/ Journal /
previous save: 1990 03 30
new species of literature? new genus? order? what I try to do? hardly. i try to do what the oldest stories do: order and interpret experience, not recount it. (and there is no experience without theory: an electron may have a history, but no experience.) obviously not an effort to recount fact. i easily imagine the authors of adam and eve as appalled should anyone think adam was an historical farming organism who today would have a social security number as I would be if anyone thought my myths to be journalism from a geographical heaven. we don’t know the color of adam’s eyes and don’t need to, shouldn’t want to.
what makes mine invisible, silent? not good enough? hardly. i’ll argue (if I could argue irrespective of time and culture) that it’s better. we’re not looking for digestion, for new myth. if we want myth, we’ll mock the irrelevance of the old ones. (except they’re not always so irrelevant.)
the government in power is always a gradualist, those out of power may be catastrophists. traumatic learning is effective, but can be lethal to the individual(s). of course nonGBonians couldn’t imagine “learning” from death or extinction.
top: Fuller’s two squares. What’s outside of anything (that a human is likely to consider) is always greater, vastly greater, than what’s inside.
saw Judy Garland’s ruby slippers toe the Hollywood curlicue that begins the Yellow Brick Road and thought: by god, it’s fractal, has been fractal all my life, but I’m only this time seeing it that way. Then the whole landscape … understood by everyone to be “a land,” not “the cosmos.”
m/t: the investment in false maps is 99.9n% of what we are 99.9n% of the time.
school supervised map imitation: where the maps copied, imitated, rehearsed are more often maps of wishes, intentions or of actual deliberate deceptions, the rhetoric of running for or staying in office, than of experience.
ss: yes/no Federal abortion is context of ss: also ? when does life begin. @ galactic hdqrtrs: but it’s planets they’re talking about!
the usual industrialists want a flexible definition with a zillion exceptions so they can exploit whatever they want, the selfish and suicidal aspect of a species, genus, etc. vs those whose inside recognizes its complement in the outside and whose sense of the outside, no longer so alien, goes beyond the next border over. the me/youers, or the me’nyou/iters vs the I/Thouers.
I’m still haunted by my thoughts from SirJ: civilization still basically wizard magician valued and merely using-hiring-exploiting science without reevaluating its own epistemology. The great sorcerers who surround DC and now surround 495 too forever pursuing the free lunch. If they don’t believe it themselves, they ardently know they can still sell it and take the commission. Little pictures: here’s how we can gain advantage over the random: the rest of the economy. Not how economical is the economy given its total environment. (Now of course “total” is flexible, as is environment since we will never know what “everything” is; but the econos are deliberately limiting to their own nose if not their own dick.) Lottery mentality: you all give us a billion dollars and we’ll give back a few million on paper, a couple of million actually. See, you’ll be rich. Ok, but what’s the billion for? Why, to deepen all of our addictions. With you paying. Except we all pay. But making it a trillion won’t save it forever. Because it’s basically non-viable.
Except … I’ll bet that that’s how evolution, is fueled, levered. I don’t doubt for a second that there’s a cybernetic negentropic counter, by definition invisible to us.
Sh tragedy. Hamlet Sr is replaced by Claudius, Hamlet Jr dies in the scourge and Fortinbras takes over. Who do we prefer: Hamlet? or Fortinbras? It’s a grim order that closes the stage on the chaos.
Only the good die young. The good dies, the bad lives. Even an eighty year old who believes himself good has that feeling.
So what are those green shoots coming out of the ground? What’s that lovely breeze blowing over the volcanic ash? That fish, that animal you’ve never seen before? Wait a minute! Whole new galaxies? New particles? Where did they come from? A whole new ancient history! And Jesus Christmas, look at the ass on that girl! As Prince Andrew hears Natasha looking at the moon.
Everybody dies, the few survivors infinitely wretched and soon to follow. And the bacteria come out and bask. Or the continents drift in peace. Whew, finally rid of that scrofula.
Even the supposed thermodynamic heat death, random random could be bliss to a different kind of existence, an invisible complement of ours.
So, it’s lousy … from our partial viewpoint. Or, ain’t life great? from our partial viewpoint. So we take some super animal, some tiny extension of ourselves or what we know and attribute to it infinity, totality, backwards and forward perfect this and that? Then we attribute to it our stupid linear, one-to-one misconceptions of causality. Infinity won’t win the war for you or give you a new bicycle. However, local distortions (existence) may or may not galore. But always temporarily. Gave to the jellyfish, the trilobites, then the saurians, now us …
We think the void is nothing because we’re blind to how full it is, full including with us! Emptiness is the everything we can’t see.
dei: the universe as god’s footprint. fingerprint? mind scan.
log: The Motivational Fallacy. As though Why we do something affects its value. The value to us? Our own value? Sure. At least maybe. But not the activity. What do Lincoln’s political, personal, or moral motives have to do with the event of emancipation?
ss: Limited Access.
Ranger gets primitive, no rescue park.
Pristine. Gorgeous. Well: here goes nothing.
or Pristine. Gorgeous. Phaan wanted it hard; but this was ridiculous.
what greater gift can a thinker give than to be shatteringly clear in how wrong he is.
Hawking & modest hyp applied to self, male/f things. chaos sets as self evisceration on other to propagate the beauty.
LA: … It didn’t mater how long it took. It didn’t matter that no one knew she was doing it. That was part of what it was. It almost didn’t matter whether or not it “worked,” what the issue was. Trying was the best one could hope for.
Background. 18 galactic “empires subsumed under the Condition. Condition I established all star systems previously uncolonized as wilderness. The sovereign civs agreed to reserve 15% of systems already colonized. Grandfather law for planets already saturated, but systems encouraged to then create “natural” areas.
Ranger recollects the lies, deceits, political blackmail.
So here’s a wilderness planet with a space port in orbit, shuttle sites every other hectare, …
An alliance of consciousness. All very liberal he was sure, but … But what was consciousness but a super stimulation of aspects of interest? More conspicuous for what it left out than what it included.
The Condition II was more development oriented. Amnesty for all violations of C I law; ratified repression of resisters.
Then III: 5% of parks limited to one pad.
Physical recommended, but optional.
Mental mandatory (how he lied: they took the violent skew for indignation)
Aid station at pad only. Estimate how long, go in, come out … or not. How long before attorneys notified of legal death? You’ll be begging from your heirs.
Ranger finally has own park. No pad, just port. Do things his own way. Discipline 50,000 years away. Class 10 primitive.
Expected visitors first decade: zero.
Staff: self. Looking forward to being alone.
Then what’s this beep. Gal shows up. Human. Never seen one.
When are you coming out?
It’s dangerous down there. I haven’t gone in person myself yet. Had to terminate my alpine analogue who broke his leg after three weeks.
Have your terminal tell mine what your defaults are.
I didn’t bring a terminal.
Well, here the units of measure are …
we are born (evolved, etc) into a nest of media: ecology, family, sub-organization of the species such as society, pairing behavior, etc, economic habits (food gathering, business, etc), things within that we can control to some degree (children, subordinates), things within which we can’t (genetic defaults, independent local creatures and things, the inner laws, physics, etc) and things without which we can to some extent control, bordering systems, and things without which we cannot, non-contiguous systems, other stars eg … But, as we grow, decay, learn, forget, unlearn … the matrix of our environment, the borders, can change. Is it a stupidity typical of consciousness to think it’s smarter than the matrix?
Which would we compare ourselves to: mice which find a house, bore into the larder, find the cheese and assume it’s there for them? or mice that do the same and know they’re stealing and are scared shitless of the builders/inhabitants of the house? mice who do the same and think why shouldn’t it be ours if we can take it? just be careful. in fact, steal carefully, a bit here and a bit there, and they may not get too upset.
those aren’t the only possible mice/food comparisons possible. what those three have in common is the idea of an already inhabited prior builder, a maker/provider of the house and cheese. I don’t mean to get into an anthropomorphic god, the clock maker, father, many mansions thing, so maybe my comparisons aren’t too good. but, in the nature of my id file, I don’t resist the first impulse, which came up with them first and objected to them second. what I mean is: if the laws (patters) of nature aren’t intelligent, what are they? or what is intelligence? just what we have? ie, GB’s Mind and Nature. With my addition/qualification that the transcendent business is not a closed question. GB spent his career denying it, then writes Angels Fear. But it’s of a piece … The infinite parentheses of Steps … It may be closed within these parentheses, but not in the next ones out. It may be open in those, but closed in another still further out.
We don’t know the extent of the nest. We don’t know if it’s infinite. We could “in fact” be at the last border, but in the nature of rationality not know it. God could be god, but to “know” it would have to be as blind as idiot as we are … Unless the same epis doesn’t apply. In which case, we cannot possibly know that it doesn’t. Or does.
just lost 50,000 bytes from this file!!! good stuff on topology. maybe some maundering too. four hours of today’s work.
anyway, about to add: love tv commercials. close-up of teen midriff. voice says, you’ve got your own cloths, you’re choosing your own music now, that hair cut was your idea, camera looks up, kid scarecrow punk, toking a roll of paper, kid’s maybe 12. then it says don’t smoke pot. what does “your own” mean in this sequence? “not parentally dictated”? what did they show at any point that indicated personal, not collective “choice”? the music was merely the shit of the day, ditto the clothes, the hair cut, everything. the illusion of individuality. what in this context would we be to make of a kid who was a successful rubber stamp of church and parents instead of peers and zeit geist?
und magic. Bud’s current schtick most significant. guys open bar. rennovate and spray paint in about five seconds, pause for a brew. “how about some customers, and guy spills paint bucket. puushsh, merlin mist, cadence, and rock beat resumes. all slick, all female, all for them. and free! all you got to do is get drunk a lot.
and some airline is advertising a rain maker as a VIP!
all the worst, most known erroneous of human cognitive tendencies coddled and encouraged, glamorized by the pushers. but what do you get in exchange for blitzkrieging the biosphere? look around.
some of what I lost was about Learning 0, 1, 2, the illusion that 0 is 1, homeostatic hostility of 0 toward 1 and absolute atheism about 2, etc.
then God0 claimed to be God1 with absolute atheism about anything else in the series.
0 always being a reset counter. the whole of evolution and who knows what else besides in each zero. the insects, the bacteriums, the school child, the president, the pope …
the god of one level above the weave the consciousness is aware of.
something about an insurance guy saying “it’s axiomatic” and then doing a complex derivation from complex assumptions.
Lucy and her “common sense”, “simply logical,” etc. I heard a lot about common sense in the Everglades last winter too. never heard it so much as now among the illiterati. Lucy had to ask me how to spell “shouldn’t.” tried hard to determine if she was just flattering me, playing the female, or if she really needed help. convinced it was the latter. but can she really be as stupid as she seems? can anyone really be as stupid as they seem? they breathe, don’t they?
(added 3/30 while rescanning to compare with recovered bytes: Lucy and I getting on fine now. Wed is monthly inventory. Talk of flattering: I found myself slipping into a show-me-how-to-do-it, Manager mode. flattering her. reward for complimenting the shit out of me recently.)
and something about the law of the minimum having a corollary, a complement. you can have plenty of air, water, state of the art this and that, but lack … oh say, zinc: you wither and die. Herod kills all the yearling males, but misses the only one that counted.
cinderellas are always the exception, the extreme minority in a given population, but in evolution, they’re the majority, the fulcra at least, the points visible in the receding past.
alzo: The Gifted One, yich, DARYL revisited, has the marvelous John Reis Davies boom to his medical “teacher,” “As Heisenberg has said, if I have seen further than others it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.” If that was H, how many other thousand scientists was he quoting? Then there’s Newton’s wandering down the shore, and GBS’s If I am greater than you, it is because you are on your knees: why don’t you rise? Anyway, they take the gifted one to the doctors, and Davies says so now we’ll see what makes you tick. utter confidence that they’ll know all about it once they’ve run their known procedures. in other words, no science at all. science backwards, science as knowing rather than seeking and making maybe a little progress. and fucking doctors are actually going to discover something interesting? spend their own money to do so? what world does this take place in? now if they had said we’re going to take you and cut you up to make a golf course, I would have recognized it.
And what was this guy’s gift? like DARYL, he takes an awkward, slow swing at a slow hanger and the ball streaks in slow motion very far. isn’t there anything on tv that doesn’t look like actors standing on the Xs while the special effects people put in another day?
double wow. Now, 3/30 pm, after fiddling with verify and update in PC Tools, I get the missing 50,000 bytes back! Shoot. And I’d thrown those other unclosed id files away with much cursing and threatening of QA. Now I can look and compare what I remembered and discover what, if anything, I would have lost!
So I wake up in the middle of a dream in which I’m writing a story about a cash register that gives correct change, except that as the narrative unfolds it proves not just to total the items entered and to subtract from the amount entered as tended, but to sense what else was going on. It offers $.01 back as change from a dollar for a $.99 total. Sure. That’s what they all do. But then it says, “That was a ten you put in the drawer not a twenty.” Then it spells “30 Days” on the LCD, thwarting a quick change artist. Then it starts giving ideal change from a pricing ideal other than that practiced by the store. Eventually a Seminole comes in and offers $1.07, the familiar price plus tax of the item. Narrator hits $1.00, hits the calculate sub-T button, $1.07, the same figure already matched by the bill and change put on the counter at the same time as the tall Bud. $1.07 AT, the narrator hits. “Title to Fort Lauderdale,” the LCD says. Etc.
It was writing itself somehow in terms of it, the story, being an item on sale. Up front, discounted and boostable, like the generic cancer sticks. The real, advertised, poison was out of reach like the jerk mags. I come in on a day off (What!?!? Why? What would I buy there?). So I buy a $.05 candy, toss down a nickel, and the LCD says, “Give him a Hugo.”
Good last line to the story? It goes on, whether it should have stopped or no …
Also some shit about Playboy interviewing Stephen Hawking. …
And it occurs to me: there are all sorts of stuff that pops up here, repeats here, and other that hardly gets mentioned at all, though anyone I might talk to in life would be likely to hear what I don’t write long before they’d hear what I do. Autobiography vis a vis ideas, fetishes, phobias, hatreds.
BK goes into a 7-11 to find something. I accompany him. Ten minutes later I’m fidgeting out of my mind and he’s still looking. They sell cigarettes and beer in the supermarkets too, but they also sell food, real potatoes, veggies, rice, beans, semi-real meat, milk, eggs … as well as real tools: plates, cups, knives … The convenience store sells only addiction and at an inflated price. Processed food, toxins, porn … No tax on the lottery? That would really be funny, since the lottery is tax in it’s closest to pure form. Tax in Plato’s Form bin would be the Lottery. So BK says, really sounding curious, What, you don’t like to look at America? or some such thing. I tell him a hate it. He looks at the crap for another minute, but I’ve spoiled it. We leave. Philadelphia somewhere. After a movie maybe.
So, other than to buy gas or look for a phone or to decide I wasn’t really that thirsty once I saw the drink prices, I don’t think I’d been in a convenience store between that 7-11 and walking into the Circle K I’ve lived within a block of for eleven months to ask the manager if she needed part time help. So, there I am, standing behind the counter, and there are the dirty magazines. If it’s four years between 7-11 and Circle K, it’s been twenty years separating the three Playboys I’ve looked at. 1952 or so, 1967 or so, and 1990.
Spenser contrasts his peek-a-boo jerk-off hell that civilization chooses as temptation in the Faery Queen with the Garden of Adonis, where Venus is plenty buxom but surrounded by children. The one assigned and read in all the survey courses is the sterile tease. OK, I didn’t really read FQ till I was 26 or so. But then I recalled what Schless or someone had said 8 years earlier. So I knew the interpreted contrast long before I’d read the FQ itself. At which time I then “saw” it. Agreed with Schless and predecessors.
Playboy etc is the abhorrent Garden of Earthly Delights that fascinates all of us but that Spenser, Bosch, and yes, I too, hate.
I remember a couple of dozen moments vividly, quanta from several years of puberty. Trying to stuff my peanut into the flesh flap of Bab’s mons. Showing self naked to Carol and here was this mysterious tall and skinny mushroom standing straight up from my crotch. I’d seen it before, but still had no idea where it came from. I was as fascinated with it as Carol was. End of sixth grade? Or summer before it? But it was an icon to both of us. No impulse on either side to touch. Then midway through seventh grade, visiting Lennie Resnitski, and he whips out his dick, by god, it’s as big as mine, almost, the only other such I’ve ever seen, only the fourth or fifth other one I’d ever seen then, remembering boy scout bivouac and Alden and Bisset and me pointing to the stars, three and a fraction inches, maybe four, and eight plus. Again, earlier, that is, monoliths. No touch, just awe. Anyway, Lennie starts beating himself like crazy, and I’m torn between being rude and running away, telling him to stop if he wants to be my friend (he must have, he invited me there, I wasn’t chasing his friendship), etc. But all I do is nothing. And after a couple of minutes, his face is bursting red, he’s shaking all over, he goes “Uh,” and his dick starts squirting. I’m appalled, disgusted, sick. What does a girl think the first time some guy starts beating on her? Probably more of it that I did. Of course I’m not imagining a girl who wanted to see, or who was touching herself. Touching it or herself. Lennie hadn’t involved me as anything but witness. But there must be millions of young girls who suddenly find some dick unaccountably being jerked into their face. I always had the girl’s interest first, or she had mine, and the dick came out last.
Anyway, years of knowing of an occasional erection without associating it with lust or curiosity or even sex, which I’d always been interested in. No curiosity on my part to see what had made Lenny go “Off!” and “Uh!” for years.
So I’m maybe in the fifth? grade when Mad comes out. Mad sometimes has a cartoon shapely broad. Lois Pane in Superduperman. The drug dealer with his hands on the popping boobs in the taxi cab. And I look at those things. Then Rudy introduces me to the S&M pornos of the late 40s/1950. And I saw some of my cousin Donald’s. Bad print. Cheap black and white. No sense of form, of modeling. The most horrible thing about the living skeletons of Buchenwald being how cheap and awful the printing of these sufferers was. So here are skinny white ghosts in their socks and shorts with well printed black rectangles blocking out their faces. Who knew or cared what they were doing to each other? Rudy and Donald, I suppose.
But I kept going back and looking at Lois Pane. Why was Superdooperman putting up with this egregious C- (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29)? Then Rudy shows me an Esquire. And a calendar. Next thing I know, I buy one myself. Next thing I know my wall is hung with the separated months. Next thing I know it’s a year later and I’ve got two years on the wall. Then I take down all but my favorites. I’ve kept one December and if I were at my warehouse I could check the year. 1951 maybe. Still my favorite piece of erotic art. Peppermint panties over plump odorless buttocks. A bust pushing out white silk. A pouty face chewing the pencil she writes to Santa with. Tits, nice. Pouty lips, nice. Crotch … mysterious. But it was that ass that really got me.
So I look at a couple of Esquires over the early 50s. A little black and white tit here, a monster wet Italian butt there. And then a full length nude. She wasn’t so great but she was she. Over weeks I tried to imagine what the throbbing dick would be like going into that slit. I no longer assumed it was the sweaty smelly struggle with Babs that had led nowhere. Neither did I run out and find Babs again. Or respond to the flirting of Betsy, Nancy, Gene, etc. I had gone private. I remember slitting the paper at the pussy of that magazine page and shoving my dick in it. It didn’t fit, a boy size monster into a 9X11″ woman. The paper tore. My first map/territory discrepancy experience. It was just a picture. It wasn’t a pussy. It felt the same air on the other side of the torn page it had felt on the obverse. So I tried imagining harder. I needed something to enfold it. Eventually, I tried my hand. More than a year had passed since seeing Lenny grab hold of his. I even had heard talk about what masturbation was. Still, I was about to invent it wholly independently. Very slowly, falteringly, this can’t be real, holy Christ, really, Jesus, etc. Zowwie. Very slowly. And then there was this poor torn paper. Skinny blond. Tit stretched too tight with her raised elbow, though not Marilyn. Come to think of it, I knew that picture of MM then. Had it in my wallet.
Thereafter, if I wanted to fantasize, I much preferred the Vargas drawings to the “real” photos.
My circle of friends stretched wider. Wide enough that you had to be friends with friends of friends even though the friend wasn’t otherwise your friend. Roger Curran. Suddenly, a year older, but hanging around with John and Bornie just the same. So, with me too. And one day Curran is jumping up and down he’s so excited. A new magazine. He’s telling us all about it. Playboy, it’s called. Right away, an odious title. I was trying to be a man and be serious (and still be Christian, meek, humble, poor, etc) and he’s screaming PlayBoy. All the wrongest associations. But I look at the phenom. I think I disliked it all the more because it was so much more of what I’d looked at and been disappointed in Esquire for. Heff had the formula all right. Tit, tit, and more tit. Some ass to. But my response would be disloyal to Miss December.
In particular, I remember Curran ranting about the one flop eared symbol. The infantile, half erect, half half-satisfied jerkoff-like-a bunny man. All the more interesting when I read Key’s interpretation of the scissors. Heff had Curran’s number.
Anyway, I had already taken down most of my calendar, never bought another, left up (and thereafter saved) only my two or three favorite months away, and never bought another Esquire (if I’d “bought” the first: I might have gotten it free from Rudy. Probably.). And certainly I never bought a Playboy. Neither did I look at them except when they were shoved under my face.
As was the one at Colby that had the interview with Bucky. Hey, Knatz, the student says, there’s an interview with your man in Playboy. Oh? I didn’t know how to sound in that double bind. So I read it once it was shoved under my nose.
Or am I lying? Misremembering? Because when Key showed that one subscription ad with the busty blond half airbrushed into fuzz and the giant Xmas wreath of cockincuntfromtheinside walnuts, I knew that ad vividly. Unless that ad was in the Bucky issue, I must be lying. Misremembering. Because I certainly knew that ad. Even so, it’s the truth that I avoided more than sought Playboy. And had even in the days when I was avoiding when not seeking actual pussy. However much I liked petting on the one hand and a nice sweet self tug at the meat on the other.
Of course it could be that I had just seen that ad clipped and taped onto a hundred dorm walls.
Ok, so Curran tackles us with this obscenity. Then I read the Bucky interview. And yes, I had turned the pages of Playboys stuck into my hands. But would pick up any magazine in the dentist’s office before that one. It wasn’t that the airbrushed odorlessness wasn’t attractive. That was it’s problem.
Anyway, now it’s 1990 and I really don’t know America and I enter the Circle K daily. It’s news to me that the dirty magazines are now kept behind the counter and sold only to 18 and up. Circle K really does seem to check. So must all of Florida. The 18 year old automatically presented her driver’s license as she bought cigarettes.
So I’m alone at night. The paperback shelf is from hunger. I start my first Sidney Sheldon read: The Eighth Commandment. Fuck. What are they up to now? And I leaf through magazines I’ve never even heard of. Fox. Or Foxes. GirlsGirls. Variations. PenthouseLetters. Penthouse I’ve not only heard of but submitted to. As I’d several times submitted to Playboy in 1969. And I pick up Playboy. A fast flip. Christ, is far less pornographic than it used to be! Except that it’s all pussy now. The girls have pubic hair! Of course that in itself is less pornographic. Or more pornographic, less obscene if I remember D H Lawrence’s distinction right. And there’s less of it. Fox was open cuny after open c-. One in particular very nice. Except that they’d airbrushed the gaping ass hole into pink and hairless obscurity. Or do these whores have pussy surgery? Chorus girl depilatories for sure.
Except that some blond c-s really are like that. Almost. Martha’s nether region was quite clear with all her strawberry hair in place.
Now I’ve flipped through the Playboy in the fastest overview. I could at least go back and read the cartoons. That’s when I discover: there’s an interview with Stephen Hawking! Interviews with transcendent geniuses in two out of three? How many have I missed? What else would have happened to me if I had read them all? Or am I just very lucky? There have been two issues of Playboy ever worth knowing about and I’ve had one pushed at me and lucked onto the other under extraordinary circumstances.
What do these people think of appearing on pages surrounded by obscenity? The worst being the Playboy addiction to consumption of or at least lust for cosmetized industrial baubles: cars and vodka. Being actually surrounded by pussy is great. I’m wholly for it. Though not for me. Not any longer, at least under present, however chronic, circumstances. But real pussy. And the beasts that contain them. Not this fucking sterile glossy paper. Mirror shade sex.
Having said that much, I’ll expand. I didn’t just look at the jerk magazines. I looked at a bunch of magazines. The health and fitness rags were the same except that you could drive a truck up the asses of these girls. And the pussy was covered by little work out strings. If anything, sexier and more realistic.
A girl getting on top of you for a her-up 69 spreads her whole bottom before your face. Great. A favorite view. But only if you’re fucking. Or about to fuck. Only once have I had a girl (woman) spread her c- under my nose when fucking wasn’t already happening or about to happen.
I’m walking Angus from 305 RSD to the little triangle of park before the Drive itself and across to the real park. Actually I’m in a hurry, and the little triangle is all Angus will get this time. He knows it and goes straight to business. The little triangle is as far as he generally gets at night cause that’s where the dog walkers congregate evenings. Socialize any time from 9 pm to 3ish am. Stand around for minutes or hours. There’s where I met Ginny.
But this is day time. The dog turds as always are everywhere and visible in this day light. Angus and I are emerging through the scrubby shrubs over the grassless-beaten, broken glass peppered, still plenty turded heavy trafficked just off the pavement sec from 103rd to the park. And this 6 foot broad lies down in the dust amid the bushes just before me. Angus walks around her, but I can’t. She spreads her legs, licks her thick lips like a Fellini whore, rolls her eyes, shoves her boxer sized hand into her loose waisted baggy drawers and starts pulling her pussy. Did I blush? I don’t think so. I was probably hung. I do try to walk around her and she slithers her hips to keep the open thighs facing me. Here’s this broad squirming and thrashing in the dog shit, digging her hair into the dust, groaning as if she was gonna come faster than Lenny did.
1975 or so. A month or two before or after that, some woman walks right up behind me on Madison Avenue, just after I had locked up the gallery, and starts breathing shit in my ear. Oh, here’s one. And he’s got something between his legs …
What were these fucking women up to? Too much testosterone? Or just imitating their idea of equality? I sure didn’t want to invite the one so open about what was between my legs back to the gallery, relock the door and fuck her on the basement rug. I didn’t even want to turn around and see what she looked like. She sounded like she was from the neighborhood and full grown. Thirty, could have been a little older. I would have been 35ish. From the neighborhood meant she lived in a $1,000 a month apartment. And I certainly didn’t want to take this heaving amazon upstairs for a dive either. Even if she hadn’t been covered with dog shit.
But I had gotten to the magazines. I read my first motorcycle mag since my Cycle World subscription expired sometime in the ’60s. Christmas, $8,000 for today’s showcasers. Of course that’s cheap compared to $50,000 for a ’Vette. Pages and pages of used bikes for 4 and 5 grand.
The hardware sounded really space age. But I didn’t see the clock times as being much better than some of the fast twins that I knew would do. And unless you do it professionally, what’s the subjective difference between a 10 second standing quarter and a 12?
Then I look at a Games mag. Nintendo. Glossy on glossy until nothing at all stood out. Imagine the corp looking at its page and saying Ow Wow, when the kids see this … And then the kids don’t see it at all. No difference from anything else in the mag.
Man, what I’ve gained by being in hiding.
SHawk’s cosmology knows the uncertainties of its topology. All the implications are in what we don’t know the shape of or the meaning of the shape of. And it’s in the perfect human context: here he is, every three months, lecturing us (through a medium that tells us) to hold still and be sacrosanct about a reversal of what we were holding still and being sacrosanct about then, which was of course a total insult to what we had been holding still for six months, ten years, 2 millennia before then. The dominant male theorist, crippled, speechless, talking through a machine to a spellbound Playboy Magazine, the quintessential dominated male gloss diaper, now of course run by women (and what really is the dif between Heff and his daughter?), telling us, if you listen, that we don’t know what we’re talking about, that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but that if it’s this way, then this … and if it’s that way, then that … And if the evidence is such and such then that would tend to support this model and if the evidence is that then that …
And we all stand there, obediently thinking that finally somebody knows something even better than what we were bowing and saluting yesterday, … And Hawking keeps saying “in imaginary time …” and PB keeps asking what about “real” time, and SHawk keeps saying, forget it, it’s an illusion.
Now the posture of the article wasn’t, X! just think about the implication of whether the universe is finite but without a navel (though we can say, here: we’ll take this feature, the North Pole, say, and call it the beginning … It was all the only thing that as a group we are capable of generating or sustaining attention over: who’s dominant, who’s submitting. the nurse just stuck a big tit in our mouth, just massaged our infant genitalia, and now we can snooze.
It’s a son of a bitch: I’m trying to follow this movie with half an eye, say this, catch, up weave the two together, to get to my real whole point, find time wasting making default points, can’t help it, how else can I scribble, watch the movie, and make and eat my dinner at the same time, and finish everything including dressing for work in the next 80 minutes?
The points are two: cosmology/topology and how clumsy we continue to be with them, no one hardly ever bothering to find out if their definitions, models match (EXCEPT the GB, SHawk, here and there moment of Aristotle, here and there moment of any of us, evolutionary cruxes, moments of dissolving the chrysalis), and of course the Aristotle, GB, SHawk can’t keep it up all the time, and the PBs, Supreme Court Justices, the rest of us, just about never do, even, maybe especially when it’s just that that’s being shown to us: Abraham’s genes being selected to flourish for a while … Job being pushed around with no apparent correspondence between his fortune and his importance, no more than between his piety and what the god thinks his attention should be on … AND relationship!, which to us pushy/pushed primates with one or two highly developed, overdeveloped idées-fixs, and otherwise general near total blindness not to mention indifference, not even knowing that our own fixs must have a topology, that we don’t know what it is, that we do well to know the next link on one side, very very well on two sides, and three sides? forget it …
GB says epis is for us all relationship. unfathomably true, truer, truest.
I wake up with a TDream line going around in my head. R, LIII, 7th, R or II IV V R being the same thing. I flick on the tube, no sound, antenna just installed, just to check the picture. It’s a news show. Montage of storm, flood, someone being rained on and blown in the wind, “property” damage, now someone out of rain and wind waving his arms, I don’t know whether this politician (“dominant” figure: if he’s dominant, why is he waving his arms?) is US or Lybian … How much do the NETs spend filming this stuff new everyday when they could show it from last year or last decade? it could be Mussolini or Pharaoh’s fifth son. ok, so it’s video tape. it’s color, the blown man’s raincoat and the Detroit issue wreckage is 1990ish. So what? What’s “new”s? If it were new, it would be invisible to us.
And I’m getting the TD thing in my hands as well as my head, a permanent link now, however much, now, and hour later, I’ve lost the rhythm (the whole thing) but I’ll get it back, not to worry, because that’s not what I’m concentrating on, and if I were, and lost it, still not to worry, it’s there, I don’t need to touch it at this moment. And a movie comes on, and I think Ah, imitation Runaway Train, body building in tough prison, and there’s even a guy doing sit-ups for a moment looking like Dutch blondie, only he’s now in solitary, and it isn’t RT because there this Geo Hamilton type looking awkward on the parallel bars, only he’s the hero, so we’re not supposed to notice that he’s the least good at this physical shit, his features are attractive, even, set, he’s looking handsome while everyone else is looking animal, and besides his hair is tousselled just so. And some cons come in with a shiv and handsome defends himself, killing the animals and of course now he’s in trouble with the screws. Only now or a minute ago it was some uptight spinster being bullied by a crippled leonine Burt Lancaster type, and apologizing instead of pushing his fucking chair down the stairs. Now it’s dad and daughter with some stiff society bitch and its got to be her older sister, and everybody in the world is dominant except this poor Cinderella and of course the film is going to put the Cinderella and the George Hamilton helpless con in contact and they will bloom and mate.
Sure enough, now she has a brief case, is wearing glasses and … what the fuck is the topology of dominance in this fictional, therefore “ideal,” thought experiment, society? Where does it end? Is it finite? We’re not supposed to think about that. We’re supposed to “identity” with these hero/victims. The society, the family, everything screws us all down. We’re not the icy sister with the hyena spiked clit. We’re not the crabby silver haired father, bitching about everything and expecting only more care and attention. We’re not the bully cons, We’re not the screws, and we’re certainly not the warden, the judge, the zillion lawyers, all wrong about everything, most especially the innocence or true dominance of George Hamilton. Who’s the dominant male? The dictator is at the bottom as well as at the top in any sensible topology and this cycle.
What plots are permissible? Well, sure enough … she turns out to be his, GH’s, parole board appointee, only it can’t be the parole board because he isn’t par’l’d, he’s now been judged without presumption of innocence as a murderer. Everything in the society is a bad rap, but we must respect it, neither dying, turning away, nor simply fucking killing them all. But this is pretty good: next thing the goddam lawyer, this graymousey Cinderella is stowing a getaway gun in the prison john for GH. Ah, now they’re out and running. Disguise. Now she looks like Jane Fonda, and he like George Hamilton with a perm. Liberated. But wrong, on the wrong side, running. Now every cop is no longer how they looked in prison, another form of body building helpless, scum on the scale losers in the dominance race. (Could this movie possibly be half as good with the sound on?) Now the cops look (normal) schmucks, idiots, polite but with that fist, right. Organizing traffic, checking ids. being polite. and wearing the gun. Whose gun? Certainly not theirs. Ours. But who the fuck are we? Cinderellas, infinitely, schmuck judges, all working for a dominant male (who might well be female, silver haired the icy spiked clit, in a wheel chair and bitching about everything, calling her lawyer on the carpet, devouring her children …), who works for …, who works for …
So: is everything a circle that we think of as a line? Is it a 4dim sphere that we think of as a 3d sphere? 51 years of life, 40 years of reading, and three or four times out of the whole, there are apposite topo questions. And I don’t see anyone notice. The attention is all, oh, the camera is on him! Oh, look, he’s handicapped! Oh, look, Playboy noticed him, he must be important, especially if he looks like such a crippled queer.
The church is pissed cause their whole thing is a topology, but a primitive and inflexible one. No real thinking about it since StThom.
Ah, I don’t know if I’m completing my point, but rumble rumble, speaking of cops, I left something out. Another stupid movie frag. this with the sound on, the other night. Detective comes up with evidence. “Our guy has brown hair, is male, thirtyish.” “Oh, great,” the other cops are all professionally, chronically pissed off, “Now there are 10,000 suspects!” As though the detective had set them back most irresponsibly. You fucking dough heads! A minute ago you had 10,000,000 suspects. He’s just narrowed it down like a 300 yard drive and you act like he missed a gimmee! Cop movie after cop movie, always portrayed the same. They are only pissed off, they only yell at each other, they are only mannerless louts. They’re all biceps building, doughgut swelling, fat helpless stupid infants, who are nevertheless dominant over poor unbicep developed 8lbs of diet SarahLee cake a day, nebbishes.
Of course, on a golf course, it’s assumed you know at least in general where the green is and where on it is the flag. In detective work all that’s known at the outset is that there is a target, not at all where it is. Still, the narrowing down process is the same, a hole in one fabulously unlikely. Even if the ball goes in a hole on a drive, how would you know it was the right hole? No, you have a suspect. A suspect who may be guilty.
mugger: and gimme the ring too or i cut yer finga off. move! now! I got a knife here, you stupid quim.
I’ll move when you move. So far your words are only threats. I bet your best moment with your own woman was just jive too.
Oh, a tough broad. You can’t bluff me.
Bluff? No: gamble.
Gimme yer purse and you can keep the ring.
A bluff has nothing behind it. In a gamble it’s merely the outcome that’s uncertain.
Just hold it open for me. I’ll only take the money.
Don’t interrupt the lesson. My father told me never to gamble, never even to carry with me more than I could afford to lose. And that’s all I ever carry. opens her purse wide.
Dehs nothin in it.
So that’s not what I’m carrying then, is it? That’s one distraction gone from the inventory. Leaving …
You got dat ring.
What’s ten cents on the dollar of $8.59? No, that was with tax.
Look, lady … backing up
steps forward to keep their proximity What I gamble is what I always carry with me. What I can’t leave behind.
still steps up. But now that I think of it, seeing how slow and off balance you are … steps up … I think what I’m gambling is what you brought.
brings knife up, points it right at her chest. she steps forward around it. he backs up, point going off to side, not even leaving edge forward.
No, that hasn’t been a good defense since the broad sword. See, you don’t know what my left hand can do. Snatch your heart right out. she’s said that still and calm, just keeping the proximity.
he brings his arm up, elbow forward.
Of course you’re suicidal. I just smash your elbow and you cut your own throat.
he half turns.
Leaving yourself open for me to tear your balls off. You ever see a man look like a bleeding pussy?
turns and runs
That’s good. It’s much harder to get either through the back muscles.
Well, how was that, Master?
voice from nowhere. I’m ashamed of you. What was the ring for? An empty purse was all I mentioned.
I’m sorry. It wasn’t deliberate. I forgot I had it on.
So much the worse. Though that touch with the tax was nice. What is the ring’s true value?
I don’t know. I suppose I was wearing it because I just got it from my mother, as she got it from hers. A carat and a half I think she said. Blue. Not fashionable in my grandmother’s day.
I don’t know stones.
Neither do I.
Don’t carry it again or I’ll tell you to leave the purse as well.
Then I’d just be practicing with rapists. What would they want with a thirty-eight year old …
You’d be surprised. But you’re right. Rape is different, the lust isn’t merely semantic. It’s illusion is at a deeper level. A carelessly thought through threat. My slip is more serious than yours.
I apologize for mine just the same, Master.
And I for mine, Daughter.
sem: elastic. undefined areas off the map. and in what direction? of what topology is the territory? how many dimensions? linear? non-? what else is there? no matter what we know, we still never know. no problem. so long as you know that meaning, at all our levels, can only be cybernetic.
*consciousness is ever the ever narrowing, shaving of the tip of the iceberg. simultaneously expanding. History gets more and more recent, journalism still more, the population gets younger and younger and more and more shallow (so it seems to the aging), but archeology actually becomes a science in the last few generations and anthrop and paleo-everything, and math bursts a few bounds, and cosmology explodes …
law is supposed to go back, ga‘à¿HÖ9Üì”òÄ>”@‹»ü< lawyer who knows what happened earlier than 20 years ago, with an occasional barrel thumping exception from 1776. we date ourselves to adam: 6000 yrs. to Abraham: 3500 yrs.+-500. to David: 3000 yrs +-500. to J: 2000 yrs +-20. to StThos 1000+-200, to Galileo 400, GeoW 200 …
But mostly to the last season or two with grandpa seeming very old …
3/30: Holy Christ! I’m rereading this lost part. And at the now inserted * I have the most incredible deja vu! I was just in PCTools. I verify the file. It says "bad CRC on diskette read". I tell it to look at the sector. Can’t hurt; neither can I assume I’ll know what anything means. It gives hex numbers. What if I try changing one just at random? At least I’ll try to read the menu. Slim chance of figuring it out or of guessing right is better than none. Bu then there’s this fortune cookie discussion of cybernetics on the side of the screen: "consciousness is ever the ever narrowing, shaving of the tip of the iceberg …" Christ! I never noticed cybernetic philosophizing in PC before. Wow, I have to see more of this. And I try to scroll the thing. pgdn etc. It’s driving me crazy. I’m more interested in seeing what the PC authors have written as marginalia than I am about saving my file. I give up and go back to work. Update sector. Verify file. It verifies. I loads. Now I find that that section was my own writing! No wonder I was so wowed. And now I see ASCII gibberish in the next lines. Thank god to PCTools.
dei: solipsism is reserved in our philosophy for Jeh.
top: woke up dreaming of warp and woof of homeostasis: how to lose ground while progressing. whole new perception arises. priesthood reluctantly accepts part of it, piecemeal, without readjusting whole epis. its reform creates a whole new distortion, a new (and no doubt, beautiful, to an outsider) pattern. the reformer had dreamed of going forward, but finds everything wefting sideways, getting tangled in what he had wanted to become removed from.
what a different perspective, neither reformer nor priest, may see is the new weave. gorgeous chaos.
catastrophe is great, though from a creature’s standpoint, the baby is likely to be thrown out with the bath. can’t be helped. gradualism can only weave around and tangle, promoting the reptile brain while seeming to add … oh, say … reason.
law of the minimum, Herod’s purge, Brown’s law, chaos and evo.
the law of the minimum must have a corollary: an analog (I’m so tired: do I have the right word?): give someone an income of $40meg a year, state of the art friends, schools, parks … but deprive of all vitamin C. for example. or flood them with ascorbates but eliminate all salt. or zinc. finito. caput. degredation and death.
Conversely, correlatively, analogously, do everything you can to eliminate an essential that’s well dispersed. you can call it a vacuum, but it will still all be there, all the essentials, just not concentrated. You can’t find them. they’re beyond your control. Herod kills all the newborn males. But we know of one he missed. He killed all the wrong ones, and missed the only one needed.
Our linear causality models fail to quantify the butterfly whose single wing flutter is in sequence with the buildup that sucks up Kansas and blows it out in Oz. You want to protect your farm? The bank doesn’t want you to fail either? The FED gets involved? You combine resources to kill all the butterflies. You miss one in the rain forest. But it doesn’t have to be a butterfly. It could be a babies breath. Spume from a wave at a slightly variant temperature. So what should be eliminated? False epis models.
church and state: two arms, not exactly binary, of pop epis. As I said about baseball (eg), the ump’s call doesn’t have to be right, but does have to be made for the game to continue. church and state are a kind of ump. pop epis assumes a "reality" even though experience shows none: not unequivocally. the ump sees (at least calls) him out. the crowd "sees" him safe, out loud. one camera sees him safe, the broadcasters go on and on. then another camera shows him out. etc, etc. as I said, the best that can be worked for, is a non-partisan ump. churches since X and govts since the revolutionary period pretend non-partisanship. What? Umm, well, at least for Xians and USians. The people, Ho. Who Dat? Well, one minute, wasp males, another, cotton interests, another, oil interests. rather some cybernetic composite of water here, agri there, exports over there. we can’t say he was safe because national security … common decency … Are you doubting the word of the senator?
Well, I agree: the call has to be made. But does it have to be so blatantly a shell game? the "truth"? why, he palmed it. everybody who can see at all can see that he palmed it. then why keep mum? try speaking and see. we have genuine freedom of speech to pretend that we’re not dummying up. no one in church&state is dumb enough to palm the pea when it’s someone who really does have freedom of speech whose money is on the table.
legal epis knows perfectly well how stacked things are: hell that’s why the lawyers are there. they know perfectly well about eidetic this and that. who knows better than cops how unreliable witnesses are. Except for what they’re retained for: to ratify the shell game. to know when to forget what a magician can make you see and fail to see.
I love that street magician who goes through a box of tissues, throwing them over the girl’s shoulder until the square is littered, and the only person who doesn’t see the throw is the one dupe, (entertainment) victim, assistant from the audience, the one whose (lack of) perspective is controlled by the magician. BK told me of such and then I see it on tube myself.
Whew. finally sleep 8.5 and feel better. more topological wisps as I fumble the coffee pot, feel my high G disappear altogether on the synth, a dozen distractions and still, the logical levels are warping and woofing in my mind. But out of the reach of words. Oh boy, I’ll write that down, my stupid mind thinks, too groggy for humility. Well, if I can’t say what it was, if focusing drives it away …, um, what was it like? what was it sort of? hmm. it tied in with (or was confused by) my money-as-addiction and thank-god-for-the-stir-of- human-time/space themes. intrusion of image of bourgeois parents putting money in the infant’s mouth, develop the taste early, a metamorphosis no doubt of my telling Tom the other day of my sidling up to Aunt Alice’s glass, age three, and getting my first mouth full of 90 proof bourbon, my mother saying I could taste the foam on the glass of beer, age four or five, and memories of Mediteraneans dipping their finger in wine to develop the buds in their swaddlers. and how which culture is the colonizer stirs and stirs, the current nouveau always knowing that it’s the barbarian, thinking "it’s about time" and also thinking, now it will last forever, finally, the right pig has fallen in the shit. Hitler’s 10 year 1000 year Reich, the American empire faltering after a few egregious decades, course it beats Hitler’s, doesn’t it? and thinking how nice if there were a way of quantifying actual punishments for this and that "crime" for some arbitrary period, preferably world wide, but even within the jurisdiction of the law makers: this pot toker gets 30 years in a hole, this dealer is made dictator and given foreign aid, this doctor gets a testimonial, this dealer gets shot, this one plea bargains, etc.
if the rubber glove is turned inside out, it has the same topology, right? if it’s turned half inside out, it still has the same topology … but how to deal with it isn’t in our vocabulary. and that’s only one topology!
"if I could put time in a bottle" the sound track of this stupid movie says. a song AnnaMaria sang a lot. I’m dismissing the lyrics as meaningless, ho ho, as though there could be such a thing as meaningless, but wait, at another level … of course you’d have to see all your definitions slide … so what else is new? semantic topology. pull the fingers through on that glove. the "bottle" would have to be greater than 15 +/-5 billion c years in radius. if "I" could put … wow, now that, "time," is an expanded definition, even greater than the "bottle" distortion.
and how silly to think of infinity when we’re hardly past 0,1 …
and my whipping stock about how we love to confuse Learning 0 with Learning 1, you can only become or remain a teacher if Learning 0 is your highest goal, now the trick is to convince yourself and the kids (your peers being already convinced, hostile to all else) that that’s 1. and that they’re unworthy, to look up to the lectern, the pulpit, the judge’s bench …
and there’s Reiss Davies saying "As Heisenberg said, if I have seen further than others, it’s because I have stood on the shoulders of giants," to some guy who was his teacher. oh, boy, doctors, congratulating each other, watch out. and here’s this "gifted one," cures cataracts in dogs, cheats on his bills, brings turtles back to life, by closing his eyes and waiting for the sound track to go synth. Reiss Davies says "and now we’re going to find out what makes you tick." and I thought I was arrogant while I was still half asleep! and the audience is supposed to sit still and swallow this! the fucking prize winning doctors are going to run a few known procedures and solve the unknown! by tomorrow. or next week. by the end of the show, anyway. or they won’t, and that will be the point, but a point not learned, because tomorrow the next show will be just as complaisant.
of course I quick got rid of the sound. now the skinny kid’s got up to bat and we watch the ball ride and ride. just like DARYL. At least Clark Kent kicking the football was on a big screen.
but I skipped: shoulders of giants. I first heard Shaw say a variant. then heard the exact attributed to everybody from Gal and Newton to Einstein, etc. I think I’ve heard it attributed to everyone but Heisenberg. Of course, what Shaw said was, if I seem great it’s because the rest of you are on your knees. why don’t you rise? Who? His caesar? In a prologue? Napoleon? I wonder if I’d love GBS a tenth as much if I read him now. I so saturated myself 18 to 27, I’d just be pissed that he hadn’t gone further between 1965 and 1990.
anyway, an infinity of gods, each one above the immediate weave. Wow, Chaucer again. A second ago I was sidethinking of … Melibee? the … the prose one which like T&C is a series of contradictory aphorisms. Pandarus’s ready authorities for every sort of behavior. But the chaos balances. and The KnT!, this and that god of this and that, and … boom! Saturn sorts things out. by turning everything upside down. and that in a Xian context! a little classicism, a little feudal paganism, med.courtly independent pussy Platonism. Amor vincit omnia.
God0. and his followers insisting he’s god1 and that there is no 2 let alone 3.
of course there’s the whole cosmos and its (discrete?) history(ies) behind every 0! talk about resetting the counter! the insect’s nest cleaning is learning zero, but not at the bigB. That’s intricate enough by itself. And that’s supposed to be 0? And these idiots talk about entropy!
I start Primitive Access. A couple of paragraphs. a start. then boom, 2000 words. couple of days then boom, 4000. come on, this isn’t a short story. i don’t even know how I’m going to do it. harder than Beginning. rewrite the future. sure wish I could.
but top: and $: human economics works by being superficial. the cancer works by distorting the surface in ways that stimulate the cells, the individuals. the value of the biosphere is zero. we siphon off this oil, fuck everything up, poison ourselves, poison we don’t know what, and now it’s a trillion a year (1968) locally. art is a series of destructions. but it’s necessarily negentropic too. by definition, we don’t see the pattern that we’re patterning. we do see our distortion as beauty and reinforce it. we also see it as ugliness. and re-su-press it.
oh wow, another. just before the gifted one, when the tube plus sound was first on and golf just ending: some insurance guy saying "it’s axiomatic" and then proceeds to spew whole formulae. schmuck, the derivation isn’t the axiom. lucy is the best I’ve ever heard. never heard anyone say "common sense" and "simple logic" more often. is that just to me? or does she jive like that all the time? the chaos of the tax laws and Circle K’s pricing policy: "it’s just logical." her deviations from company policy. "it’s just common sense. it’s my ass, not yours." try to explain to her that spewing money all over the place in a convenience store, in the midst of a robbery spree, leaving the safe open for hours on end, leaving one of two keys visible in it 24 hours a day … endangers every employee. her getting caught and fired is the worst thing in her universe, so it couldn’t possibly effect the rest of us. that’s ok, she’s paying my insurance policy for BK.
juncture. juxtaposition. delicious. PBS NOVA just shows the opium wars. Europe trying for centuries to achieve trade balance with China instead of Europe buys, China sells. Finally, the British find something they can super process that the Chinese will buy: opium. The Chinese finally say wait a minute, write Victoria, get no answer but canon. Business triumphs. Its essence finally synthesized.
Followed by Front Line. Exxon’s Valdez oil spill in Prince Edward Sound or wherever. 3/24/89. The captain drunk. Europe’s own preferred drug. Here’s what little remains of wilderness: let’s devote our economic and political clout to covering it with shit. Big trial for the drunk. Now tv, where’s Stanley Kramer?, wants to spread the blame on us. (Alaska, Pipe Line Co, EPA, etc) On us? Please. A Sutter trial, of course.
Show tops with Dan Rather giving the news with his incomparable straight face. That’s who should have covered Watergate. He probably did.
And before NOVA there was Dan Rather on the news reporting that courts had decided that clinics which denied abortion counsel to women were violating their First Amendment rights, their "freedom of speech." We’ve got an infinite number of problems and only five allowable justifications. Or is it ten, but we only like to use one or two?
It’s not binary exactly, it’s like binary.
So we’re pissed off at how many Americans like opiates. We spend maybe 1% of our drug energy trying to extend the addiction to professional help. But holy shit, our consumption of oil! Why don’t we inject that? Needle Park: here, man, high octane. Why? Because a needle holds only a few ml where the car’s tank swallows 20 gallons.
How about a What Can We Get Away With? (By Artificially Blinding Ourselves) Oedipus Cycle?
Nova was talking about China’s Confucianism. Yay agriculture, govt for this and that, like irrigation, and the family for everything else. At least in the later, how wise (so long as the family is understood to be large enough). Footage of peasant stumbling behind a plow in rich Asian mud. wading birds stand nearby. Here’s Adam, tripping and stumbling. NCalder says at first it was easy. And compared to Eisenstein’s old woman in harness, this Ch. peasant looks like he’s having a fine time. Original Sin is original only if you reset the clock to not that long ago.
fucking HRS keeps me up three hours past stumbling, sleep one hour and then sweating and fretting as the wind tries to blow my canvas off. can’t read, can’t think, can’t play, can’t write, can’t sleep. finally do, ten hours later I’m still too paralyzed to get up and close the screen or pull a blanket over me as the wind chills close to freezing. by 3/22 I generally figure this kind of weather is a couple of weeks past. twelve hours actually asleep and my bladder adds to the clamor. 90 min later, my shoulder still aches, I need to jog or walk a couple of miles, but I’m showered, coffeed, picking odd scales, eating my eggs and bacon and ham and grits with the tube flicked, station after station leaves the air for an hour, but here’s something called Body and Soul. No, not Steve Martin, black and white dirty fight game. hard to figure the year. looks standard early forties-fifties in many ways but some things definitely later: probably tv trying to look like Hollywood twenty years after the fact. there’s a black for example, who’s treated merely as an eleventh class schlemiel by people who are no better than tenth class swindlers. The dialogue and acting is monotone tough. And I’m playing this guessing game with the writers, directors, producers, marketers, antecedents, audience, anteceding audience, etc, anteceding prototype swindlers, looking for, without either believing in or denying the existence of, an end-thread (one of two, four, twenty …) to the tangled skein of who’s dominant, who’s crooked, who’s a whore, who’s a "real man" (ie generator, pater, father, brother, Abraham, Samson, God …, ie the true son). Mixed metaphors, just like evolution. What’s "real" danger, what’s show, what’s sham? What possible true value is there beyond (for us linked mortals) who mates this year (cycle, season, fertility period)?
prize-fight. is that a redundancy? or an oxymoron? how did money (something which unnaturally tries to span beyond a season) get confused with the female? mammalian context, of course. what the fuck are they fighting for if it isn’t to fuck? but even winning, the female is ersatz. she too is for the "prize." where are the kids next year? the sham cycles over and over as the fighter gets older and older and still sterile.
but in all cases everyone around is stentorian, flagrant in their stage whispers that it’s really all fixed, that none of the fighters are really any good, that it’s the price that controls everything. The female is valiant in her protests that they money is all she’s for. 15 years a whore and not one daughter.
then there is another class of female. the fighter’s mother. hard faced, reserved in her love, proud, incorruptible, but no one, not the fighter, not the audience, not the whore, not the fixers, want to fuck her. no, her we just give all the money to if we’re dutiful. as a matter of fact, she took the fighter’s corrupt money (her own is a candy store. candy for chrissake!), but now she’s still proud and incorruptible.
OK, so who’s offstage controlling everything in a prize fight? The fight isn’t for male dominance: the dominant males are all in the audience, or don’t even bother to attend. We don’t see the castle, the mansion, the board room. Battler can have the prettiest cockney girl, but Beau Brummel and the Regent get the ladies. subtler whores. course the Regent can also have the prettiest Cockney girl if he wants her. What? is Battler going to punch him in the nose?
The fixers have no brotherhood. Can that be true? How come then they all act the same?
The brotherhood (thank you Freud) ganged up to kill the father. and now they act to keep all the females to themselves, from the sons, from the neighboring brothers, and most definitely: no marauding females, active in sterility. Sure, but these brothers too are sterile. Then where do they all come from? The mud of the Nile?
Anyway, at the end of this one, the corrupt champion pulls a double swindle: he doesn’t take a dive! And now everything is ok? The whore loves him? She becomes a virgin while he becomes innocent?
How is that a fair fight, where the champion suddenly surprises his dancer partner by fighting for real?
Just before the end, everyone is signaling the dive. the audience is pissed off, booing. instead he punches the guy. the guy falls. now the audience cheers. what a swinish dictator. why would anybody do what they want?
is the chorus the brothers? the true hero? or the true beast? the real maw?
Of course I wasn't really paying attention to this particular movie. some female comes running up at the end. if it wasn’t the whore, it was a different one. how nice of the crowd to let her through the moment the exhausted hero requests it. a ruly mob. ah, that answers my question. the female shows up after the victory. in Rocky too. And in Rocky II, III … Wrestling has that part better. No Beau Brummel there. No, that really is for the crowd. Boxing is for the aristos. Scarce as hen’s teeth at Caesar’s Palace. Unless Willie Shoemaker, Donald Trump, and Frank Sinatra are aristos.
what alternatives did this film suggest? fair fights? none possible suggested. the candy store? sugar and money have been close twins these four centuries. is it my fault if the mother is a low level retail pusher? (ah! where is the father in this movie? so they’re all really blacks, in white face!)
what level of the infinite(?) set/nest of Master(n) programs are you aware of? has to do with the warp/weft instructions for the shapes allowable in that topology. OR: could such actually determine the topology itself? Not the landscape; but whether the compressional members in the tensional/compressional complement (the physical universe) beyond a certain mass tend to form spheroids.
any member of any duality knows what’s allowed under certain circumstances. no member can possibly "know" (since consciousness cannot be much more than local and particular with an occasional metapattern exception) more than a couple of contexts.
(humor is when one member misses a context caught by the general. "please knock.")
ch’in peasants slaughtered by shin soldiers. two ch’in, exneighbors, competitors, keep off my plot, keep away from my wife, don’t pick my crop-types, are captured, thrown together, forced into being nonce allies/friends, cover each other’s back. pattern. shin: stand up and fight/get killed; scrape and grovel/get killed; scream and run/get raped, then killed … but now the blood has flowed, the huts and fields have burned, and the rules seem to have changed. it’s five minutes later and you’re still alive. only if you run do you get killed. in fact that runner, wasn’t killed, just beaten, subdued, and roughly returned. uh oh, here comes the shin top dog. grovel, grovel. the shin themselves grovel grovel. it’s five days later and you’re still alive. oh, look at that adorable kid. the more so since all your kids have been killed, or so it seemed. uh oh, shin kid. adorable anyway. whoops here’s the emperor. grovel grovel. yaiee. watch out kid: grovel. oh, that poor kid, he’s not grovelling. aye, he walks up to the emperor, and sticks his hand right in the emperor’s dish. ay, he’s tugging on the emperor’s pants leg. wince, wince. sheesh, he’s goosing the emperor. the emperor hefts the kid up onto his lap and makes a face. What? You mean he’s human? a parent? it isn’t all fire and sword?
kid climbs on lap. indulged. gooses. indulged. eats from dish. indulged. a year older, kid is shown practice field. giggles and does something cute. whap. ouch. right across the rump. and by this underling. time to practice being obedient.
of course, these are just human, social shifting hierarchies, contexts, "invariances." very complex, but all of us follow them to some extent, all of us imperfectly (or we’d freeze. though maybe we can’t freeze. the environment would change underneath us anyway.) for 20 billion yrs neutrons always sit still. for another 60 trillion years, neutrons always sit still. electrons do the solo work. protons always turn left. but then the neutron wants to turn left. the proton wants to dance. the electron goes on strike.
over the past several years I think it’s the Chevy ads and the Chevy ad agency that I hate the most. now they’re got a baseball thing. Tommy Lasorda, Joe Gariagiola, I forget which umpire selling cars. the cars are on the field. sandlot, the catcher is distracting the batter. everybody is cheating. it’s ok, the cars are for sale. big rhubarb. baseball "fighting": mgr. red faced, ump big gestures, big stubbornness, the players little kids, helpless.
when Rose hit Harrelson, that was a "real" fight of sorts. blows were exchanged. they wrestled around on the ground. but Billy Martin cursing and kicking dirt on the ump’s pants is a very different kind of fight. even misbehaving, he’s behaving. he’s never pulled a gun, or poisoned the ump’s family.
the most roisterous players don’t pile on the ump, or on the announcer and certainly never on the sponsor. could conceivably punch out a blue collar fan. all very ordered. the real hierarchy of ascendance is perfectly preserved. how dare they strike? don’t they earn too much money already? and an occasional how dare the owners be so greedy, so whatever.
was it re: the Valdez oil spill that some announcer said last week that a … the cover up? was "the greatest [marine] fiction since Moby Dick." it is a myth the (great) fiction is fictitious. or: it is a myth that fictional is false. the media speak more than one language. (which are dominant is clear.) but certain concepts are stubbornly ignorant. "the tragedy" when someone dies. I certainly have no objection to them using the language any damn way they please. but departures from historical meaning might occasionally be signaled. fuck you, Aritstotle, the announcer might occasional stage whisper. fuck you, humanist tradition. I lick your ass, booboozee. and when we do have something that meets most of the trad (conscious) requirements: vietnam or watergate etc. total silence. god forbid we should know where we come from.
(now of course, Greek myth most emphatically isn’t all we come from. it isn’t even the main thing. neither is J/Xity. King is. but it is what universities have bent over backwards trying to convince us we ought to come from. and remain properly subservient to. now humanism gets at least five minutes lip service even in public education. but except for an occasional PBS flat carpet, tv has never heard of it.)
anyway, "it is a myth that …" in boob speech always means: "it’s false." "fiction" always means it’s false. unless it’s an ad or a tv special. what’s boob for "it’s true"? that’s a harder one. um, the networks say … the president said. if it’s the pope that said it, they bow their heads and turn their brains off. wait till it’s over and have another car chase.
the ad agency that does Bud should pay me NOT to publish King. but they don’t have to. who wants it?
Easter & March Madness continues. no golf broadcast today. I may only see certain types of commercial on tv but boy do I see those. Our mirror is written and rehearsed and edited and polished etc before we hold it up to ourselves. sports when it isn’t all beer is all business, insurance, investments, luxury cars. Now we’re saturated with a paper chase type. a snide John Housemantype asks a question of Miss Crowley, gray flannel mix of confidence and uncertainly. I think Miss Crowley makes an ideal picture of the immature civilized social/ biomass carnivore. She’ll play in Peoria, but will Broadway buy her as an obedient dominant male? "Well," she only ever so falters, "I’m assuming there’s product in the pipeline …" Hruph, hruph, hruph. we see Prof Houseman preparing to mock slaughter, the class bracing to accept it without instead really slaughtering gouted asshole. "Assuming," wither, wither, "Miss Crowley, doesn’t feed the bulldog." … Etc. "Now how can Miss Crowley’s three man sales force … her far flung empire?"
A second latter is two gray flannel gals phoning people about nearly identical "one of a kind" objects from different galleries.
Now we accept lying salesmen lying down, and it’s nice to see women choreographed as lying too, instead of the similar lie that let only mothers nurses whores and innocent girls into the mirror.
But it still staggers me how we sit still and watch ourselves plotted against.
Conspiring to overthrow the US Constitution is unthinkable, you’ll be drawn and quartered, semantically at the very least, UNLESS, you do it semi-openly through a major political party. Then, you won’t even be impeached no matter what you’re caught doing.
What would Rome have done if they’d known what Caesar was up to? Yes, folks, and I’m going to bring my army across the Rubicon, the moment after you decide to hold me accountable to the law. Maybe they would have lain down anyway. What else could they do? Say, waitaminute, imperialism is an experiment we really don’t want to have tried on us?
We lay still … no, actually rooted, for that Paper Chase blond kid to become a lawyer and pick our pocket while oppressing us. At least John Houseman was just oppressing the law students there. He perfected that shit over the radio with Mercury and behind a camera thereafter: "They eeeeeaauuun it." Try that shit on the street, faggot.
JD: not guilty by reason of insanity.
what I love about evolution: we may try ourselves by our mirrors, with our own special effects man and mouthpiece. But will evolution try us by semantics? or by actual effects? steroids and sterility. Madison makes millions making the muscle man look potent. while the merely normal creep breeds all over the place.
Except: we can’t know finally which of our semantic inventions are green cheese and which the new weave. Maybe I should just glory in the confusion, as I once did in my middle to late teens. Well, I still do. What obsesses me is how we reify it, knowing on the one hand how it’s all reification, and taking things literally with our day time faces.
Kawasaki ad imitates opening of Repo Man. Which made more? the original: the strobe nervous quantum map? or the agency’s Oh, there’s a good idea: let’s get rid of the weirdness and make it look like a true picture of the potatoes in boobland.
who defines the game that the other plays in? godN1.
thinking your universe is the universe is universally infantile. the envelope of the envelope is always unconscious. topological similarities may repeat, but there’s no determining the number of repetitions before a variation. a cancellation. we can’t know if we’re harmonic or aharmonic. a dissonance is just a nonsimple series relationship: the relationship not immediately apparent. in a monist hypothesis, that is.
my Yam: 48 keys: asymmetrically arranged so that the possibilities, all within a set of predetermined finite relationships is … well, if not infinite, then some Hindu cosmology number. shifting symmetries. water and sand. but all relative to 440. (or 445, or whatever vps A or C or something is set at. then the others have to be set relative to that or it’s not a musical instrument.
a lot more than a couple of holes in a reed. to someone who already knows how he wants to play the reed, another hole, another octave, the ability to bend tones or to choose +7ths from 7ths … that’s freedom. expansion.
the trouble with working, even for peanuts, is that you start wanting things again beyond food and shelter and what ever your life’s fix is: a wife, a child, a role, a Toshiba Plus. the other day I go into the music store. Ask if a PSS 460 is fixable for less than I paid new. No, the kid says, though who can trust his answer. Want to give it to Brian or buy new for Brian. If I give mine, then I must get another for myself. OK, what’s the range? How much should I tempt myself? Allow myself to be tempted?
2 years ago, I walk into a place in FtLaud. a $2or3,000 Yamaha. Holy Christ! This place here in Seb has got Roland Something10s and 20s. $1600, 1900, … The $500 seems shitty. Not altogether better than the Yam. Sure they do this and that, which I wouldn’t use it for anyway. I want a decent rhythm generator, a good sound, and a little volume flex. Light and portable. Hidable. The Yam’s Latin beat still seems better than the Roland.
Then I discover that the Roland was stuck in something. I unstick it, try Tango again, and … Wham! Hmm, wonder what this sound is like? That? Wham! I try fantasy. A-. Fiddle with A and G between bass Es. Wham! The whole place turns into Tangerine Dream. Holy shit! If it didn’t do anything else at all! Gotta have it. Mid this I noticed that the keys themselves seem to be accelerators. When I was playing tentatively, it sounded shakier than the 460. When I played it with fedback confidence … Kaboom.
So today, I’m back on the 460, half asleep, and thinking … Tie one of these on a baby and its a torture device. A restrictor of viability. An excrescence. Know a little bit about what might sound interesting, what ingredients can be added, taken out, varied … Freedom. !!!
The Bach Minuet in G does everything with G, frontwards, backwards, upside down, inside out. I, V7, IV, and II. A little G+7 which is of course also D7.
The blues is so much 7th everything.
Tangerine Dream seems to be 7th everything.
Music: what happens every other key triads? uh, what happens between immediate neighbors? uh, how about chromatic neighbors? So suddenly I’m A&1/2:G. A&1/2:G right to D&1/2:C, AG, and it’s Miles’ … I can’t think of the title. A#B, bBA, GG#
So what’s going on? A-7? D7? To A+7? Harmonic minor? I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t believe there’s only one answer.
spring ahead/ fall back. once again, as annually, everyone is confused about clocks, equinox, calendars, EST, DST. Once again, the media gurus refire the confusion. Here, we’ll explain it to you … and reveal that they don’t understand it themselves. The take-charge doers, always making sure that the polite understanders get at best .01 decibel to their blare. There’s again the key to our nature in the pattern. It’s like math. The teachers are responsible for explaining. And everyone devotes, by law, years to making sure that proper questions cannot be asked or the structure of the confusion be noticed. The owners want only to Well, get-on-with-it. Understanding requires a pause in which you don’t get on with that part. (Of course, "that part" will be a biological non-essential: breathing etc continues on automatic.
Our pattern is to jumble the logical categories of "what is it?" and "what’s the algorithm we’ve come up with?"
The FED elbows among the philosophers: I’ll explain what justice is: it’s vote for me.
Isaac Asimov could do the whole thing in five minutes. And does. But before a small, volunteer public. (ie IA is good at the physical stuff; cutsy-poo with the spiritual (cybernetic, negentropic.))
We’ve got a crux of a dozen mismatches: lunar calendar, solar calendar, agricultural seasons, rhythms and their relationship to zones, hemispheres … Then you’ve got an arbitrary averaged clock that disregards local noon for a more generalized local noon, a whole time zone. Then there’s the mismatch between business day conventions, 9-5, and the call of this and that industry: theaters, movies, tv prime time. the later is of course set to complement the former and both are set to complement the former former: the agricultural, seasonal, our species switched to being daylight creatures, though switching back to night, thank you electricity.
First Sunday in April, some congress says, for giving families some daylight together. a fudge on top of a fudge.
once noon was when you looked up and decided the sun was "overhead," a joke, since few of us live on the equator. anyway, overhead for your latitude and season. But then how does a businessman in Philadelphia call a businessman in Boston at "noon"? So you average your clock throughout a zone. But now he wants to call Chicago. How about one clock: Greenwich Time. Jerusalem time? New York Time? Tokyo time? Everytime there’s a new empire, you’d have a whole new clock. So instead we have 24 of them, an hour apart around the world. But now you want to cheat by an hour. Get up later and stay up later. So a zone agrees to fudge the clock further.
The problem is becoming a planet when you used to be confined to your field. then as far as you could go on horseback.
I think we should go back to local time and in addition have a single planetary time. And the planetary time should have no nonsense about noon or midnight, which are purely local appearances. We’ll talk at 1845. That’ll be a half hour before noon for me and I don’t care when for you.
We’ll have the wedding at noon in Elmira. Good, Aunt Betty says in Bankok: when is that? And both refer to an almanac.
But anyway: the tv people say nothing about all this. Their "explanation" is merely to tell you what to do: set your clock ahead one hour at 2 am Sunday. Fuck you: I’ll be asleep then. Then set it the night before. Or when you get up. Or don’t set it: fuck you too.
Set it ahead? That doesn't make sense, the person thinks, confused among several different logical types. What they want to do is to set the sun back. Right. And the illusion is accomplished by the algorithm of setting the clock ahead. Six months later, you still haven’t understood it, and they’re telling you again. You want now to set the sun ahead. How in the fuck does setting the clock back do that? Simple, if you can think in one category at a time, leaving the algorithm on hold.
But the "practical" society never does that. The designated algorithm is simply assigned to the masses. We want engineers, human automata, working for someone else’s algorithm, not mathematicians. Just get the fuckers to work on time.
Mathematicians would want to dispense with the whole nonsense.
the whole universe (and perhaps others as well) is god’s body.