id30

/ Journal /

previous save: 2/19/90
How can I get control? Gordon Pask asked. I don’t want to control you; I do want to influence you, I told Elaine last night. A nice difference, I think. More and more, thank you again SirJ, I am convinced that our sin is as it has been an impossible greed for an inappropriate control. Now Pask is certainly right that cybernetics is a more likely track: still, cybernetics itself recognizes indirect links in the “control.” And then, there are always NOT gates.
Lost what I woke up dreaming. something symbolic of everything where the character was a little girl. some abstraction trying to control her? was it about control?
then Earl is telling me about some engineer’s idea to build a dam in the mountains to catch runoff for irrigation. why bother? the city fathers said, we’ve got a well.
In Beg, the people work for the wheat. If we destroy aquifer after aquifer, if sea water mixes into the wells, our geography will begin a new era. And we’ll have worked for what we come from: the spiny fishes.

how nice: for the first time in i don’t know how long i have a nice ordinary old-fashioned merely lunatic dream which i remain aware of. two guys playing chess. am i one of them? white beats his brains out and finally gets a tiny positional advantage in the center. a pawn up? a pawn down? or he’s not even sure it’s an advantage. player two, younger, is enthusiastic for white though. they take a break. young guy keeps polishing and oiling an automatic pistol. older guy checks console. buttons and modems. young guy wants extra ammo. where are all the cartridges? they were just here. older guy sends him to closet, crazy kind of chest. they’re right by such and such. guy only finds old thumb tacks and buttons. a cartridge or two, wrong size. wastes lots of time trying to reclose and lock chinese box drawers and doors. never mind, older guy says; you don’t need them this time. let’s play. out come the weapons. ratatat, boom, crack,crack,crack. pistols, rifles, grenades, bombs. smoke pours dully from buildings on the h file. a car burns at g4. young guy strakes d1-a4 diagonal with his automatic pistol. still slugs in the one cartridge. old guy: ok, this is ts eliot’s gambit. you struggle to get here: three men in the center. but look at the flanks. we’re actually weak. so here’s the gambit: you say let’s plunge on. by convention, you just wipe the side pieces off the board. best follow convention, or you’ll lose. and now we can whup it on them. and he presses buttons. baroom. out come the missiles. he destroys everything on the board. we win. and black never even gets to realize that he was really ahead.
boy, young guys says, it’s a good thing that’s just simulations on a board. (maybe I was the young guy. or I’m both.)
guy goes to party. no, now it’s me. my birthday. my friends. or something. phil, and Carol bygod, are there. i pretend i’m glad to see her. give her a big hug. she pretends it was all right. only a bit of a sarcastic sideglance. the dominant personality at the party is some guy: Maddox or something. only now it’s the army. i’m running the army store and have to add up some general emeritus’ invoice. i’m using the SK calculator in the Plus and can’t remember for two seconds together whether NumLock is on or whether I already put in the last item. my common sense double check is not working. And the sgt above me keeps saying, and don’t forget $20 for X, and $2 for Y, and the general who’s now secty of state at the whitehouse says harrumph and the sgt says oh, don’t charge the $2, and never gives or confirms the same list of items twice. finally: is this right? $2,116? oh, yes, the general says, and I have to reup my secret society dues. you’ll take mastercard, won’t you? sgt says to keep hand written invoice for second set of purchases. gives me a blank triplicate: no army info on it. no address, phone, id. I pencil in the items. no one, not me, can read my entries. no, no, good, sgt says: this is a secret record. just add it up right. and right now, the gen says. i’m late to fly to NY for the party. So now it’s $4,676. Did I cross out the $2 on all copies? gen snaps his MCard at me. I phone the ok. gen goes off. flash of mushroom cloud at a7.
talk of gen at party. oh, he’s so great. in charge of everything. pres right hand. no, pres marionette, run by gen. brilliant. you should see him do the ts eliot gambit.
so it seems this maddox is gen’s nephew, son, grandson, self grown old or something. news item on tube. gen is playing chess against ussr. shot of world on screen. oh boy, the burning VW at g4. three white pieces in the center. he’s going to blow us all up.
and instantly maddox takes over everything. I’ll take care of it. big ambiguity as to relationship again. how come you have the same name as … it’s General Maddox, isn’t it? coincidence merely.
and now it got confusing. maybe i was starting to wake up. there was a Monet bridge over the lily pads at f5. the kitchen at 39 claremont was on the other side. maddox would go and come through swinging doors. he’d be young self one time and gen the next.
everyone waited for him to take care of it as they failed to remember for two seconds together that it was annihilation that was the issue.
oh look, just the other side of the monet bridge … it will be lovely.
finally, i get hold of him. what are you talking about? i took care of it. on tv, gen’s three pieces are in the center. ok, i think we can have peace now. we deal from security. ts eliot gambit. and the dream faded, or changed, or my bladder woke me before the world ended.
nother bunch of weird dreams.
I. most horrible of all nightmares: I don’t mind dismemberment, castration, eye gouging … in dreams. torture is semantic, pain associative. I don’t mind the world ending. it’s symbolic. even if it could happen, it’s still symbolic. Thank god this is the first time I’ve dreamed about school and been aware of it in some time. this dream must have been based on a previous, because it was an “again” dream. I had to go back to public school again again.
[aiyee ss: middle-aged faced-creamed hair-curlered lady gets notice,: we’ve changed the requirements for graduation again. you need to return to Morris Public School for one year for your grade school certificate to remain valid. the police come.]
the “previous” time (had I really had this dream? it seemed to refer to life, not dream), I’d cut even more classes than I’d cut at CC. the high school english course had had a heavier reading list than Lionel Trilling’s, and besides, the dumb c- teacher seemed to expect us retards actually to read it! Except of course it was clear from the first class, two hundred student lecture hall type, that she didn’t know how to read, understand a thing about literature, and neither did anyone else in the class except me or they were hiding it. so of course i skipped all remaining classes, already knew, reread by coincidence or paid no attention to the reading list. Uh oh, finals week. Should I just skip it? Let them try to catch me? Or show up and maybe they’d give me a D for the one attendance. Suddenly it’s clear to me that they’re going to take away my CC degree. In the dream, it was understood that it never occurred to me not to care about that, never occurred that it was of zero value in my life past; why should i care to protect it in life remaining? So this dream was a sequel. Now they’ve caught me for inadequate corrective performance last time.
This time, I can’t seem to find even registration. BK seems to keep an apartment in the school. his door is open and I park a borrowed bicycle there.
sleeping lousy, fall back asleep, and business and business years romance and acquaintance is revisited. Martha is in it. And the main character seemed to be Hugh McKay. My mother even made an appearance.
So it turns out at the end, HMK took some drug that by making one slow and stupid made one seem elegant. Martha has moved to an island in the Atlantic, with the phone number K4, HMK lent me some drawing of Bucky’s from MOMA. At least the one was, four others come with it. Hell, the one I gave them. I ask my mother to return them when I’m done with them. I get a call. MOMA has had mother arrested.
I’m failing to capture the sense of either dream, but that’s maybe ok since at least I remind myself of one point i did want to note.
Mom drops off package of drawings. Just a minute please. Most people will wait. But why? She’s doing them and me a favor, not herself. The police are called. We’ll need to hold you for questioning, maam. Why should a free citizen have to cooperate? Maybe you’re a material witness to a felony. So? If so, prove it, get a court order, and then I’ll cooperate.
Where does a democracy’s police get off owning the public’s time? Because we’re not a democracy, or we are, but democracy doesn’t mean, has never meant, what we think, …
three days in a row? sleep drugged. cold yesterday and last night, so way overheated by the time I wake up. turn off the only heater I have energy to reach and fall back down still overheated: aware of another one. This time a memory of a memory, like the back to school one. this time a story, unquestionably one of my best, and I have no MS, no scraps of it. No likely way to get it back. They could be dreams revisiting me. My idea dreams do. Some erotic ones. Why not plain ordinary crazy ones? but in the dream it seems like i’m awake and remembering something that really happened. maybe a suspicion that I dreamed it, but none that I’m dreaming. ie, a dream of me “thinking” a dream.
what’s unequivocal, or dream-seems so, is that the story is not only very good, but actually touched somebody. I’d mailed it to a contest, or some small publisher who solicited, Dr Somebody, an address at Sheridan Square. I phone a year later. Dr Soandso is in Europe. Well, what about my MS? Oh, that’s yours? Yes we have it here, it won. How come no one’s told me? Oh, the budget ran out, we’ve been terribly busy, that’s what Dr Soandso is trying to do now, raise more money. Good, why don’t you send it back to me in the meantime. And it never comes.
And now I can’t think about what the story was supposed to be. Another reification of an abstraction? Some mood thing? In the dream it seemed better and better as I thought of it, and it was driving me crazy how I had no copy, and a very uncomfortable feeling since I couldn’t confidently remember writing it either. I try to be organized in my thinking: is it in the Plus? No. The warehouse? Um, no. The C64? Aa, don’t think so. Are you dreaming? Ah, don’t think so, but even if I am: where’s the story?
i really would like to remember the theme, mood, plot, or at least logical class … a dream can take a puff of steam and make it Helen of Troy. but then there’s the chance it really was interesting.
Now there’s a word: “really.”
And while writing that last paragraph my heat hungover mind is having another dream. I’m the teacher of a class. The project is to elect logical categories for some basic concepts. A la chess analysis, there are two boards, II. where we put yesterday’s decisions, and I. where we are currently working on a few. The field has categories and hooks. The words have holes for hanging and rehanging. You start off with “table” and “lap” and work up to “government”. check the class for weapons before trying “god.” Have 4 dim model of changes to II. table has always been extensional thing. lap was put under intensional thing fairly early on and has stayed there: though intensional thing has had to be subdivided and further subdivided. the group moves government every couple of days. You try the word “thing.” you have to make several: one for each logical class.
Every once in a while you pull out another II. “here was last year’s II-rack as of next week.” The first time you do that, perhaps the students’ near seniors seem impossibly remote, wise, advanced. But maybe after a while, maybe from the start … boy, were they dumb.
And I next think: bingo, that’s it: that’s why intelligence remains much talked of and never defined, and when defined, the definition is hurriedly forgotten by those who want to continue to score social, political, and of course economic points using the word as a weapon favoring themselves and further punishing the already punished: intelligence: another perceptual artifact.
Ah, this is beginning to cook: a problem, an impossibility with having this kind of discussion, is that no group (including such an assemblage of programs as we call an individual, an “I,” will tolerate none but the most superficial challenge to their epistemology. We make hurried binary distinctions: either it’s real or it’s imaginary. If it’s real, it’s important; if it’s imaginary, it has none. We’re forever sweeping 99% of the contents of our minds aside and pretending we’ve ceased paying attention. In fact, the ghosts may be begetting, and, unacknowledged, take over 99.9%. Your facts are myth; my myths are fact. And don’t call them myths: because mine are true.
and you wish to check the current use classification of somebody’s category, you’re immediately judged to be about to deny all reality, a solipsist, not a serious person. someone who secretly has his own stone gods and is merely knocking down yours. or if he doesn’t have any stone gods, then he doesn’t have any gods at all: judgment concluded, punishment exacted, no further investigation or discussion, please. Or you’ll be Coventried too. Fundamentalists can criticize the visible methods of science; but squirt the ocean full of squid ink if you so much as mention that they too have methods that perhaps should be exposed. But of course scientists are themselves fundamentalists with regard to some aspects of science. They’ll do exactly the same thing if you’ve outflanked them epistemologically. I don’t doubt that I have or that I would were anyone ever to outflank me epistemologically at a time when I wasn’t busy following their expansion. Fuller, Illich, GB.
The “just” word. Twain shook me to the 21 year old core with his Mysterious Stranger. Life is “just” a dream. dream “better” dreams. I don’t even mean that Twain said “just,” the word. I’m not accusing Twain: I’m accusing the immature human brain. Mine in this case. Maybe his too. Certainly my students: “Oh, Shakespeare is just trying to say …” if it’s “just” a “dream,” what does the “better” mean in dream better dreams? There are as many kinds of dream as there are kinds of ghosts.
Logical category and “immortality factor”: how “immortal” is the error that the moon is made of green cheese? hell is where you put the gods you say you’ve killed but haven’t. (look around: you’ll see a lot more evidence of Moloch or Ceres or Diana worship than any turning of any cheek. just look in any Xian church, you needn’t scout some other continent or even any other century.)
is any error ever 100% mortal? untestable, because were they, we couldn’t know of their existence today to ask about them. they’re necessarily what couldn’t be thought of as an example. the green cheese one is from living memory, not from negative existence. (i should research the green cheese ahem myth: who ever had a green cheese cosmology? or was it an invention? a deliberately false example? wouldn’t it be ironic if such became immortal?
or two kinds of negative existence: what you want to make non- existent, something dragging down your positive existence. and non-existent.
some zoo show. a bear paces and paces his DC cage/habit for 5,7 hours a day. 14 steps, turn, 14 steps, turn … so some bear behaviorist comes on: she tries feeding the bear a little bit according to his natural necessities. Now his food is hidden under a tree, behind a bolder. They don’t just hand it to him, he’s gotta work for it. Bear reduces his pacing to 30 minutes a day. Now the good people can gawk at a bear behaving like a bear some of the time instead of a condemned prisoner.
The writers must have been gagged to avoided drawing a few parallels to the human zoo. What does the poor bear have to work for except his food? Though I’d prefer a world where we had to work a bit for ours (I don’t mean of course dig ditches and fill them back in before we’ll be doled a pittance of the obscene, poisonous abundance), it’s fine by me if we have the food handy but have to work to make it palatable. But what we really work at is our semantics; if we worked harder, if it wasn’t just which lazy idiocy is the dominant absurdity of the current pecking order, we’d might have a chance of health and sanity. Best option for the human zoo. Only other alternative: go back to hunting for food and hoping there’s still some there. Such a race wouldn’t have much science, and certainly no big orchestras, no Beethoven. No repertoire acting companies. You wouldn’t be likely to run across a copy of Shakespeare or be able to read it if you did. Would Will himself have rather had the big house in Stratford? or lived in the Forest of Arden: the true Duke and his people?
sleep lousy, four hours and fidget with headache, how exhausting to have done nothing more than fail encore to adapt to a twenty four hour day for yet another couple of weeks. too tired to expect to do anything serious with the complexities of the next step either of Beg or DB. Breakfast and maybe Tarzan is on the Sun am tube. One example of ghastly religion after another, but here’s some clothes horses posing like they’ve got it made: guy sticks his fluffed hairdo at gal’s nose job. “Hey, you have to call Stunts Unlimited” “Sorry babe, gotta go.” perfect: he’s a marionette on someone’s string. Next, girl is on back of motorcyle. Plane flies by. “Hold it steady” she says, and stands up on back of bike. Plane drops rope ladder. She transfers, climbs, takes off her helmet, shakes out her long locks, hi-fives the guy in the plane, and starts ordering the pilot and crew around: she’ll fly them from there on. No context to the stunt. Mannequins reading scripts on freedom, independence, courage, dominance, sex to couch potatoes. The girl smiles and shakes out her hair well. She didn’t climb very well. If it was the same she. (when I say climb well, I only mean from a screen standpoint (simply getting up is climbing a rope ladder well from another standpoint: but in film, it should be like holding the rings steady in gymnastics.) They could have had two or four actresses to simulate one mannequin. And she certainly didn’t highfive or dominate well. Blacks have practiced a theatrical fellow warrior, dominance, hail fellow while being dominated. They’ve very good at it. What must it be like to consume entertainment in the ghetto and watch the white breads coopt your music, your language, your gestures?
Now I can’t quote exactly the snob remark: the amazing thing about a dog walking on its hind legs isn’t that it does it well but that it can do it at all. Look the mannequin did what the script said: amazing.
Women have been great athletes on occasion. The supply is growing in leaps and bounds. Watch an iron man competition and the women bicycle champion turns out to be gorgeous. why didn’t they use her? Bogart convinces a world that he’s tough, independent, possessed, tragic, heartbreaking attractive … And he was never anything but an actor. Early on, a matinee idol. But maybe he was what he acted too. He certainly projected it. OK, John Houston, Hawkes, etc had to help. A good script. A little Hammett. But so what? He embodied it. In a world full of women who really could hifive, fly a plane, climb a ladder, why did they cast this girl? They cast the shaking out the hair part and think we’re idiots about the rest. Or: it’s deliberate. Hollywood sexism. Maybe some mannequin wrote the script. A fag’s view of Hamlet.
Ghetto street gestures: wouldn’t it be nice to know their history back decades, centuries, millennia? Shaka’s Zulu would no doubt know how to parade. But wouldn’t it be interesting to compare imperial strutting and the struts of imperial victims? It’s reasonable to suppose that in some circumstances the helpless will outstrut the dominator. When Napoleon takes the crown in his own hands, WOW, through history. But he didn’t have to do it like Baryshnakov for it to wow us. His power was real. The gesture merely accompanies. If you’re not Napoleon and want to project the taking of a crown, you better be Eric …
Can’t remember last name of … Dutch, I think. … greatest male dance moment I’ve had in the ballet. Prok’s R&Juliet. Everyone is leaping around. Tremendous, bravo. Eric walks slowly onto the stage. Zoom. You can’t see anything else. What dancing! When he wasn’t! Like GBS on Duse.
Corse Nap did the same with his rooster generals and his own basic black.
GB, Morris, SirJ, the DI … so many great synthesizers … endlessly rich. sow it, let it lie fallow, try a few fruit trees … they keep begetting progeny in any mind not goose-stepping. Boing: the point that haunts me these last few days: the relationship, primitively, the identity, between the sacred and the taboo. where does “unclean” fit it? at first it’s easy to see: the kings finger nails are taboo because since he is sacred, his body is sacred, ^ his finger nails are sacred. & since homeopathically, sorcery practiced on something of his or even on something like him, will effect him, the way dripping blood from a chicken neck begets the reluctant rain to fall, therefore it is forbidden to muck with things of the king. So, in not too many millennia, more things are taboo than anyone can keep track of let alone trace provenance for. ntosay, Sirj doesn’t claim accuracy, but plausibility in his guesses.
Ta dah! where do blood taboos fit in? girls at puberty. menstruating women. because of fertility? of because of fear of causing flood or rain in the wrong season? or fear by the sorcerer of female magic?
Sirj is good on ignoring “rational” explanations, like ‘kosher laws were healthy because …’ from a bodily standpoint. no, all these things were about the soul. except as it all comes down to: the physical existence of the tribe: rain, sun, fertility …
so in King I say “unclean” and “filth”
and go on thinking: fractal topography. Escher. things dosidos just beyond our view. or right under our noses and our shortsight is civilized convenient. the japs are out hustling us in our mutual imperialism of the pacific: ^ we’ll call them totalitarians, and to protect our dearest semantic self- (and public-) frauds, we’ll become totalitarian with a vengeance …
but filth: J doesn’t like blood, J doesn’t like cloven hoofs or is it noncloven? J doesn’t like shellfish. ok, so the js were imitating deprivation-crazy Egyptian aristocrats, but still, the js made their own choices: were shellfish sacred to J? why? what’s with pigs? too common?
I don’t for a moment suppose awareness of any sacred/unclean connection conscious to the rabbi fathers of a mere 3500 Yrs. Maybe them, but not to those of a mere 1 or 2000 Yrs. that don’t mean it’s not there, just out of sight, but logically predictable.
i would love to see the graph could the incidence of truth telling be quantified by profession.
Until recently I always supposed theology to be interested in the truth. Kind of the Ur-science. then i supposed that the chauvinism of Error was perhaps recent. now i suppose that if one tried to trace it far enough back it would become less false, but like Ayzee searching for the origins of bags vs knives, you’d run out of species before you ran out of tools. I do wholly agree with Sirj that magic would have been invented out of a kind of logic and a hoped for match with reality, the disparity between which was only slowly apparent. by which time interests were vested. Far more than Sirj I see the same logic everywhere still apparent.
so science has given us a big jump in lots of areas. including the area of same delusions. and i much suspect that science too will cool and glaciate. i think it’s already done so. in direct proportion with the increase and self-naming of scientists.
cf Don Ivan’s “professional enemies.”
as sci is professionalized and institutionalized (I love the dosidos of meaning in “prof”: from “I profess” to “I am employed by”), sci will learn more and more about less and less.
I don’t think the Faradays will be eliminated any more than the garbing of priests eliminated all human intelligence. But the Faradays until very recently were all but invisible. and certainly weren’t called scientists. if Far was, RBacon wasn’t. But, so what else is new, they’ll be generally outside the profession (as the forefathers were generally outside their guild or class of engineers, alchemists, astrologers.
And I think of a parallel with lawyers and how civ deceives itself. we have rights. we have the right to hire a lawyer to defend those rights. But a just society would obviate lawyers. everyone would know the law. obedience or deviance would be simple and punishment would follow with few exceptions. in this way ‘just’ would be formally indistinguishable from primitive. but then i have little against the primitives. ok, so, if you want to spend a few million on some simple insult, you can call x,y,z to witness. the judge might actually listen. the jury might actually decide to make an exception and to learn something. cause millions were spent. that’s the part that would really be respected. otherwise you’re prejudged according to impossible doublethink. 1 out of 10000 somebodies might get public funding and a crazy lawyer to probe into a few things till underwear shows. if the funding is there. if the crazy lawyer decides to spend his own time on what is by coincidence his own hobby.
the law equivocates double time or actually tries to see a perspective only where the funding meets its professional standard. and it’s a truism as big as the environment that rights are in proportion to status and status pretty much in proportion to bucks. Curse those founding fathers for their confusing rhetoric.
what physicists would look for quarks in a garret?
now of course in one sense, quark physics does take big bucks and big cooperation and is in fact a marvel of civ. the down side is the assumption that important science is all quarks, big cooperation, and big bucks. how about a key on a kite? ok, BenF had the wealth to have leisure, and enough friends that we all heard about the exper. Shelley churning out the static electricity in his room at Oxford came there with money in his pocket.
catastrophe, era passes, some information is buried. future intelligence sifts and hypothesizes. science, for all its claptrap about the truth, may look like another priesthood.
res: esp through Romanticism and Post: materialism vs spiritualism. spiritualism always subdividing between horseshit false reifications and perception of pattern. recognition of the efficacy of the abstract.
our minds are (semantically) concrete: both wired and trained. but the environment isn’t. not even the badly labeled material universe.
mystery: two description systems in conflict. look for the double binds: that’s where things rub. how can a compassionate god allow pain and suffering? conflict between idea of J, an avowed human chauvinist albeit tyrant slave owner, and any god of nature. to the latter, indifference doesn’t apply, any more than compassion. you starved? so there’s a dry spot or two in the biosphere, tell me when it crosses a threshold. your starving isn’t it. the lion ate you? so? he was hungry, he was angry, he was playing. that’s what a lion does. nice job, don’t you think? the machine chewed your leg off? who made the machine? the industrialists? talk to them. but even a god of nature can hardly have “made” the universe, and certainly not any J. so there’s got to be a god there too. and who knows where else. all one? sure. but that’s a description, not a truth. in other words, in one mode of perceiving, of synthesizing: strictly a perceptual artifact. correspond to actual events? sure. but it’s not the only possible description which would have correspondences.
what, it crossed a threshold? that’s ok, i’ve built in compensations. it way crossed them? the whole thing died? oh well, can’t win em all. back to the drawing board. or, whoops, then i’ve died with it.
language: a system of relationships among transforms
nother ordinary crazy dream. ouch. in bed eleven hours. Act IV of LLL, lights out, no sleep, then do but can’t wake up till 10:30, put the coffee pot on, and the next thing I know it’s 1. was the dream while the coffee was sitting there perked or before? the dream kept shifting scenes and so did my understanding of what was going on, so this may be considerably more consistent or “rational” seeming than the dream was. BK and I are in an afternoon movie. One, down, short subject down, and now we’re one or two thirds way through the science fiction tripe that came with the one we wanted to see. (how old fashioned: the way double features used to be.) I say one or two thirds because it was a diptych or triptych: like three directors collaborate on one feature. I don’t know: I’m fidgeting, my attention is exhausted, I’m not paying attention, when suddenly … what was that? and I’m fascinated. Part of the movie goes by in ultra slow motion: far too fast for me to catch all I want. Like the scene on the street of Charleston (or was it Savannah) in Gone with the Wind or the pull back in War and Peace. Cast of thousands in one tableau: no detail duplicates and you want to see it all, know every body.
I also don’t remember whether the start of my dream interest matches the movie’s narrative about human interest: man only became interested in when … it was in these stages … or it was my own stages. any way, stages. anyway we see kids in like underground cages. some at the orphanage or reformatory have found the plumbing of the bigger prison. the kids look funny. ragamuffins? indians? I don’t know what they’re doing, I’m not paying attention. then something does catch my attention, though I’ve lost it. or it was the dream saying like the hypnotist: here is where you start paying riveted attention, and there’s nothing there but the suggestion of it. so, in the scene where I was beginning to “pay attention,” I still can’t say exactly what it was. some huge guy twice the size of the orphans comes into their fenced yard like from above. all but one run away. he grabs the one and pounds its forehead against his. we the audience sit there without much reaction because it’s like a documentary: the narrative is interpreting the footage for us. “they’d learned that … rather than curing … prevented … heat something … in babies.” And I begin to become oddly moved: oh, the loving father loves the grubby son so much that he smashes his babe with his own massive skull. wait now, is the movie telling us something that science now believes? or an anthropologists report of an old wives custom? I don’t know, because far more important, the big guy runs away, the kids all run away, and some other big creature is coming, and without any proper foundation i’m fully involved in the movie however little confidence I can put in my understanding of it: Oh, the evil social worker chases the loving natural parent away.
boy, is there no correspondence between these words and the dream interest!
anyway, at that point it made little difference to me which one had the witches ointments and voodoo charms, bleeding and cupping, and which if either, the science: it was nature vs the zoo.
Nother scene, these kids are climbing around in their sewer. they climb into some upper chamber, there’s a flood of water, which the biggest of them knew to duck from, and more water, and then they step up into blinding sun light. Here the location is slippery: they’re either on like an atoll, or river bank like in Appalachia. they look around at the ocean or at the forest and ! another big guy, and they run. back to the sewer.
and the confusion could go on and on more confused than the dream was ambiguous so I’ll jump to my eventual clarity about the dream. Close encounter. Martians visit earth. Well, it seems the plot or subject was that another species of technological upright primate has all along been sharing the earth with us, just in a different ecosystem. underground, undersea limestone caves. and the earlier scenes were earlier close encounters told mostly from their side. now the camera pans the cave systems. They look pretty overpopulated too. Lots of chains and fences and gates. Hells Kitchen, 1970 (though not Euclid geometric), but dark like Wajzda/Chybulsky’s Kanal.
And some guy is cat calling from a row behind us: that’s ridiculous. if there’s were any such thing, we’d have found it long before now. And I turn around and lecture the guy loud enough for the whole theater to hear about mistaking the outer perimeter of our focus for the extension of the cosmos.
We know of thousands of species. thousands are sure a lot, right? so we must know them all. but go into the rain forest and check out the corpses and extinctions and half the extinctions you find are from unknown species! in the macro world! maybe you need a microscope, but you can still “see” them.
we know lots of stars, two thousand for sure. so that’s got to be all of them. ?
so in the dream, i’m on the side of the discovery, the re-re-re- lesson of humility. I start to wake up and it’s all hooey, except for the limits to perception part.
I got up and filled a quart piss bucket. Rinse my mouth, open the flaps, flick on the Plus. But we do explore lime stone caves. Sure we don’t see all the snakes and spiders and toads there, but they don’t install chain link fence by the mile. other than looking like a slum, how do they make their living? they eat chain link? some algae that grows on it? is that what all the fence is for?
But of course, waking perception is nonsense, irrelevant. it worked very well to dream sense. and also no doubt i was figuring it out as i went along. i didn’t dream the hell’s kitchen aspect knowing in advance what it was going to turn up being or meaning.
2/1/90. I bought the Tandy 101 12/86? Three years and a few weeks of easy babbling. picking up a pencil, finding a pad isn’t that hard. easier than carrying the Tandy around. Anyway, I never had the habit. I typed what I wrote. But getting up, going over to a desk, sitting at a typewriter stand … it’s serious. it’s like work. it declares some kind of serious intension. it takes a great deal of energy to change state from knocking around, brushing your teeth, making breakfast, lighting a cigar to sitting down to transform thought into visible. water doesn’t boil at merely reaching 212, much more than one degree of energy has to go into changing its state to boiling. but with the Tandy as easy to carry around as a book, carrying books already a habit, typing already a habit, thinking already a habit … it was so easy to flick it on. you didn’t have to intend to boil. just one bubble or two. then go about your business. or pleasure. or whatever. but once it boils, it boils.
then, get the IBM. spend a week vainly trying to set up a defective machine. So the Plus isn’t quite as portable as the Tandy, doesn’t just flick on and off, save automatically at shut down. but boy does it file. boy is it easy to use. and I always have it with me. not because it’s like a belly button, or even penis, or even fingernail. no, i don’t think we should be born with them built in or attached. but i have to protect mine. nothing must happen to it. so the id files expand and expand. two hours pass like nothing. or ten or twelve. how come it’s dark? i just got up. even if I got up at 8. just this one quick note … and it’s 1990.
fairy tales. jewels in frogs forehead, magic keys, things are always hidden or locked.
also thinking (still,again,encore) about male/female. fits, orientations, keys. the right foot may go into the left shoe, but it sure doesn’t fit. oh, man: ice maiden. she wouldn’t go out with me, the whole frat hit on her, so your chance of … and the virgin walks up in front of everybody and starts unzipping his fly.
nobody but the king can get the sword out of the stone.
how can women who move their eyes so much less than men, in public, social situations at least, at least where men are present (and I’d bet less anyway. be nice to lab test it, big cross section, lots of film …) in fact do seem crippled, handicapped, blind in so many ways, but once its right, they’ve got radar. Are you naked, Dyan asks. It’s dark. I can’t see her either. Yes. She’s got a night gown on, I’m under the sheet. I take her arm to help her find the bed. She slides in, I’m about to slip her out of her nightie. i haven’t touched, kissed, caressed nothing yet but the merest hint. deliberate, brushing close, narrowing down. A half a second hasn’t passed … ohoohoohoo, her hand has straight way found stalk and flower, checked it’s shape and tumescence, fullness, etc. And done. Didn’t touch me again. I didn’t bid her to, much as I love it. Over and done with, cock and balls, a whole paint job in a microsecond, and so precise!
That Swiss girl, eight years old, jumps on my lap, Not on my dick, i’ve got that carefully off to the side down my left pants leg, legs crossed. I see her in the air just in time to make sure she doesn’t land on it. Look ma, blindfolded. she’s looking around the room, her mother, her grandmother, her father, her brother, and everybody else, and within a second of having landed she’s got my dick in her hand, miraculously hidden from the group. I’m flabbergasted. how did this little girl even known i had one? I’ve been turning conniptions trying to hide it this evening, no help from underwear which I’d thrown down the latrine at Wildhaus after an alpine attack of the shits. radar. heart surgery, with the doctor on another continent.
and Brooks …
but there i went off on sex when it was as one of a googol examples to start with, not intended as the main one.
anyway, apropos of my letter to Silverberg on Beg and intensional, it’s hitting me in 3D this noon. The jewel, the king, the sign … symbols, understood to be symbols, but always concretized in a material thing. so, we know, but we forget. we say god isn’t of this earth and right away talk and think only in earthly terms.
and it’s gone. too tired, too no-sleep again stupid. how can I write? doze a bit after 7, cathy knocks at 11. sleep ten minutes and she knocks again.
i glance back over the preceeding 600 ll, knowing there’s a clue if I could only find it. and it’s all the same. fossilized, repetitious: where’s the web?
once in a couple of months my sleep happens to coincide with the dark. and ta dah! last night was one. bed at 9. five minutes trying to read Jane Austin, and it’s six. I sit here as foggy dawn rolls in at 7ish.
Chomsky, Lewis, fractal … how can I express this?
existence perceives itself through a local sense called time. the local rods transmitting the consciousness imagine that they’re conscious. and they are: as conscious as any part of the hardware gets. Only a moment at a time gets lit. oh, look, say the rods, lighting up, look how infinitely rolls the dark, look how infinite the rods in darkness, the light passes over everything, staying no where, now i’m lit … by which time, it isn’t, but doesn’t know it. all the sleeping rods, dreaming they’re lit. all the churches, xians, thinking they have a revelation that passed them by millennia ago. abstract reasoning would show: we too get lit, we too get passed, it’s all right: everything gets a turn, nothing stays, the error is in thinking that you’re lit and they’re not, neverwhere,you can keep yours. and, contrarily, in imagining that far far elsewhere it can all light up at once. or should. the idea that the tv screen should light all at once rather than scan one pixel at a time. an epis error or grave consequ.
it’s all paradox, it flops over or my head does. we all keep flopping over, but we don’t see that part: we see that they do; we don’t see (or admit) that we do.
NOTgates
10,000 of civ; 2,500&2,000 Yrs Soc & J (actually, Plato & Xians) devise this great paradox. We’re hot shit; but we’re always wrong. Our justice is criminal; the despised is god, king, etc. And still have lawyers and congresses and ambitions and running for office. And this great spotlight, our universe, which with a little less delusion proves to be the same pin point everybody else thought they were on stage under, the scope of the NYT, trusting with absolute confidence that their wonderful readers will have completely forgotten what the LT said in 1890 or LeFigaro in 1885 or DasSpiegel etc.
In fact, Christians rehersing how sic transit gloria mundi think they’re pretty glorious to be saying so. Caesar bad; the crucified good. Now let’s imitate the Caesar, not the crucified. and let’s write a glowing review of ourselves in the NewLondonTimes.
We know the spot light will pass, and still think there’s something special in it’s being on us, for the moment, that this moment, the one on us, will break the mold, will last.
One problem is that we have a memory at all, just not a very good one. A species with no short term memory would not have a NYT since no one would remember the beginning of the headline by its end. Our semi-good short term memory no doubt is older than civ by say 4 times. 40,000 Yrs to 10,000 Yrs.
I’m sure a bean plant thinks wow, doesn’t the sun feel nice. and its juices flow.
I’m sure a rat or a bear or a lion or a caterpillar is quite alert to the limit of whatever its radius of perception is as it enters the next area of semi-shaded forest.
i doubt if it’s much confused by conflicting programs running: how does this compare to the dress in the window at ChezElle? How does the back of my head look? Are my ass hairs tangled? In anyone’s sight?
A civ’s view of itself. A competition of lies: We follow X, not Cae. That’s why our generation built the biggest coliseum, had the most balloons at the convention, wore the most expensive jewels to the charity ball.
Two type of dominance competition: I. I can butt your head harder than you can butt mine. This Tom kills more mice. More females in my harem etc.
II. (the new civilized kind) whoever last gets his fingers on the top of the bat will be crowned the most humble. The new president will have a multitrillion$ budget, 50% bigger than ever before, with which to scorn big government. The pope can decry the vanity of kings from the biggest basilica of all time. His robe, by Pierre of Fairytown.
Reagan, the great communicator. What’s the presidency for? It’s like a liars club. we all know we’re short sighted, secular, greedy, vain, bound to sell the birthright for the sleaziest deceit every time. it’s what the country is outright dedicated to. Politics is: which whore can still pass for virgin? Another bushel of powder might cover up the tertiary suppuration. (What’s missed every time about the mad desecrators in DeSade is that the rampant rapist isn’t a vital male, whose dick goes sproing the second the first whiff of spring pussy comes near; no, it’s the old fucked out aristocrat who can’t get it up because he’s already been twice fucked, thrice sucked, quadruple rimmed out since dawn, and now he’s trying to beat one more response out of the bloody thing. it’s weeping lymph, and the aristocrat is blaming the chamber maid for not succeeding in stimulating an erection from him.)
Here are some virgins, sir. Not virgins, stupid: whores passing for virgins! Fucking idiot: what virgin has a tongue long and strong enough to goose one more drop from my atrophied prostate?
what would a good president or king be: one who really was a virgin? hardly. one whose magic really could make it rain? no, please. that would really screw up the biosphere. it works perfectly well just as it is.
if everything is ok, then why does X get excited in the temple, smashing the money tables? what’s all my own ranting about? what do we care about a legitimate king, a true god, when both terms are merely different stages in error? advantage, special status is illusion, neurosis. the same nature we started in is what’s healthy, and whether healthy or not, it is the only real game. what we are, our only chance.
So this screwed up program gets tried. mankind. what does it do? It imagines things. (wonderful: meant “mankind” and first typo’d: manking !)
ss: hello, good to see you.
what’s new?
the spring line is ready. want to see?
what’s this?
that’s last years.
what does it do?
it distributes rain in a belted pattern 20%/5%/25%/25%/5%/20%.
I don’t remember seeing it.
All our effort, it was ready, and schlemiel, my partner, talks me into focusing on a single climate model.
But you don’t have a single climate.
True but the dinosaurs miss it. They’d rather buy software for the old days than admit that this other new fangled one in fact promotes the overall program better.
This is cute.
That’s Moishe’s. Thanks for reminding me. I should have messengered that back to him months ago.
What is it?
Colloid. It suspends. See? You shake, it mixes, you wait … and it doesn’t settle out.
How does it work?
I should know? Here’s it is. … I don’t know. I should retire. Again, schlemiel talks me into everything on this one model. I put it in front of you, and nothing. No reaction. If this doesn’t sell … If this doesn’t make up for last season …
What is it?
We’re calling it Man. I think I need a new agency too.
What does it do?
It imagines things.
etc. all the recursions, all the principles, all the software that makes all the hardware, this extrudes, this weaves, that warps, this here woofs, …
and finally, a program that tangles, gets it all wrong.
How civ maintains its innocence:
I am shocked, shocked to discover that gambling is going on here. Rick, cash these in please. Round up the usual suspects.
let not the right hand know what the left hand doeth.
I don’t oppress or cheat anybody, and don’t evict widows or exploit migrants: my bank manager does that for me, the army does that for me, Clemenza takes care of that aspect, that’s what management is for: all the different stocks I own. I don’t know anything about it. I’m innocent. I didn’t kill the indians, enslave the blacks (already toujours a double exploitation since it’s hundreds, thousands of different peoples here lumped into two), I didn’t scrounge up all the land and make independence impossible.
if killing is how we live, then what’s the squeamishness for? if production, wealth, me over you, domination is what we’re for, then what’s this forever doing the same but looking askance at Satan, at Tamerlaine, at Hitler?
if devils and villains are just us, but yesterday, then what’s this pride in today’s mask, doing the same?
well, we should be proud, it’s what we are, it’s what we do. we have a pride program too.
what nonsense, if we do have a pride program, to be ashamed or to deny it. But no, we have a neurotic program. we have to look like a horse’s ass, and see ourselves as a champion pizzle.
now there’s another tangle. all this pride of face and shame of the other end. Michelle Pfeiffer has this unbelievably beautiful face. One in a hundred million. An equally luscious ass. But not one in a hundred million; merely one in ten thousand. So I don’t care how beautiful her face is: I’d still rather be staring into her pussy. The important, the eternal part. The pussy is the species; the face merely some pretense of now.
Now however great Michelle Pffiefer’s ass, it is not as spectacular as that of any good horse. so what’s this slander about a horses ass? are we envious?
ok, let’s take the ass as the seat, a metaphor for the genotype. the crux of the genetic information. and our face as symbolizing the funny little intelligence, the neurotic program, the tangle. our vaunted consciousness. that’s where we put our pride, where we see ourselves as different, superior, godlike.
and maybe it’s true. the god being the kink in the program. the mutant maker, the randomizer. entropy. the growing mantle. wrong more often than right, but it’s where growth comes from. the probability of error in the only area in which evolution can occur. if there can be a positive gradient, that’s where it is.
And I frequently sound pissed off about it, but actually I love it: all the solemn nonsense. all the posing. all the self- congratulation.
it’s hard to keep seeing the benign chaos even for one who specializes in looking for it.
Chomsky’s basic blasphemy: if it’s true in general, just think, maybe it’s true of you, of your group, too. And of course, when we’re at home, we know it. Politicians are out for them”selves” (there’s a funny concept). We only line up with our guys the good guys when we’re posing for some supposed enemy. Who’s the enemy in the daily paper? The russians, the commies, sure, less so these past couple of years as MacDs open in Moscow. Always an other: but primarily: from much closer up. those who disagree. stubborn labor. the capitalists who give the rest of us gougers a bad name. the druggies. those who don’t consume enough school. it’s when we’re on our high public horse that our politicians are statesmen, our foreign policy benign.
Lewis. It was in a Carolingian Church, Easter service, fifteen years ago, that I first heard a ThD say that a significance of Xity was that the two cultures active in the crucifixion, Rome and Israel, weren’t barbarous, crooks, idiots: both were high water marks of law and civilization in the ancient world. Then he said that society always punishes its extremes: it executes the very bad AND CAN’T DISTINGUISH FROM IT THE VERY GOOD. Barabas & Jesus. One lump.
Now I see CSL say it. Probably an old Anglican observation.
And of course it’s long become my daily staple.
Funny thing is, Jim “reads” The Model, reads it again, and shows me the Lewis quote AS THOUGH HE WERE TELLING ME SOMETHING!
If he someday picked The Model up from some church literature table, he’d possibly be showing it to me with same attitude.
CIDOC, all the young rads quarreling Paul Goodman’s points back at him.
fractal, NOT gates. how dynamic to have a non-linear topography of microscopic intelligences seeing themselves as living in something linear. That’s how it propagates! hand one a virgin and they call it a whore. they won’t be happy till they have the whore of Babylon to promote as their bleached Pamela.
translation jewel
who interrupts the most?
who gets shouted down?
how obvious is the irrational core of your rhetoric? are you aware of
it? is your audience? are your dependents? enemies?
how far in advance, how prior to consciousness, do the program
components have to become semichoate?
Nadine starts off with Jeff Bridges saying to Kim Bassinger: “no one ever got rich telling people they were wrong.”
use value: 60 min asks Miles about fame & playing, Miles says he’d play all the time anyway: I just love music.
Now I think Miles is a peer to just about any possible musical genius, including Bach, Mozart, Wagner: performers too: Om Calthoum, Khan, Shankar. Bird. Richter. Like Dali, he’s also a great personality. A lot of stuff he says is such a put on: but when he says that he listens, plays, thinks music all the time, and that he would (and he has) all the time whatever the costs & penalties as well as the rewards he has in fact gotten, I believe him quite simply and literally.
I love to write. I haven’t done it all the time, all my life. And there have been few rewards and plenty of penalties. Writing what others want has been a chore. Impossible. I haven’t done it. My resentment was built in even to school assignments. Writing what I want has always only been a penalty. Even that article for EdCen. They didn’t like and didn’t print the most important parts of it: we’re going to discuss the background ourselves, they said. But they didn’t. They were lying. Deceiving themselves. They did not put it in context. They wanted no overview. They wanted a confusion of detail.
GB puts things so well. he’s given me ideas I hadn’t had, but even those I had, come back recycled to me in his images. a la Illich. as if. Our as-if-you-were Father … the idea of reincarnation maybe another inevitable as-if.
Silverberg’s letter. an actual response. more so than Killheffer’s, than Carr’s, than Playboy’s Bill whatshisname. But he’s looking for character, for the illusion of the concrete. Of course. What I’ve never not known. But my imagination works the way it works. My writing is to regular literature what algebra is to arithmatic.
the absurd human world: teach absolutes and use only elastic clauses and multiply fuzzy definitions. “no exceptions” signals you’re not serious at any level of consciousness.
reading Blish: as likely as making an audio tape of a smoke signal.
ss: super sf world sees toxicity of various power and advantage techs, faster than light, vast cheap power, long range transport and comm, and reinvents fractal discontinuity.
alzo ss: supertechnic salesman pushing more and more advantage junk to more and more cancerous commerce. faster than light burglar alarms, insurance since it doesn’t work, antidrug drugs, and social workers for the now double addiction, but this one local universe Boss isn’t buying the new stuff. he’s sending the old back. he’s asked not very insistently or optimistically but with a quiet stubbornness for a refund. the main office wants to forget him, the SS wants to assassinate him, sends the CIA, but the one salesman, counter to sense wants to sell him. it becomes a quest. he’s reinventing the old ways. end, wants the Boss’s name? garbled. got it wrong. correction: Jaweh.
and thinking, a la sirj, so much of the hist of human thought: magic, relig, sci: including, esp including sci-fi, is 1. Thinking something- 2. Seeing it’s wrong-3. Dreaming a way around it so you can still have the cake you’ve eaten (never really ate it cause you never had it) but now you have it in Spades and Eat of it … Spiritually.
how much science is wish, how much evaporation of illusion? impossible to say since the basis of all of it, whatever the math, still comes down to myth.
just read PiersA. all this paradox not allowed, then nothing but paradox and ways through and around it.
now the hardnose materialists accuse those who doubt thermodynamics of being human, sentimental, soft-headed, afraid of death. sure. but another, also human, perspective can accuse the materialist of the same thing. sticking up for a different, likewise rickety, ill examined, sentimental-however-anti, it-doesn’t-work-but-here’s-how-we-can-get-around-it same-thing.
ss: I also like the idea of a ss emphasizing how everything in nature broadcasts or at least sanctly embodies profound truths. man runs around missing almost all the signals, interrupting the truth everywhere to say how smart he is. two or three get one or two percent of the broadcasts only a few percent garbled. some filters through to the self-congratulators. !and something else tapped my shoulder: particle and antiparticle annihilated. shit, now only the anti-particle gets remembered. it’s cause i’m composing the new letter to Silverberg in my head.
maybe DrR becomes a tree for a day. a rock.
ah, particle returns. against that background, there are all these people running around taking out patents on the little they hear and suing everyone else who also has ears. the preposterous idea of national secrets, spy systems, that something can remain property for more than a use time. Anton said it was P Wylie, but I think it was another sf author whose book on atomic energy got him haunted by an illiterate fbi.
“The shadows would become one shadow, one blackness, and never again
take different shapes.” Take individual shapes. back and forth. But
! “individual” MEANS different!
only a little more than I can bear and less than I would still feel
virtue in.
toujours encore: interrupt the presentation to criticize it. life mixes incompatible understandings, intelligences, messaging systems. how is it possible that anything escapes? that a bible, an illiad, a hamlet gets ossified enough for many groups to bounce ignorance, penetration, love, understanding, recognition, and greek-to-me off of?
the minute the innocent, the alien, the meek does get heard in court, after suffering all the insolence of the bar, the case immediately gets switched to chambers, dismissed. exposure not allowed.
style. good waking up def just slipped
the quick quarreling of the intelligent keeps them mixed in, blended in the population. intel there is one of a number of possible variables. genetic variation.
opposite number. gen. recog. we befriend dogs and crucify our superiors. we excommunicate creative theols to sects and missionize among the goyim.
Bliss in Quincunx has the message give an electronic scream: Beep. Way later they ask the heroine how she knows the future. It’s all in the beep, she says. I love it. just what I’ve long meant by the tree finally talking. It’s not finally talking, it’s been saying it all along. We didn’t understand. We didn’t qualify to understand.
What would qualify? Catastrophe, among other things.
Then last night reading Lewis on the 19th Psalm. the firmament showing his handiwork. After months (years? lifetime?) among the illiterate, thought poor fundamentalists. They learn what they’re supposed to see in the bible to confirm before each other that they see it.
I love Lewis more and more and I never loved him more than last night. The English intellectual tiptoeing through the mine fields of morality. I was fascinated. Actually able to see more than one path for further than an inch to two. Actually able to bring some history and sense of cultural difference: the xian must understand the torah to some extent and you can’t understand it much without thought-traveling to 2to5 thou year old Palestine.
thought of Jim reading this relativity. someone arguing fixed reference via an explanation of none.
even Lewis seems unconscious as he talks of JX morality here and is worrying about it through a thick filter of mid20cen worry about being priggish, pedant, snob, etc. where’s all that in the bible? from leviticus to deuteronomy I don’t know any priggishness laws. I don’t remember X adding a one. worry about wearing the proper hem line to inveigh against murder. of course, he’s relating them, and very very well, but he really was judging the Psalm poets more by Oxford standards that Oxford by the Psalms.
the artificiality of the Eng was stentorian, if you take the bible as a fixed ref, J as a fixed god, the law, as The Truth. otherwise a laugh at watching two not so fixed reference points trip each other up, botching an important dance.
a favorite moment in lit. White’s KingA pulling bottle corks. no one understands what a principle’s time is for. so it’s best built into existence ubiquitously but invisibly. sermons in trees and man illiterate. man there representative of any internal sentience.
an explanation which while possibly true, in part, serves really to mask the whole truth, the matrix of the situation.
the 20th is the 1st cen in which one can watch people get younger and think nothing of it. vitamins, sure. make up. not new. run film backwards, closer. I’m watching Tom Cruise look even younger than how very young I think of him as looking anyway. (Though right away I remember some unicorn sorcery flick.) But here is Risky Business.
Tangerine Dream. young twenties, now he’s a teenager looking sharp while he and his buddies practice at being men. (what do men practice at? being old? being dead? no, they’re not practicing for, they practicing meaning being.)
jesus! i’m one percent watching, 90% contemptuous as TomC scratches his way through the obscene personals, some spade drag shows up, he calls, somebody, I’m playing chess, and holy christ: it’s rebecca demornay! they even said her name, and it meant nothing to me. This is only the third time I’ve ever seen her for even … no, four, for five seconds. Wearing gloves on the bus in … Texas lady wants to go home. about to die and losing her babies in some nuclear radiation thing. Runaway Train. And now the whore. Really great. Next day we see her in jeans, looking fairly ordinary. I’ll bet she’s one of those who looks fairly ordinary in person and is beautiful, heart searching, on film. (“I’m surprised you listened to me.” good line just goes by.) ah, here she’s being sophisticated. Any actress could do that shot. But if all she had ever been was that one shot in the gloves! One of the all time … “Joel, go to school, go learn something.” she says when he threatens to call the cops on her.
Damn, damn, damn a thousand hours of shit on the tube and then the super bowl and the skins game on at the same time. or three movies all at 8. half through this one, I realize that Bounty with Mel Gibson would be coming on. I don’t need to see it, but I would have been a chance to try to read that actor’s name. Laudrette Johnny. and I got distracted when I noticed Rebecca. I was about to say there’s that weird guy, Serge in Beverley Hills Cop. A second ago a scene where TomC enters dark room, she rises, they embrace, he buries his face over her shoulder showing a lot of working out of his own shoulders. she pats him. as beautifful a rich sad ambiguous kind of hug as I’ve seem on film, both for female side and the male. I should really see this in a theater some day. what a great movie. and it looked like such tripe at first. freaking TomC looking like Mad House Wife in her panties in his underdrawers. what they keep using as the trailer. minute before that TomC grabbed the nurse by the collar. I’d like a lot more Tangerine Dream in it. And now Muddy Waters!
the moment he decides he’s blown the Princeton interview … great! and a second later, she says yes … no … maybe … and the parents are on the phone. why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this movie? maybe BK did. shrug. cut from her jerking him off to him, pants on, to him carrying the bum out to the station, and now its her turn. Gee, I’m all hot to be hot for her, but I keep seeing the two of them. They’re electric together.
Ridiculous. they keep showing him singing in his shorts. ordinary stupid teenage dreck. the least sensuous part of the film, a headline. what crap.
45 minutes later, she’s still a character. or maybe not. it just changed mood. I thought I’d see her only for the first prefucking scene. then she’s in her jeans. then she’s in the hotel. then the car chase. she moves in. the whore house night. the subway. now its great: we get Guido instead. the pimp is a nice change. now they move the stuff back into the house and its just Ferris Buehler again. no, it’s better than that, (not that Ferris was bad, I just mean the type): the freakin egg. the mother finds a crack in it. and there’s that what the heck, take some chances line again. ah, a last shot of her, I mean them. “No, you don’t believe me do you?” it’s like the end of the Godfather. schtick with the school play business school. TanDr and off to hell they go. Very good.
One hour later: here are the credits for Bounty, but damned if I can read past Hopkins and Olivier. There only cause I know what the fuzz would be saying. The synth music is very good and no chance to see who that is either.
funny line on Arsenio: “a fellow once asked me to pose nude for a magazine. of course he gave me some candy too.”
what a great night for tv. here’s Screaming Jay Hawkins doing voodoo rock I put a spell on you. shaman bone in the nose and all. Houdini topped the show and the lead guy, white jacket, bare chest and choke collar, was as good a rap singer as I’ve seen. he’s got the street dude dominant baboon look, and not just the rap, his whole street strut syched to the 16th beats. and the dancing! Now that’s a different generation, but Arsenio often makes me think that there are more things in this generation that I love than in any in a while: Janet Jackson, for example. Saw her picture on a magazine cover today. Mmm. Speaking of dancing. Maybe I’m feeling sappy cause of the great time I had doing aerobic with Cathy’s group Wed. The music is crap to listen to, but great to exercise to. gal there reminded me of Sherrie Dupree.
That’s the third incredible line from this Emo Philips: some beauty comes on. Emo what do you think? “Oh, she’s a live one … but still … I think I could manage.” “I don’t like female entertainers taking male names: Glen Close, Sean Young, Richard Simmons.”
And before, the dynamite lady. Emo says, “I heard you had a lady who blew herself up. I think that’s a good idea. Mine took me a half an hour.”
40 hours throwing away drafts to Silverberg, then I hear from OMNI and Isaac Asimov in the same mail. So I’ll send Mod to IA, and wait to phone RS re: King, see what he ways and then chose Aboriginal or not. So now i’m glad i could satisfy myself with the letter till it was too late to mail it.
Mel Brooks Space Balls is really pissing me off at how unconsciously absurd the space parts are. When Brooks is blasting a dumb convention (or a smart convention) or an ignorance, he’s wide open. He’s got momentum down and that’s all. but I must be soft in the head the last couple of days: I really cackling over some lines: to the doctor: “go back to the golf course and work on your putz.”
the self destruct button says have a nice day.
“It’s irreversible.” “Just like my raincoat.”
“The Schwartz be with you.”
They hold their dicks and the laser beam juts out.
“Dummy, you captured their stunt doubles.”
look up to? logical? I’m not sure if god has even a logical direction, a single direction that is.
Xs and pagans more similar than different to me, though Xs betterworse in their arrogance.
Second Meanings, Xity itself an “anticipation” OrigSin. only the intel, consc are fallen and they must! be. because they (we) can imagine difference between what we are and what we might be.
Gamoot imagines returning to “the people” in the line I add while printing. Then I saw G as even more autobiographical than I already had, though in an ironic way. I’d long believed that I’d get my fiction published, then write and publish the sonnets thing, and somewhere along there, I’d be sorting through the serious invitations to teach. Or better, create my own demand in a FLEX which I could seed with $ myself. I don’t miss society; I just wish to communicate. So I think how hauty civilization is in callously relying on (most) people’s total dependence on it. Soldiers drafted to murder and suffer and die and get genetic problems in criminal actions or: worse than jail; be ignored. That’s different though, because there really is a long and partly justifiable rational for territorial conflict. but the civilized variety! just awful.
Or not. We don’t know where we’re headed. Seen from the future, presuming a human one, or even beyond a human future, Cae/Chin/Khan/ Hitler/Nixon could be like the invention of sex. the eukaryotic cell.
could make ss.
Gad, how can it not have struck me this way before!? SF is basically
magic, not science! it struck me as odd the other week when one hist/anth called Bradbury basically hostile to sci. now it strikes me as under the surface of nearly all of it. then of course: me too! the younger me. I loved sf before I ever became aware that i was hostile to sci. hated the bomb since hearing of it of course and sci meaning the works of man, sure i hated it. that’s just plain original sin. now, for the first time ever in my life, I finish one fantasy novel and the next sf i pick up is also fantasy. Anthony spends some time being clever and some time also being profound on basic theoretical, cosmological, epis issues. But the narrative was all magic. So then this Festerville/Witchville crap. And I realized: even some of the hard science stuff … nearly all of it …
And to some extent it’s even obvious: the best hard sf is best because of the irrelevant to science magic it pulls out: somewhere the cosmos is senses beyond the universe, god beyond man and nature, or god beyond man and in nature, or beyond science but in man and nature. That’s the good stuff. 2001, Quincunx, Final ?, …
But so much … isn’t even to Jehovah yet. Just plain garbage magic.
ownership is invested labor. of course: perceived invested labor. we had a lot invested in pulling a trigger, in inheriting military gun powder, autochthons have none: hunting, gathering, and a little corn patch isn’t labor.
reality seems to be programmed to translate into another dialect or even language the second its topology is about to be apprehended. Babel. Babel is the truth. “It’s all in the beep” says Blish. a name is an artificial bleep. artificial meaning made by a subprogram resident within the system.
people attention span is practiced only in one dimensional fragments, disconnected, by-definition irrelevancies. try to structure a 2,3,or4 dimensional point to someone and they: interrupt, thinking you’re done with your fragment, or not caring if you’re done, and just taking their turn with another fragment, or going home to put dinner on, or fall asleep, or stub their toe, or, if they begin to suspect you’re actually about to structure something truthful, start screaming and shouting and calling on god to protect them from the devil. you’re the alien and aliens have always been chopped up and sewn with the corn.
res: we need a like aperiodic table of semantics: logical levels, the perpetual possibility of misclassification, a graphic reminder that something wrestled into the wrong context can always be made to seem wrong
The other day I mentioned to Cathy a movie I’d dreamed and she says: you dream movies? a little startled. then was clearly impressed though without recognition when I told her I dream movies in the style of some great directors, complete movies they’d never actually made, sometimes innovating within or beyond the style. For the first time in decades it occurred to me that other people perhaps don’t. I dreamed movies in my twenties. 49-51 I dream topology. fractals, recursive nonlinear propagation. And I just woke up with another, lay half conscious thinking about GB’s distinction bet pleroma and creatura, my suspicion that pleroma may be a bit toward creatura after all, and there was another revelation relating discontinuity to a turning away pattern in the dance, how the two chips so companionable in the calm river get separated in the whirlpool, or visa versa, but how they may be juxtaposed again way further on, but by then they’re not the same chips, not even chips, but then they never were, the curlicues in a Mandelbrot set being artifacts of the observer. To want the curlicues turning away from each other in one direction of propagation instructions to turn toward each other, is to want them to be in and you to be looking at the wrong pattern. Wrong meaning a different and almost certainly less interesting pattern. But that’s only the general topic of the revelation: the matrix I already know. I lay still thinking I’d plug in the coffee, load the Plus, and catch it, and the dream half of my consciousness became dream three-quarters and went right on curlicuing into something else I can trace no connection with. Oh well, I’m probably somewhere close or below par if I can ever catch any part of it. If I haven’t, I sure might as well have stayed in school or in business or in marriage or in money … What? Be alive and BE the pattern when to your aesthetic the most beauty is outside with a perspective on what’s going on?
god/human perception human perception/god
something can only be considered complete if by another view it’s shoddy
my life and nothing completed in it. what combination of perfectionism, avoidance, just plain life, … and on the other side: society not having a compatible length attention span, perception system … I swear what I do is just as traditional as it is innovative, but we’ve repudiated those traditions by sanctifying them and thus REMOVING THEM FROM OUR LIVES.
I spend a week writing way over a thousand lines trying to tell RS in one page or under all the things that are important to me and which emergency. Finally, about to mail it yesterday pm, finally go ahead and add a second page PS. Seal the envelope I couldn’t afford to buy, lick and adhere the ditto stamp, and then notice an occasion for improvement in the PS. I change and save, but don’t reprint. it was the fifth and final #10 envelope I trembled to buy Monday. So my “copy” is actually a different draft, better? but never sent!
99.9% of what I write is still in a first or second or twentieth draft, not yet ready or not even contemplated to be shown. What’s been through thirty or fifty drafts, or, maybe only, two, gets rejected, passed over, missed, misunderstood, understood only too clearly and therefore avoided … what would happen to a president if he were ever both truthful, candid, and clear? the millennium? no, the coup. non compis mentis. doesn’t work for the cadre of civ anymore. even handed. that’s not civilized. horse shit is civilized.
anyway, i suddenly think: bam! I’m always going on (if only to myself) about how god is what is, what the territory, not the map, actually is, unmappable, unknowable, but there, very there, and known even by us mappers to be there. there is a territory that we’re mapping, even if the map is not and cannot be the territory. we’re even part of the territory, ourselves likewise unknown to us. … and, I’ve just read (and loved) CS Lewis’ Psalm piece … and he has this Blakian: it’s not just that god became man in X, but w the resurr, man becomes god! …
and that generally strikes me as cute, and appealing, but such crap …
and then again, traced differently, by others: Hoyle, Asimov’s sf jokes like the Final ?, … and some of my own tendencies …
not godforbid those I am sure the conventional attribute to me, those who get close enough to fear for their civilized souls, Jim eg must think: ‘He thinks he’s JC!’ those who can’t distinguish between the formal, a similarity of relationship, a is to b as …, and a primitive identity: for Mua’dib is the Kwisatz Hadderat!
I don’t doubt that J is deified by the same lower sophistication of thought. all thought being thought-which-sees-difference-as-well-as- resemblance.
Anyway, misattribution of thought is the simple man’s reducio ad absurdum: lie about what it’s leading to and you can imagine you’ve slammed the door in the wolf’s face, that candor is the wolf, and that the tatters of primitive epistemology are a foundation, wall, roof, and door. anyone less hysterical can see the maniac holding the “door” closed with his body, but actually wholly exposed, but in no particular danger except from his exertions to exclude.
and … I’ve got to tie in what god is understood to be. whoops, got that insideout. what the believed to be real god really is: our own minds, including its errors, writ large. in that sense god certainly is man and man certainly is god. the all important “aspects of” left out, as usual.
all to get at this simple point. maybe god, the halfassed, 99% human hardwiring, another 99% civilized pathology (deodorant commercial math), and a half a one percent reality doesn’t intervene in the world because … he’s rewriting the PS.
it’s perhaps astonishing how well we do considering how rich the dynamic of contrary programs that goad us. trailer for the egregious, incomprehensibly popular and respected tv MASH. Hot Lips says “You’re government issue” to some GI who there withers. They’re all fucking drafted or used their free will to enlist, be commissioned etc and not go to jail or be ostracized. If there are lifers there, it’s clear that the choice wasn’t one of altruism, clear Xity, but solemnity, self-serving horseshit. They’re as GI as the G can mismold actual organisms, everyone of them, however individual they also are, and cannot help but be, even were they nazis. even the primitive cultural molds turned out individuals. sure, americans may be more so. for one thing, we really are from all over, and two, US haven’t had time to homogenize. But: they all know and acknowledge, the G doesn’t deny, GI stinks! Shoddy, fourth rate merchandise, on tenth rate human beings, the best in the world! poor world. the supplier is the congressman’s cousin, or greased his palm.
we demand as well as have shoved down our throats the deliberately inferior homogeneity while dreaming of difference. the suppliers are different, they don’t consume their own crap. Until they go a bit further. and everything is their own crap recycling. Trump’s limo still has to be swallowed by taxis on Park Ave & 57th St, his copter snarled around Kennedy. His poor wife: what does 20 million$ buy today?
fiction streamlines the double binds.
the hero is one who can take one of the programs from the chaos seriously for more than three seconds together. he’s in trouble because the chorus can’t stand his superior discipline, his inferior malleability. total wishy-washy doesn’t stand out. being the first to suddenly switch to jingoism in the midst of theology or to morality in the midst of a lynching does. but only if it’s really self-serving to the group’s pathology. he would heal toward real health … but maybe the wishy-washy with a little occasional five second backbone is the real health. it is what we do.
terrorizing the faithful into a belief that their fear is love and joy.
either/or criticism, holding back most (but not all) artists, and then the public. shaw’s stagarite, Playboy’s “Uncle Remus/Sherwood Anderson,” that idiot in the NYT who said Truffaut couldn’t make up his mind between comedy and tragedy in JulesJim. may he be dead of a diabetes of money.
Patty Berg, Grand Marshall, Edison Parade Festival of Lights, thank you inventor Thomas. age 72ish, just interviewed. they say she loves golf. sure, sure, and i’m ready for somebody who took it up 65 and over ladies day beginners or something, not from the possibility, but from the tone I judged the newscast to have by which I started prejudiced against Patty’s golf. Then we see the trophy case: she’s won LPGA Pebble Beach, this tournament 6 times, that etc. And the photos of her with Bob Hope and President somebody go back to the 30s. Pictures of this wonderful freckle faced red haired teenage jock dame. All these great awards are listed, but she says her proudest win was the Minneapolis Municipal something. She says she played one year and didn’t do well. So she vowed she’d do better. “And I practice and I took lessons. From a professional …” And I’m thinking well sure pros take lessons from professional, from their fathers and such too sometimes. Why’d she say that? And she goes on … “And worked hard on my game, everyday for 365 days …” and I don’t claim verbatim quotes or no. And I entered the tournament saying you’ve got to do better than last year. No matter whether it’s get into a different flight … and it sounds like she’s talking about just qualifying or something. … A different flight or even just shoot 109 … !!! “instead of the 122 you shot last year”!!! So she qualifies with a 79 and goes on to win it! 45 strokes off her score in one year! I’m in love. If I had any income, I’d propose to her. Berg. Looked Irish as hell. A little like Marge Kirk Sr. How do you say senior when you mean the mother, not the daughter?
Ok, now I understand. the broadcast tone was just parade announcing. had nothing to do with the grand marshall personally. great time of year to do this, they just said. Feb 17. 88° on the news. 92° on my therm at 5 pm. all day, can’t get the screens open wide enough. I’m up and sweating at 9. beautiful day. lied to Cathy when I said I wouldn’t need my big fan again till June or July. ran two fans today and couldn’t get them high enough. Not that I didn’t enjoy it.
But man did I quarrel with the news a couple of hours ago.. The commercials. Statement after statement egregious at worst, undefined and untestable at best. Except for the international news dealing with foreigners. What the caster said about a woman running for office in Japan, her snatching the mike from her parliament white gloved husband. Akiko Hamada, if I got her name right. This in Cuba. That in SAfrica. No quarrel. Nothing was being protected that I was aware of. The second they started about the Contra hearings, logic went out the window. So and so’s defense, they didn’t do anything wrong or illegal. No, in the white house nothing they can get away with is illegal. Treason, murder, theft, extortion, espionage, perjury, subornation, … We didn’t think it was illegal or wrong … because we were doing it and Reagan had god’s carte blanche. Then an add that shows a curled parchment mounted constitution. This paper protects our … a paper protects! good god. no effort from us. ok, now let’s test that scientifically. look for disproof. all we need is once instance in 214 years of someone not having freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, couldn’t bear an armament, did drink, didn’t drink, couldn’t vote when supposedly could. Hey, how come that paper wasn’t protecting us?
we’re trained to be scientific about the alien and credulous about ourselves. I say trained: we’re that way naturally, up to a point: we’re encouraged to be that way beyond that point, or at least indulged in it. (Of course any such statement is based on some necessarily part educated, part informed, part ignorant (part deliberately ignorant) supposition as to what human “nature” is.) Or, maybe the indulgence is short of the natural and in fact it’s a miracle that anyone is every 1% objective or not self-serving 1% of the time. How have Galileos been born or allowed to live?
Last night I fall (half at least) asleep and an hour later realize I’ve been dreaming a joke dialogue narrative to Aurora. Do it SF and then you can tell the truth. But I want to describe this earth and this US. So I was dreaming. Once upon a time there was a nice planet named Trufal. It had a nice sky and nice oceans and rivers and streams. And beautiful forests full of beautiful trees. The people etc.
“That sounds just like earth.”
Well it isn’t, the narrative said. Now be a good audience and just listen. Um, no, you don’t have to get up and leave: there’s a water fountain right there against the rear wall. Well, there’s still you two left. So, I was saying …
Then this morning a semi consciousness intrudes to realize that I’m dream writing a dream story taking place in Birdland. Now that’s a great line, I say to myself. Memorize that because you’re sleeping and you want to be able to write it down later. Don’t worry, I’ve got it. In fact, memorize that whole sequence. That’s really good. Don’t worry, don’t worry. And when the alarm goes off, up 7am Sunday, good boy, I think I have it. And now I load the Plus and of course I don’t. All I remember is that it took place in Birdland. I was meeting some gal. Knew the musicians. A small expansion of the truth. Had some scam-scheme to make money, to keep it up.
Had a day dream, not 100% accurate, very vivid picture of Horace playing in that club on St Marks and 2nd yesterday. I loved how contorted Horace would be at the piano, every limb including his head, his shoulders beating away but in what seemed like four or six different, all complementary, rhythms. Actually, it was probably two or three. I’ve love to see him again and try to count now. I don’t mean Horace now me now, I mean me now Horace then: 1959. The slick spick. The best ever for his sort of rhythmic comping thing. A good composer. His bands always had it down. I’ll never forget buying Jackie an English muffin on Greenwich Avenue and she goes over to the juke box and out comes Señor Blues. That bar on the NW corner of Bleeker and MacDougal also always had a fair amount of Horace on the box. A few steps down from the Si Como No. But that was the bar where Jackie says she’ll buy me a drink, comes back without it, all het up, convinced she’d encountered some king of racism from the bar tender. Maybe she had, though that bar was generally pretty mixed. But we left and never went back. I never went back either in all the years following when I drank the Village. Though they had the best jazz box around. Not that it was that good. Even the West End had a Basie Joe Williams thing … was it Roll Em Pete? on their box. More likely Chicago or Every Day.
One reason I’ll never forget that muffin on Greenwich Av, apart from it being a rare time of being with Jackie during the day time and her wearing the most adorable trench coat, the was to me the Platonic original example of female appetite, incomprehensible to mine. she’s hungry. suddenly, she’s dying for food. OK, here and we enter this place I had no attraction for. Ok, what do you want. Now she doesn’t just say, six cheeseburgers as fast as possible, fries, a big malted, salad, and bring at least part of it this instant: she sits and studies the menu. What’s you have the waitress says to me. Nothing, just her. Waitress keeps checking back with her. Finally she says to me, I guess I’ll have an English muffin. Ok, waitress, English muffin. Do you want butter, marmalade, grape jelly, all of the above … oh, just a little marmalade. It comes. She puts a fragment on. Starts to nibble. Plays Senior Blues. Half hour later she’s eaten half the muffin. I can’t eat all of this she says to me. Do you want the other half. Sputter, sputter. But you were starving! Yes. That doesn’t mean I wanted to eat a lot. I just needed a little bite.
I’d get ravenous … no food? wrong time? and the ravening would go away. then finally, food, the ravening returns: I eat all the food and then start on the furniture. The only guy, Naomi observed, who looked hungrier at the end of a meal than at its start. That time, cooking a lb of spaghetti and beaucoup sauce with everything in it for Brian C and self. I eat my half, then all that he hasn’t. Sure my belly was swollen, but it would have held more. The food just ran out. Carey goes around offended, alarmed, outraged, disgusted: You just ate … sputter, sputter … several … pounds of food!!! I’d never seem him so distressed. Of course I was a 132 lb cloths pole with my ribs sticking out while he had some flesh on him. Except that now the ribs also had a pregnant belly protruding even further. That’s all right. An hour later, I’ll just have a little belly. It inflates: it deflates. The belly I’ve never been without no matter how skinny.
maybe existence is a systematic varying of logical type so type m finds itself among type n. further energy could come from type m knowing/believing itself to be type m, while types n assume its also n. no verification of anything is possible because memory is short and at its unreliable very longest, it is one level deep. Jesus could be satan believing himself to be J with S inside believing himself to be S, believing the whole thing is one thing at unknown, misknown, misperceived, lied about, depth but switching very fast: like the whole universe being really one particle moving at infinite velocity. that superman comic of superboy playing all positions on the baseball field, offense and defense, pitch, hit, catch, relay …
Lewis Second Meanings. so: if what P said about S applies to J not because P was lucky but because P was wise. Lewis was wise to see it. Because there are many other tendencies as well. And any wisdom can fall into foolishness. The extreme of (a linear expression of) error in which context L was writing was the xian tendency to see their magic animal as unique and everyone else’s as All that ersatz crap. Lewis is straddling a stream that gets broader until you fall in: our magic unique, under one foot, and other people have lived before us not written about by the Jews, that had their own writing, and as a matter of fact, if you compare it to the Jews, or godforbid to ours, … um, we look pretty shabby and they look pretty great: in a word, humanism, under the other. So the problem of the last six centuries is apotheosized in Lewis: how to know this culture and that culture and also live in your own: how to balance, reconcile, decide between this bronze age wisdom and that bronze age wisdom and is it stunting, fostering, preventing, informing, warping … your own chaos programming via these two huge, factitious by the standards of all previous human cultures, inputs? So there’s the negative gradient default assumption. It’s all downhill after the Golden Age.
And its complement in chaos: Positive gradient: Evolution: growth is the last link in the chain, not death. We’re the best. This is a Modern belief.
And on both sides labels are thought to be a recommendation. This is Ancient! One side Yay! other side Boo!
Now Plato and the Greeks were examples of first God then it goes down or Golden Age down but with a creeping feeling: sure Homer was the best: in an age when they were very down on their fall from the age when Achilleus was the best; in an age when … onuuthahan, me, Plato, I’m pretty hot shit. Lookame, writing down what those guys only talked. We in the wake of the industrial revolution, romanticism, reversal from cities are good to country is good;cities corrupt think that if Pepsi is the new generation then it must the best thing possible among all possible things.
Now, the former tendency will quite Platonically attribute all possible perfect wisdom to Plato and the rest of us at best will do well to get it only a little bit wrong.
classical physics is the same: first BB then entropy. you can’t do anything but be more random (without looking very closely at the random)
so if Lewis is wise, there will be a tendency, Gee fantastic, that was 1% Plato. If you were perfect as perfect could be for us, you’d be 2%.
Or, the teenyrockers gather in London shelling out the shillings to copy the costume of somebody copying Muddy Waters while feeling infinite contempt for and infinite superiority to MW or anyone else they wouldn’t recognize from mass force feeding via industrial multiplication. Of course who first started electronically amplifying their wooden acoustic guitars but MW and ilk?
(isn’t it wonderful what redundancies we get caught in, amplified and acoustic have the same meaning: the one word from the age of wood, the other from the age of electronics.)
So, when you mix the two, you have evolution back attributed to the primitive. My pilot’s upright slime mold. You imagine Abraham as living in a Barnum and Bailey tent, all Hollywood, but if you could TT you’d find somebody 4’11” with more goats than the next nomad. And you’d find him performing magic and blood sacrifices. The Jews, backdating their authenticity.
Now the Chinese would backdate their authenticity almost as infinitely as the Hindu Aryans.
Whew, I catch myself “perfect and perfect could be” “backdate their authenticity also as infinitely” the trouble with imperfectly automatic fingers and a forward propulsion not a backward care. but backward care can’t say much.
So Lewis will be taught as 1% Plato, Plato as 1% JC to modern idiots who couldn’t in ten life times be 1% of 1% AND to modern idiots who automatically are what’s what just by being this generation.
The pain there (haha) is how fast your generation has passed and some other group of yo-yos is now the smartest, the most noble, the druggiest, the most corrupt, invented sex and virtue yesterday.
Or you can see S was example N and J example Nn … of pattern P as well as of pattern Man, pattern carpenter, pattern Athenian imperial aristocrat
And the nofN would be chronological-linear and linear in no other knowable (now, maybe-ever) way.

Journal

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About pk

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