listening to him has never inspired me. I was in my teens when he was doing his heroics, but I didn’t follow tennis, it wasn’t on tv, at least not on mine. No, it was the Rocket who got me started watching as well as playing. I didn’t even play until ’64 or 5. Camp Drum. Rather in Watertown. (Just had a synaesthetic flashback. Drum so ugly. Getting out of the barracks and off base to hit balls was good, healthy, cheap relief. Some guy played and I started hitting with him. Just ground strokes, back and forth, moving the other guy around, but trying to get it in his reach, not pass him. Put mustard on one every once in a while, but still the point was to keep the game going and only occasionally to show power or aggression. Work up a terrific thirst. Drink water. Back at the base, maybe a beer. One day after play I say to this guy how about we try one of the local bars. Feel a little more sophisticated. The illusion of sophistication long being one of alcoholism’s biggest pushers. The guy says ok. I almost with he hadn’t. Gin and tonic, please. Wow, is that great. Another please. $1 each or $1.25? What the hell am I spending $2.50 for when the water is free or beer is .25 at camp. Anyway, we leave the place after I’ve had two drinks, my friend one, and I’m fucking drunk! All that wonderful exercise and I’ve squirted the alcohol through my system all in about five minutes. Five minutes again later I’m sober or rather have a headache.
Played lots of tennis after that. Got plenty drunk plenty of times after that. But I at least did stop mixing exercise and booze. Ah, but that wasn’t my first time. Another, far more ancient now comes back to me. After running a mile in high school. Already the young sophisticate. Doom candidate. Wow, I wonder what a rum and coke would be like after a race. I go straight home, open a coke, drink an ounce or two off it, and fill it back up with rum. Walked around the neighborhood drinking my coke. Pretended even to my stupid self that I liked the taste. Sophomore? Junior? I don’t think I was a senior yet. Got skunked fast. At least I didn’t go for a refill. One glop was plenty after the race. That’s when too I looked forward to getting off the school grounds to light up. Tobacco hit like a punch after a mile run. The first can of my mother’s beer I stole, age I think early 15. Just the one. So too the rum.)
Anyway, Summerall ok. Trabert ok. Competent, professional, but no body I really like. Carillo? Don’t know her.
So, Becker beats Krickstein, Navrotilova plays a great match before buckling to Stephie. When Graf was 16 or so, I assumed that she’d become great and also become cute. One yes, two no. Couldn’t have believed how great she’d become or how fast. Not like Billie Jean or Rosie or Chrissie, not even Martina. But at least in this match she smiles a bit. Martina is more beautiful than ever. Has any woman ever had greater legs? Even so, I’ve always loved her, from the first time I saw her, but she’s never made me drool. Not like Betina Bunge. I look up MN’s legs and lose interest at her crotch. Standing behind Betina in Madison Square Garden as she bent to pick up a ball or stretched toward her serve. Oh my oh my.
Or Sabattini, my Gabriella, so beautiful. Great Mediterranean beauty in her face. Growing up now. Look at the shoulders on her! And the walk: like Bjorn Borg. A Viking swagger. But she’s got grade A tits too. Who could believe she’d let them get so big and still be a great, or near great, tennis player. Maybe that’s why she’s never winning big ones. Stephie beat her in the quarters earlier in the week.
Stephie’s got great legs too. She’s even got tits. I think Martina now lets herself have slightly more than a couple of years ago. I noticed them bounce a bit yesterday. Yesterday I carefully scrutinized Stephie’s rear. Her skirt was bothering her. I wasn’t sure why. They commented on something when my attention was turned. Then the replay, but it had been cut short of what the fuss was. Was it flapping against her? I’ll bet it wasn’t discomfort at it being too short. Even if she had forgotten to put her drawers on. She’s female in plumbing, not coyness. If she had to fight Napoleon with no cloths on, she’d just cover shortie’s face with her coo and smother him. I want her to have a nice ass, and yesterday I see a little bit of a nice one. Uh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve seen more ass from Jimmy Connors when he stretches at a dead run.
Martina definitely, with no one in second place, is the greatest woman athlete I’ve ever seen. But Graf is the greatest woman tennis player I’ve ever seen. Two seconds of old film of Suzanne Langland don’t count. And Lartigue’s incomparable photos don’t either, since they’re just of his fabulous cousin. Ok, so Martina is my second favorite woman tennis player of all time. Martina still a little bit crazy. Wanting it too bad. Not helping herself. Though if that weren’t true, might she not just exist among us, all that talent, but anonymous? I so wanted to write her a long letter about backgammon. Hey, just play the rolls and take the outcome. But tennis isn’t backgammon. A miss is her miss, and not just luck. Still, backgammon is a good analogy: feeling pressure is wrong. It’s not just luck. First know the percentages, keep your algorithm loose, and you’ll control your luck. Keep playing right and it will come to you. Please, darling, stop agonizing and apologizing for a miss. You’ll miss fewer. Or, even if you miss more, you’ll be less of an embarrassment. You don’t have to prove anything to us: we already know what you can do. Even the inattentive goofballs among us. And anyway, why shouldn’t seeing something like yourself on the other side of the net terrorize you? What do you think you looked like to all the other poor girls. Who since Billie Jean wouldn’t have been intimidated. Maybe Goolagong if she saw you more than a few times. You never played her, did you?
You were the first and she, Stephie, is the second, but not I’ll bet the last, of the complete female warriors. Gen Patton didn’t cringe under fire. Neither would have the first general to fire. But the first general to receive return fire. I’ll be he shit in his pants.
Could either of you have made Suzanne Langland look clumsy? I bet you couldn’t. Beat her 6-0, or retired with a sprain, sure, but look clumsy, no. Maybe she wouldn’t have gotten her racket on any one of even your second serves. Unless she had some forewarning. Some exposure. Some chance to build up for going all out in advance. How about if she had your equipment and went through your kind of training?
Never saw Babe D. No telling what past women could do. Or past men. It would be interesting to give poorly rolled clay and Jack Krammer rackets to Connors and Becker and Lendel and say, ok guys, we’ve got a clock on your serves. They give still very big serves. But probably more toward Krammer’s than their own.
But Martina I did see. And what I saw was more than tennis, however great her tennis is. Sometimes on the field you see something more than baseball, more than football. Mickey Mantle starting his swing, seeing he’s been fooled and stopping, all out of position, trying to recoordinate, and still hitting the ball out of the park. Willie Mays running from the Polo Grounds to Yonkers to prevent someone else’s home run from landing anywhere but in his glove. Any of twelve things Ali could do rhythmically with his body and still deliver controlled barrages of varying power.
But once I saw Martina. The Garden. Indoors. Night play. It’s between points. She’s pissed at something. The umpire. A call. I don’t remember. She’s stalking the inner court as I would imagine Achilles pissed off before Agamemnon. It must have been still her serve. Anyway, she’s got a ball in her ball hand. Her racket is carried loosely at the neck. The umpire ignores her. Like a snake, the racket handle slides toward her business hand and wham the ball is rapidly disappearing among the rafters of the Garden on its way toward orbit. Martina’s eyes are inward or into mystic distances as she inveighs the gods. You think I’m gonna fight for a shit ass stinking cheap fink king like you? her walk says. Stalk, stalk. She’s circling her inner court at the same pace minutes later when gravity finally reclaims the lobbed ball. Only the court is lit. She’s certainly not looking for or at the ball. She doesn’t seem to go one inch, the tiniest list or yaw out of her way for it, but before the ball can bounce on the court, boom, whoosh, off it goes again, this time propelled soccer style by her tennis shoed instep. It took almost the same time to come down again the second time. Poor Silvia Hannika or who ever her victim was that night at the other end of the court. She’d never looked at the ball, just kicked it. Perfectly. You don’t ordinarily see a male athlete so totally in command of his environment, visible and invisible, not even most nights when Mike Schmidt is on the field. Never before had I had that Marc Antony feeling from the presence of a woman before.
And then Lendel beat Agassi. Wow, will Agassi be somebody to love in the coming years. Robocop I don’t doubt has a personality coach as well as Tony Roche. He’s amazingly more personable than he used to be. Even his voice is less caustic. It’s not just his English being a bit smoother. Do the Nets pay? They ought to. They probably insist on the coaching. Did Chrissie become so regal all by herself? Who cares? That’s like wanting Horowitz never to have had piano lessons. The central joke of Singing in the Rain got too grossly repeated when Mark Spitz tried to make some money.
Anyway, all I had started intending to say was that the tennis was on with those announcers, that there was men’s semis, women’s finals, and men’s semis, and that during one of the men’s semis, I was increasingly annoyed at hearing some other announcer. Maybe Trabert had taken a break, but some annoying kid was giving expert commentary. He sounded like he had been there and understood what he was talking about, but the timbre and immaturity of his voice were annoying me. Who is this punk who says he was just talking to McEnroe the other day? His analysis of strategy isn’t bad, but how come CBS has let him on the air, put him in storage, give him voice lessons, maybe make him drink a lot of raw whiskey, and dust him off in another ten years. After a while, he’s really getting to me. Where did he sneak in from? I’m sure they didn’t announce him.
Uh oh. Then it occurs to me. For years, the Nets have had one announcer, one old male star and one old female star. And sometimes a guest. Sometimes one of the players who’s just won and had time to shower. Bud Collins and John Newcombe will talk through the Borg/McEnroe match, then John will take a break and Virginia Wade will join Bud for Chrissie/Mandlikova (whom I abruptly stopped loving when she abruptly stopped being sixteen). Could it be? Could CBS be letting this Mary Carillo talk during the men’s semi? Could I have suddenly started hearing the same voice as an inadequate man just because it was now the men playing? Me? So I listened harder. Sure enough. Suddenly the voice was no longer immature or inadequate or annoying. It was a woman’s voice. What she was saying was good. Suddenly the announcing was fine. Sexism on my part? In Sept 1989? Age 51? Hey, I’m not the guy who kept them from announcing the men’s in the first place. Now they can get rid of Summerall and let Chrissie announce all the matches. I’d rather have her than Trabert.
Now I wonder how long this has been going on. Suddenly I realize how few matches I’ve seen since taking up writing again six or so years ago. Whole sports seasons come and go and I hardly even know who’s in the world series. Movies? I hear of one or two and see none.
What’s with Kramer that we seldom hear him. And only as a guest, never an announcer. His voice is ok. Told a great story once. McEnroe or Nasty was carrying on. Or someone else and Mac and Nasty came up. I remembered Phil’s story of Dimage looking at the umpire after a called strike in game 56 of his 56 or whatever game number hitting streak. “Aw, Joe, it was right over the plate,” the umpire pleaded. Phil’s point being that Dimaggio never questioned, never complained. Neither had he that time. Just his looking spooked the umpire. Yesterday they had a farewell film on Chrissie. Showed her looking a little grim after a questionable call was losing her a major. Wow. Millions of viewers had to be so impressed. I certainly was. Moved almost to tears. What a great lady. I hope Mac saw it and slashed his wrists. Anyway, the announcer says to Kramer, you never carried on like that. No temper.
“Oh, I have a terrible temper,” Big Jack says. Huh? And he told how once in some juniors, age maybe 14, he had been carrying on about some call. No sympathy visible anywhere. So he carried on some more. Ah, here. His father walked out of the stand to the chair. Finally, young Jack thinks, a little support. “Point, game, set, match the other guy,” the chair announced. His father had forfeited for him. Poor sportsmanship. Since then, I shut up, Jack said.
I’ve hardly even loaded the Plus in the last ten days except to play a little cheap chess. Beat up the Chess Master from already compromised positions. My B1-H7 diagonal with his mistake already made. And like variations.
But I’ve had moments of recovery over the last couple of days. I loaded up here to make my change in Mod, done, to make my comment about Mary Carillo, now done at great length, and to see if I can remember what my chicken scratches meant. Because I did note a key word or two on my note pad and ideas began to show that they hadn’t deserted me permanently. Or I hadn’t chased them away from me permanently. So:
“Now through the magic of science.” Dennis the Mennace seems to have become a tv animation (god, how unanimated they all are) and that was actually a line. Dennis is now a kid with a computer building robots which Mr Wilson thinks are aliens.
the default settings for things aren’t maps of what’s true, but cybernetic guides toward a goal. artists write fictions about bad children, failed marriages, unjust social conditions, but the results don’t make us give up reproduction of society. Neither do they prepare us to go into the next fiction thinking we don’t want the guy to get the girl. Our own marriage may be miserable, but we still want the guy to get the girl. The triumph of hope over experience, in Dr. Johnson’s witty phrase? Sure, we still believe in the next experiment. Fools? No. Living creatures participating in evolution. Certain shaky defaults being re and re ratified. Failure doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.
Try try again guarantees success? No. But not trying again guarantees no success.
Is there no one in the audience who roots against the guy getting the girl? There always may be one. Like the Chas Adams cartoon of the smiling ghoul among the weeping many. I may be such a one. Evolution always sends off all kinds of shoots. Just in case. It doesn’t bank on anything 100%
Cantor is celebrated as the father of infinity. First to talk about “stronger” infinities. First to formally compare them. Sure. But it now occurs to me, that some such understanding was at least implicit previously. eg. Speculation about infinite stars. Then how come everything isn’t all light? I think they asked that one. How come they’re not all touching? There has to be an assumption of a matrix even more infinite. Infinite stars but even more infinite space. How about an infinite number of something in an infinity so vast that you can’t even see any examples of the first infinite thing? That one I haven’t heard and just thought of. Anyway, all that was before atomic theory. Or before it was much digested. How about infinite density? Even a neutron star is far from that.
Our desire for one on one justice is something we can forget about. But cybernetic justice is something that can’t be avoided. Cybernetically, justice is inevitable and perfect. It’s all ok as long as you accept nature’s wastefulness. Ah, but it’s wasteful only by a false Calvinism. (ie a true Calvinism, which is false) Cybernetically, it’s not wasteful at all.
You don’t allow anything better to develop? Hey, then you do without it. Don’t give ‘im no fuckin’ milk.
Aztec is wonderful. 700 pp into it, Mixtli gets to the Urheimat and learns that his Mexica were driven out at spear point once they were corrupted into blood sacrifice by a pissed off Yaki woman. Wow. Here’s he’s been condescending to his poor relations at their inferior civilization.
Every superior can always sandbag some inferior. Motecuzoma has the astronomer strangled who predicted the eclipse. That’s after killing the priest who failed to predict it. Mixtli is rewarded for his talent. That’s nice. And then abused for it. So don’ give um no fuckin talent. So how long they last. What else they prevent from happening. What happens instead. There’s justice.
I love the bad guys in James Bond movies. The fat think in Star Wars. They betray every bond. They kill their most skilled warriors for the slightest failure. And we’re supposed to be afraid of them? No. It’s like Hitler. Even if he had won, he couldn’t have won. That program can only crash. Rebuild it and get it working again? It can only crash again. Good. There’s justice.
So the rest of us all got killed? So? We were part of the crash. But it crashed. It’s good. It’s ironic, but I mean very little irony when I say that this is the best of all possible worlds.
Ahuitzotl tells Mixtli best not kill Pactli. Never asks why the duel. Mixtli didn’t want him to know all that anyway. To cover another justice that Ahuitzotl would respond to with injustice. M goes to his duel doubly handicapped. He’s nearsighted and forbidden to kill the vicious killer and maimer.
How important is it and why is it so important for civilization to have power without knowledge? Just bad design? Evolution being typically clumsy at first? Or is there something hidden? I sure don’t see it, but maybe it’s there just the same.
Is it that quick decision making ability that’s gotten us this far? Built in mortality? A Tower of Babel like governor?
How hair trigger does our group decision making have to be? To cut off input? Repress and misrepresent it? Quick, make a decision. But our decisions are so pitifully predictable.
Give an architect a blank paper, carte blanche, be creative, do anything you want, and he draws a glass box. Thank you Tom Wolfe.
Detroit has a contest. And they get more gas engines. Thanks lots of people, including me, and most recently, Loren. And Desmond Morris. Though the book was 1969.
What about drugs? Declare war on it. War? Sure. And how about more taxes? How about experts to study it too? But the war is like Johnson’s war on poverty. War? Where are the bodies? The sacking and rape and pillaging? You mean you’re not going to shoot every junky on sight, bomb his house, shoot any body that even might be a junky. Not even having to say sorry? What kind of war is that? Johnson didn’t kill any poor people either. Except in all the usual ways.
We invaded Cambodia willingly enough. The hell with law and opinion. Morality, etc. This is war. But it wasn’t. Not any constitutional one. Whatever that means. What nonsense law is. So now we’re escalating our invasion of Colombia. With more diplomacy. With money? What kind of a war is that? Or why didn’t we do that in Vietnam? Why, if you don’t do what we want, behave the way we want, at least a little bit, why we’ll … we’ll … spend another 50 million dollars there.
I love ambiguous linkages. Upbeats in music. Tunes that alternate chords twice a measure. What key are we in, Bernstein asks of Tristan. Beginning, middle, end? No, man, in medies res. Any beginning is in medies res anyway. Go on. Admit it.
Who ever showed the infantilism of the nobility better than Shakespeare? Would we even be aware of it if not for him? Yet it’s incontrovertibly clear to me that he must have worshipped their heroism as a child and, we may be grateful, never lost it, whatever else he also came to see. So the history plays are a funny and very human and very revealing mix. A double tone. Mixed most beautifully into the tragedies. And wow, what he must have been thinking, feeling, laughing, as he wrote JC. Octavius’ “there was a man.” Whoop. Roar.
Now I have long though that. And thought it again today, but in a different context. My own attitude toward the rich. Never met a Rockefeller, but the creeps who followed my mother were rich enough. Or one or two that my father had cavorted with. God, what ass holes. I never envied them anything. And I certainly never intended to join them. My flesh would crawl when I saw the envy around me. What kind of a mix might I have had had I started off with some kind of worship? Maybe something like my mix about god which certainly started off as worship and still mostly is, but not unmixed.
What might Shakespeare’s career have been like if he had postponed publication or activity until his mature view emerged? Would we know anything of him? What if he had offered Hamlet first? Without Comedy of Errors etc making him already acceptable? Bankable? Part owner?
Of course I am not indulging in any fantasy that my talent is in the same universe with his. But I do not wish to underestimate the ability of the public or the theater not to give a shit if something makes them nervous.
What if god had been a student and had had to have his teacher’s permission or sponsorship to create the universe? E=mc2. Um, er, that’s not how we do things here. Interesting maybe, but er back to the drawing board for you. And our prize winner: this nice flat creation with no creatures.
So I made a few scribbles. Jees, is it hard to read them. No wonder I couldn’t be productive before the Plus. Editing through a typewriter drove me crazy. That’s why I learned to touch type. My neurosis: I can’t stand seeing stuff crossed out on a page I’m working on. I have to start again. So the first page got written ten times and the last page never. In Memorial Day I experimented with hand writing. Thought I’d found the solution. Write huge and fast. Take a clean page every few lines. Wow, I wrote thirty pages today, I said to Connie, who had gagged and run to the bathroom the one time I had come in her mouth. “Wow,” she said and came to look, paying much more attention to what I was doing than her friend and boss. “But” she snorted, “there’s only a couple of lines a page.” Six or eight actually, but still my output had been above normal that day. Many more such pages had been thrown out for having too many errors anyway.
That may be part of why I sometimes wish that QA working line remained at or near the top of the screen, rather than second to bottom. Even though I can edit all I want here. I’m also just plain used to it now. But errors or no errors, here I can actually read and recognize what I write. Not what the hell letters are those?
So I copy my scribbles. The thoughts stupid or vapid or great or lousy, I don’t care. But seeing my note, scribbled in the dark, that sent me straight to the plus once my eyes opened in day light and I had plugged in the coffee pot to insert it in Mod. is great and I very much give a shit. The inside outside left right perspective generative thing. I’ll reread the whole passage to see if it’s smooth another time.
What did this mean? There’s no such thing as any living thing which is only anything. If I rightly interpret the scrawls for such, living, and thing. So I was asleep in the dark when I scribbled it. Except that now I know what I meant. I’ve thought it so often, if that’s what it is. Do I bother to elucidate here? No. I just copy. And fill in a little.
Now/reserve unknown/direction preferred.
See? the plant/the seeds and the hidden seeds, the possible mutations, dissents, withheld ratifications, false or forced ratifications.
we’re shooting our wad on the present.
I was dreaming all this stuff. I didn’t really write it.
Funny for a recently Puritan/deist/rationalist etc people.
church Church god
tv is so great. the Merril Lynch ad and I quote: “most elusive goal: success.” Even Merril Lynch tells a truth sometimes. Uh oh, here’s another where I only notice the lie. “so the next generation can have a mind of its own.” And the bull rumbles by shadowing the camera. Funny. But they’re talking about sending the kids to college. So having a mind of its own isn’t at all what they’re for. Not that they won’t wind up with some anyway.
What’s our accuracy? Even just by humanly attainable standards?
appeal all court decisions before not just another judge, not just a panel of other judges, but a panel of Philosophers, eipistemologists, linguists, mathematicians, this and that scientist, law historian, and a judge too.
We should have mathematical probability estimates in a common use as logarithm tables were not long ago.
circumstantial evidence is 0-100% probably true in these xyz circumstances. how far in can we narrow it? Equally far from 0 as from 100?
what portion of consciousness insists on deception? deception of others? deception of self? must misrepresent in order to represent at all. like calculus. maybe if we tried to get something right, we wouldn’t be anywhere at all. and maybe that’s true all the way down.
playing the synth and becoming more and more familiar and comfortable and less quarrelsome with music notation. still, I remember some of my early beefs, my questions to Jeff, his lack of understanding, his lack of interest in understanding. he was the teacher, I was the student. by definition, he knew and I didn’t. I couldn’t have an interesting question. Why should he bother to listen or to spend energy trying to figure out what point I was making. golf and Leo. It’s the same everywhere. Computer and software instruction books. Beginners are never told the context of a symbol system. Even when the “teacher” is aware, generally they’re still more interested in being on the cognoscenti side and making the other pay to get there. It drove me crazy for so many years: if the gov’t is interested in a literate voting citizenry, fine, then let them test for literacy. once you pass, they must leave you alone. No, no. the twelve years to be certifiably incompetent to attend college is deliberate. Make them pay. Literacy isn’t what we’re interested in. Except to subvert it of course. make sure they spend at least 16 years not being us. well, why not. teachers get so kicked around, their reward is a guaranteed population of young to kick themselves. Like a mother’s tyranny in the house. often extends to the husband. that poor schmuck gets kicked in the office and in the army and at home. better he should be a teacher.
But music. The math is screwy. But it’s as old or older than much math. Still: counting from one. No zero? No discussion of it? No understanding of an adult’s discomfort at all this sloppiness? Counting systems that are really base four or base three accepting counting in the wholly inappropriate base ten?
Base three and four magically interchangeable. All the maps really misleading. Music really no more measures than speech is words. Triplets in 4 or 2. Or four equal beats to a waltz measure. Why not? Imply one and do the other. Mix it up, really. State and do the one, that’s not music, that’s boring. Ok, to teach the tautology, but the tautology, that particular tautology isn’t the music.
Why couldn’t Jeff understand my panic, having difficulty enough with a mix of whole, half, quarter, and eighth notes to suddenly come on a page black with 16th notes. hey, wait, I can’t play four times faster all in one step and for twice as many measures as well? Now when I came upon the Air from Suite Three, that was my own doing. Oh wow, the greatest most beautiful passage of all time. But how about in the Trapp Family Recorder Book. It was years before I saw somebody say that composers wrote in 16th notes to show slow, not to indicate very fast. But already, I had my memory of the Air. And I went and times Richter. And Reiner. Reiner played it at 25! Not 60X4 or 120X4 but 25 sometimes times 4. A mere 100 at the fastest! But the pulse! the pulse is slow. 25 beats per minute. slow. gorgeous. so elegant. then I had a different problem. how to hold a whole note linked to another 16th or two of high F# on the flute and not sound just awful. Well, try it a few times. Obviously this piece isn’t for beginners. So I had to hold it longer, but not panicked at then being expected to play faster than Charlie Parker straight off from the end of it. No, liquid, graceful, gorgeous. And once you learn your keys and chords, what other notes would you possibly play there? No, those are the right ones, your fingers just go there.
Another great ad. This guy must sell a lot of deodorant because they keep using him. He doesn’t look like a jock, he looks like Ted Robertson. And he talks gibberish. Probably a good corporation salesman. Sure I believe this idiot yuppy works out. I’ll even believe he’s not a fag. He’s expects 110% form himself and from everything. And he’s not wearing a straight jacket. Gamblers’ jargon is mixed in. That’s it’s edge. That’s your edge. Wouldn’t it be fun to analyze the words in an English class. But no one would understand what I was talking about. This is the language they speak. Or hear. We need a time machine to have an ad of 1980 read by an English teacher of 1950 and a math teacher handy too. or 1989 by 1959. or 1939. or 1889. But my favorite: I’ve seen this ad before, but this time was the first I noticed this. the graphic shows the speed stick as WIDE. “Wide” it says. “That’s your edge.”
Truth in advertising? How about just language capable of bearing meaning? How about just plain sense first and truth second?
This is a lie. That’s your truth.
This is nonsense. Aren’t we smart?
Spend money. That’s how you’ll save.
I remember Miss Grow. The 9th grade. Or was it 8th. 8th, I think. Yes, definitely. Had her for homeroom again as a senior. She had written a letter to some radio show. Winston tastes good like a cigarette should. She had made the “as” argument and they had read her letter on the air. Poor Miss Grow. She was upset that having acknowledged her point, and named her name, they then went right on with their jingle. WinSTON tastes good … Like A boom-boomp cigarette should!
She hadn’t challenged the truth of the slogan, or its health or wisdom, whatever Winstons taste like, is it even true that a cigarette “should” taste good? she was correcting their fucking grammar.
That was 1951-52. It would have been close to 1970 before I learned that Marshall McLuhan had published the Mechanical Bride around then in which he “explained” ads and advertising and said something about their inventiveness in the deliberately irrational. There’s more to the violation of sense than just not being prosecutable for an outright lie. But your honor, we didn’t say that; our slogan doesn’t say anything at all. It was earlier in the 60s when I had my great German prof, at NYU though from Barnard, with his jabberwocky vocabulary and solid grammar. He got a shock wave, even from me, when he said that he likes to listen to the radio. He ignored the music, the talk, the show, whatever it was, and picked up his ears when the ads came on. He liked to follow the language changing. Being pushed and pulled. Right. Me too now.
But is it the “language” that’s being changed? Yes, necessarily. But primarily? How about our logic? Being exploited? Destroyed? Pushed and pulled? Made difficult to impossible? And logic isn’t the right word either. And of course it’s both. And more.
I’ve long favored a law that would render all advertising illegal that was other than an alphabetical listing of who you were and what you offered.
corner of Maple and Lake
most evenings and here and there days
Ok, highlight something.
Now also offering Crazy.
A little description? Maybe a little. Limit a few words.
Moves more grass than Big Chi at Moe’s. References available.
Pictures? No. Or only when something might otherwise be unrecognizable. And then for a limited time only.
in 1905. Automobiles. With a running board. Illustration.
But not in 1906.
Now I think I’m in favor of outlawing public announcement of all statements the truth of which can’t be verified. That would go for politics too. I don’t mean sophisticated epistemology. Just some simple standard. And applying simple rules of updated grammar to advertisers and politicians instead of to children. Ok, let the sports casters go. they’re not supposed to be too smart or cultured. Let the public violate all the grammar it wants. And certainly artists and poets. Those aren’t public statements. But let the publishers’ ads for the books have to adhere to the same rules.
new novel by Putz Schmutz. uses dialect spellings. invents words.
Ok, so there’s a million ways that too could be abused. But that’s no reason to avoid the change. Guard against them. Keep your eyes open. Gov’t would have to be sue-able if jews’ statements were deemed ungrammatical while Xian errors passed. Govt should always be assumed guilty till proved innocent, its citizens innocent (of government charges) till proved guilty (and of charges by fellow citizens that would result in transfer of property to those citizens. govt should be sue-able there too for errors. govt’s (like a citizen’s) safest course would be to have no money.)